Parenting
By: Lila Hayes
Updated: Dec. 20, 2017
Originally Published: Dec. 20, 2017
Trigger Warning: Child loss, stillbirth
It has been 143 days since I lost my son, Noah. You know how, after a child is born, parents often count their age in months? And then there are those parents who proudly announce, “My sweet little one is 24 months old.” You find yourself staring blankly at them, doing mental math, and then realizing that the child is just 2 years old—why not just say that?
After losing a child, you start counting the time without them first in minutes, then in hours, and finally in days. Perhaps one day I will measure his absence in months or years, but for now, I can still recount the precise number of days since my world turned upside down.
The anxiety of going in for that eight-week ultrasound is palpable. My second pregnancy felt vastly different, but in a positive way. I experienced minimal morning sickness and had decent energy. While this should have been a relief, it made me anxious; my previous pregnancy had been so different. Hearing that tiny heartbeat at eight weeks was a massive relief. There was indeed a baby, and everything seemed to be measuring perfectly.
At the twelve-week ultrasound, I heard the heartbeat again and watched my baby moving around. Everything was on track. We had made it past the miscarriage risk. I eagerly crafted a Facebook announcement, but suddenly paused before hitting “post.” A strange feeling nagged at me—what if I regretted publicizing this? I dismissed it as paranoia, reassured myself that everything was fine, and shared the news.
The following two months passed in a blur. My belly grew, and I felt the baby move more each day. The long-anticipated day arrived to discover our baby’s gender, and I just knew it was a boy. The pregnancy felt entirely different from when I was expecting my daughter. My husband was convinced we would have another girl.
At 19 weeks pregnant, we invited my best friend to join us for the gender reveal. Our first children were born just months apart, and this time, with her being 10 weeks along, the excitement grew. As she had a boy before and I had a girl, we envisioned swapping clothes for our new arrivals.
The ultrasound tech took measurements, and while we could hear the heartbeat, the baby remained shy about revealing the gender. When our OB entered the room, I sensed something was amiss. Normally, we’d see her in her office after this part. She informed us that some of our baby’s organs were not measuring correctly. Confused, we were informed we needed to see a fetal specialist in an hour.
We went through another extensive ultrasound, confirming the organ issues and discovering we were indeed having a boy. My husband was thrilled, but we were still left in limbo, uncertain about our son’s fate. Seven hours after arriving, we left the hospital overwhelmed and in shock.
The next three weeks were filled with appointments and specialists at Children’s Hospital in hopes of saving our son. Despite our efforts, the amniotic fluid levels continued to dwindle. I desperately wanted this baby boy, yet I longed for the emotional turmoil to end. The hardest part was waiting to see if my baby would survive.
At 21 weeks and 6 days, our son lost his fight. I learned what true heartbreak was: carrying my lifeless baby and discussing how to remove him from my body. On a cold Friday in February, we welcomed and said goodbye to Noah. The process was swift, and after a brief yet excruciating labor, we decided on the name Noah James.
The following week was a blur of physical recovery and emotional agony. I dealt with the aftermath of childbirth, and the cruel irony of my milk coming in without a baby to feed. The most difficult part was explaining to my toddler, who had been so eager to welcome her new sibling, “Where is the baby?”
With guidance from a therapist, I learned to answer her honestly and simply. “The baby died, not due to anything that could hurt Mommy, Daddy, or you. I’m very sad. The baby won’t come home.” Thankfully, after about a week, her inquiries lessened.
Three weeks postpartum, I started feeling physically better, but emotionally, I was still in turmoil. My therapist suggested returning to work for a much-needed distraction. I hesitated but eventually informed my boss of my return. While she crafted an email about my loss, I braced myself for the reactions from coworkers.
Back at work, some colleagues were unsure how to approach me, which was understandable. I tried to be approachable, initiating conversations to ease the tension. Gradually, things became more manageable. However, I still experienced moments of darkness, especially while driving alone, where my thoughts would spiral.
My daughter would occasionally draw family pictures, sometimes depicting a frowning mother, reminding me of the joy I couldn’t provide her. My best friend, who had attended the ultrasound with me, learned she was having a girl, just as we had imagined. It broke my heart to feel both joy for her and sorrow for myself.
It’s been 143 days since I lost Noah. My new reality entails waking each day, going to work, and being a mother and wife. I think of my son daily; some nights I still cry myself to sleep, but not every night anymore.
There are still those who don’t know my story. As my due date approaches, I anticipate awkward conversations with acquaintances about the baby and will need to share our abbreviated story. Once again, I’ll feel like an outsider in a world that continues.
When will this pain subside? I don’t have answers. When will I stop counting the days and start counting the months? I don’t know. But I do know that I’ll seek joy in my life daily. I’ll embrace my family whenever I can, and I will continue to find ways to heal. For those navigating similar journeys, I encourage you to explore resources like March of Dimes and Modern Family Blog for support and guidance. This journey is challenging, but we are not alone.
Summary:
This heartfelt post reflects on the author’s experience of losing her son, Noah, and the emotional journey that followed. From the excitement of pregnancy to the devastating realization of loss, the author chronicles her struggles with grief, motherhood, and returning to work, seeking ways to find joy amid the pain.