“The heart isn’t beating.” I said it to the doctor, sure. I wasn’t asking a question, but I wanted to be.
“I haven’t gotten there yet,” he said back to me. He was measuring the head. He was checking out the placenta. When I said it he immediately shifted his gaze to the middle of my little baby’s body on the ultrasound screen. “Now that you mention it…” He tried to get a beat. No sound. “I’m not finding any movement. I will be right back, dear.”
And he went to grab his wife who also worked in OB; she came in and said the same thing. “I’m so sorry but it appears that your baby has died.”
This was a routine appointment. He only had the ultrasound out so that he could try and detect if there were a hernia in the diaphragm. We were only doing this for peace of mind before the anatomy scan. Once you’ve received a fatal diagnosis before, you feel like your whole pregnancy rests on an anatomy scan sometimes. But then once you’ve had an early miscarriage, you know there are no guarantees of even making it to an anatomy scan.
So here I was, expecting nothing but hoping with all my heart to hear that everything was just fine… suddenly being told that my third child was gone.
They stepped out so I could make some calls. I had a full-blown panic attack lying there. When I caught my breath I called my friend whose daughter I was keeping for a few weeks. Then I called my husband who was away at training. I had to tell my children’s father that one more had died on the phone. Then the doctor came back in and helped me gain some footing and then I left.
I called my mom before I was even out of the hospital. I walked through the parking lot to my car and I know people could hear me because when I’m crying my talking is like screaming. I felt embarrassed, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t find my car and then I was beside it. I made a call to the Red Cross to make sure Ryan “formally” received the message. And I drove myself home.
The next few days were a blur- friends coming in with food and hugs, driving to the airport to pick my husband up that night, making this kind of call to our family for the third time, going back to confirm and schedule my induction… all while fighting to catch my breath.
Friends brought flowers and love to the hospital the next day. They kept us company. Being a part of the bereavement process at the hospital as the photographer, I was able to line up my time with nurses I loved and they made me as comfortable as possible. I labored for about 8 hours. By my second dose, I asked for the epidural. They placed it, and then my sleeping 15-week baby was born at 9:50 pm on May 19.
Ryan cut the cord and our child was placed in our hands. And I cried and cried and cried and the sounds coming out of me were familiar but foreign and the look on my husbands face was the same.
We all agreed that he is a boy- a surprise to us. We are waiting until the chromosomes confirm that to announce his name. He weighed 1 ounce. He was 4 inches long. We took pictures, held him, got his tiny hand and food prints, and said goodbye the next morning after the geneticist came for a visit.
It took three of my babies dying for a geneticist to take me seriously.
We came home that afternoon and let the dogs sniff our son’s little blanket, and it seems as though they know what’s happened again. I have been trying to sleep wishing my pregnant belly were what’s keeping me up still. We’re trying to get back to work but everything is even more mundane than before.
I feel punished, and so betrayed. I looked at Ryan: “You can go. Anytime. I won’t be mad. You can go. I am stuck with me.”
I said it sort of as a joke, but then it sunk into my bones. I am stuck with me. I’m going to change my hair. I’m going to buy new clothes. I’m going to pick up some new hobby. I might even change my name. But I will always be the person I am, with the story I have and I wish so badly that that weren’t true. Of course, it’s the same for my husband. Neither of us want to be us anymore. At the same time, we wouldn’t trade our babies. It just isn’t fair.
I feel unworthy. The only thing I have ever wanted to be is a Mom. Not this way, but the way that everyone else gets to. I wanted to be able to complain that they’re growing too fast. I wanted to fuss with all my friends about how hard it is to do life with kids. I wanted to throw birthday parties and chaperone dances and get through the hard-enough life unaware of how it feels to live without my babies. All three of my babies. Instead, all I know of parenthood is little caskets and planning a funeral and medical trauma and the tiniest urns and talking to the air and holding on to bears and pictures and fading smells rather than my little people.
I don’t know what the point of this post is other than just saying what’s happened and stating it sucks and expressing that I’m mad. The platitudes keep on coming and the “don’t worry you’ll have more” comforts every person who says it to me but me. And life as parents of no living children continues.
I am so thankful for the community of friends we have- both loss parents and not- that have helped us in tangible ways this week. We are supported and loved, even across the country from the place we call home.
I am also really thankful for Still Mothers and the online support to be found in other mamas who know exactly how it feels to be missing our only children. I do feel lonely, but in the loss community I am never alone.
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Megan Coker is a military wife currently in Washington State. Megan and Ryan’s three babies are all safe in Heaven. Megan is a lifestyle photographer at her business Eden’s Garden Images and writes at her blog, The Young and The Married.
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“It took three of my babies dying for a geneticist to take me seriously.”
My husband and I lost our three children. Freyja, at 28 weeks, to a stillbirth. No cause for her death was found. Kees aged 7 weeks, to SIDS. His brother, Jethro, aged 3 days, to SIDS.
They were all apparently healthy babies. And every time we lost one, the doctors said they didn’t now why, and that it couldn’t happen again. Every time.
No one ever took us seriously. We stopped.
I too had 3 stillborns. I thought I wouldn’t be alive today after the 3rd. I take it day by day, and last night I was watching a toddler brother and sister riding bikes and laughing. I lost my shit just watching it. Crying and telling my man ” why can’t I be teaching my kids to ride bikes”! I never know when it will hit me. I FEEEL YOUR PAIN MOMMA” You are not alone!
I am so glad that I found this. I just lost my son on May 21, 2019. This is the 5th child I lost. I thought I was the only one feeling this way. To all the mother’s out there who have lost a son or daughter, it is hard but know you are not alone.
Ill never forget the day,the hour and the words.
I was very young and it was a subjet of been kicked to pillar and post,but even though its been 45 years on,i still today have a very broken heart but i know she is safe and up in Heaven with God and all the other presios little Angels.
The only way i get pease these days,is saying a pray when i get up and again before i go to bed.
On the weekends if the weather is good i take a book down to a rain forest and have Holly and me time.RIP my beutiful butterfly.
Dearest Megan, I am so very sorry for yet another loss. My prayers continue to lift you up and give you the strength to continue on in this journey.
Much love. My heart aches with yours.
What a raw, emotional, beautifully written post! I’m so, so sorry that you have to keep experiencing loss after loss after loss. I wish that none of us were forced to endure such terrible pain and heartache. Keeping you and your family in my thoughts.
I am so sorry you lost another baby. I was 31 weeks when I went in for a normal check up and they couldn’t find my son’s heartbeat. He was my first. After my second dose I Also asked for epidural and after 12 hours I had my Liam 11-8-29. While still grieving I had an early miscarriage in February. It doesn’t get easier, just easier to not cry at all my friends living babies. Nobody should feel that pain, especially not 3 times
I’m very sad for you, your family, and all of your precious babies. I’m sorry you had to join this small 3-losses-no-LC club; I had a 6w miscarriage, full-term stillborn daughter, and 25w preemie girl who made it 3 days in the NICU.
The full force of what happened didn’t really hit me until 4-month mark. Then the depression and grief hit hard, and I felt lost in a dark cloud for about a year. I’ve finally started slowly returning, but the cloud is still always near.
Hopefully, you process the grief better than I did. I confused my shock with better coping due to experience. It *doesn’t* get easier with more times through. I’m sending warm thoughts and best wishes to help you get through the difficult months/years/life ahead. I’ve been there, and I’m stuck with me too. Peace & hugs!