This post contains descriptions of a pregnancy loss and stillbirth. If you or someone you know has experienced a pregnancy loss, please click the button below for an editable Google Doc of resources and suggestions. You are not alone.
I stood in my bedroom listening to my husband Grant sob downstairs, taking down ultrasound pictures of our first baby that were scattered throughout our house. What do you take to the hospital for a stillbirth?
An hour ago we were being consoled by a sonographer and the doctor on-call that our baby had no heartbeat at 21 weeks. Well, I was 21 weeks. The baby stopped growing at 18 weeks and a few days. At the beginning of the appointment, she had remarked that I didn’t even look pregnant, something I had been self-conscious about since I didn’t think I was showing as much as I should be. I tried not to worry about it too much. Then she asked if I felt pregnant. “Um, I guess so?” Why on earth would she ask me that question? I knew instantly when she put the wand to my not-pregnant-enough belly. No tiny blinking heartbeat. The only sound was the slow beat of my uterine artery. Our baby was gone. I wish to never return to that moment.
We were asked if we wanted to “go upstairs to start the process,” as if we just needed to get some blood drawn or a cast removed, when really we needed to get our baby removed.
No, we would not like to go upstairs to start the process. I want to go home and call my mom.
I have no idea how Grant drove us home from the hospital after that appointment. It was the most beautiful day on April 23, and he was going to take off work to go play golf. From the hospital, I was going to drive to work, I had a meeting at 1 that day.
I wouldn’t return to work until mid-May, a month that is mostly gone from my memory.
Back at home, we’re packing a bag with clothes for me and some toiletries. The latest issue of Bon Appetit. A pair of socks with Luna’s face on them (these were a big hit, the nurses loved these). My pillow (never go to a hospital without your best pillow). And a hat I bought for our baby in a Camden market in London, a tiny aviator cap with clouds on a neutral gray background. We didn’t want to know the sex of our baby ahead of time.
I called my friend Sarah who is a doula living in Colorado at the time, and told her the news through tears, there was no heartbeat at our appointment, I have to go to the hospital to give birth. I barely remember conversations on this day but she helped me figure out what to bring to the hospital and told me she would send someone to help us through this if we wanted it.
I called my older sister Elizabeth and told her the news, we both cried on the phone. Another conversation I barely remember. Grant called both our moms at work. Those were probably the hardest phone calls Grant has ever had to make. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to get through telling them.
Somehow I mustered the strength to shower. When you’re in shock you just kind of go through the motions. I didn’t know how long I would be in the hospital, and showering was the only productive thing I could think to do.
We left home to take Luna to my parents’ house. They were both home by the time we got there. I just remember crying with my parents, it was probably the worst thing they have had to see me go through in my whole life. I tried to eat a ham and cheese sandwich to no avail, (goodbye normal appetite, I’ll see you in 3 months) and made a joke about bringing a bottle of wine to the hospital. I already wanted to numb the pain with alcohol.
My mom rode with me and Grant to Inova Fairfax which would be my home for the next 4 days. We got to Labor and Delivery, walking past the gift shop with pink and blue balloons and teddy bears and flowers, gifts for when a baby is born alive.
I gave my name and birth date to the front desk. “I’m here for my stillbirth.” I literally said that, because there was no other way to say it. I got checked in and was handed a gown and a bag for my clothes. Enjoy your stay!
I don’t even remember being led to our room, I just remember being there. After I changed into my gown, my father-in-law was there. He was crying, hugged me, and I started crying too. When my mother-in-law arrived, she sobbed with me and held me. Our parents were losing a grandchild, and I felt awful for them.
For my entire hospital stay, any time I saw someone new, I would start crying.
I got into the hospital bed, and then time became stretchy. Time did not slow down or stop, it just became A Thing I Could Not Process. I could see what time it was on a large clock next to the TV, I could see the position of the sun outside, but I could not process how much time was passing. It was the Twilight Zone, Limbo, The Sunken Place.
For the next several hours, I met and re-met nurses and doctors who detailed my delivery options (either a vaginal birth, or what they would tactfully refer to as “the surgical option,” or a D&E) and since we wanted to see/hold/meet our baby, I chose to give birth vaginally. Since I was so early, and I hadn’t gone into early labor, my body had to be told to go into labor by way of Cytotec, a medication I took orally for the first 2 doses and vaginally after that. I could have been taking sugar pills for all the progress it made, I wasn’t cramping and wasn’t dilating for that whole first day. I was sort of eating (lots of Panera) but I was drinking water like no one’s business, it just gave me something to do. I could still get up and use the restroom which I felt like I was doing every 30 minutes or so.
My parents’ pastor came to see me. It comforted me to have her pray for me, and she told me it was okay to be angry at God. Not to worry, I definitely was.
I slowly let my friends know what was happening, and tasked the unlucky few to let groups of friends know. Even if I didn’t respond right away, I loved hearing from friends who were thinking of me or already dropping off food to our house. They were literally my lifelines.
The first day passed slowly and uneventfully as we waited for the cytotec to do something, ANYTHING, to move the process along. I didn’t want to be in the hospital, but I didn’t want to leave either, because that would mean my baby was gone. I wanted to still be pregnant.
The saving grace of our first day was agreeing to welcome a bereavement doula into our lives. Sarah sent out a call for someone to come see us and help us through this nightmare, and that first night after our parents had left and the hospital was quiet and dark, we met Tabitha.
She was exactly what I pictured a doula to be, a warm and loving presence with a glint in her eye that she knew what we were experiencing. She had a backpack full of supplies and slowly presented us with the most caring gifts I could have imagined. A string of battery-operated lights for our hospital room, a baby blanket and stuffed lamb toy, a card with a mantra to remind me to breathe, three tiny electric tea lights to represent us and our baby. The most incredible thing she did was massage my feet with lavender-scented oil the entire time she was talking with us. It was blissful, especially since I didn’t have the epidural yet so I could still feel my feet.
Some of what we discussed with Tabitha I wish to keep private, but she did give us two pieces of advice. The first was to forgive in advance: Forgive family or friends who may grieve differently from us, forgive the stupid comments from strangers about having children, and most of all to forgive ourselves. Before it ever becomes an issue, forgive and be able to get through those tough moments.
The second piece of advice was to focus on the next thing. What is the next thing we need to do? Is it to lift up the blinds to let more light into the hospital room? Then we focus on that. Don’t zoom out too much, otherwise things will get too overwhelming. This advice became the biggest part of my life for the next few weeks especially, when all I could focus on was trying to get out of bed or eat a meal.
I literally tear up when I think of Tabitha and how much she helped us that first night, when I still had so much to go through. I’m also thankful she suggested that I request “therapeutic sleep options.” I did, and the nurse gave me Ambien and I fell into a dreamless sleep.
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The next day (Wednesday, April 24) was more of the same, our parents came and went, we told more of our friends what was happening, and things progressed even slower. I got my first epidural on Wednesday (yes, first, of two), and this one was inserted by an anesthesiologist I’ll call Dr. Happy. Dr. Happy was super friendly, and had a medical student with him for the application. Poor kid must have been traumatized because I was just sobbing uncontrollably when they came into the room. He explained to me the process of getting the epidural placed (which is really not fun at all but at least it’s over quickly) and after that I thought it would be smooth sailing.
I continued to get doses of cytotec every few hours, and between doses they would check to see if I was dilating. My body just wasn’t ready or willing to give birth, so there was still little to no progress that second day in the hospital. Eventually it got to a point where in the middle of the night, it was so painful when they examined me I would start crying. I told the doctor I couldn’t feel one leg, and could tap dance with the other leg. She said I was feeling too much and I could either wait to have the epidural replaced, or get it replaced right then. I couldn’t believe I would have to go through that all over again.
One of the nurses cautioned us against getting the epidural then, because she wasn’t a fan of the anesthesiologist that night. “Well, Dr. Grumpy is on call and he’s….intense.” I was skeptical but didn’t want to wait until morning to get some pain relief, even though I wasn’t feeling contractions. I just didn’t want to feel anything, so it was preventative more than reactive.
Dr. Grumpy arrived and was definitely intense, he was just very serious and no-nonsense. He saw the placement of my first epidural and said it was way too low. I remember the placement for this one was much worse, because I was nauseous and shaking and crying even more than for the first one. But once it was done, I felt a wave of relief down my back and he handed me the button to press for more pain relief every ten minutes. I told him they didn’t give me a button for the first one, which he couldn’t even fathom. But after that, I was a way bigger fan of Dr. Grumpy than Dr. Happy.
The days blurred together so much, but to pass the time Grant and I had the TV on occasionally. I remember we watched Guardians of the Galaxy, and I vaguely remember Parks & Rec being on, too. Whatever we watched, it would briefly distract me from my reality but not for very long. I talked to my sisters and played games on my phone (Dice with Buddies), and tried to read my Bon Appetit but it just made me hungry (and I couldn’t eat anymore because of the epidural).
Other than that, I slept when I could. It was just so emotionally draining to lay there not knowing when I would give birth to a tiny breech baby who was only 18 weeks along. Grant would go for walks when he could. It was just excruciating to wait for something to happen.
Either the first or second night, Grant and I were falling asleep to Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets on Audible. It was the scene where Harry meets Dumbledore’s phoenix Fawkes for the first time, and I knew that’s what we would name our baby. It’s not a name I would have thought to name a living child, but it seemed so perfect for this little one. The phoenix means so much to me personally as one of the symbols of my sorority Alpha Sigma Alpha, and I love the concept of rebirth from ashes.
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It was finally Thursday night, and the doctor on call was Dr. Moola who quickly became our favorite doctor that week. (My OB was out of the country during all of this, so I never got to see her.) She spoke softly at my bedside and knew we were approaching day #4 of being in the hospital, which would be a long time for anyone, and I desperately wanted to go home.
Late Thursday night was when I had dilated just a bit more, and I started to push. The thing I remember the most about this time was how quiet it was in the room. It was dark except for two lights above my bed, and the nurse counting to 10 for every push was the only thing I heard.
After a few hours, my body still wouldn’t let go. I wasn’t dilating enough, and the baby was just too small so there wasn’t even much to push out. Dr. Moola made the decision to bring me back to the operating room and help me deliver back there. Grant was able to come with me and be by my side. My last memory was being in the OR, shaking violently from all the meds in my system, and sobbing looking at Grant. I passed out for the rest of the birth. Phoenix was born at 1:36 a.m. on Friday, April 26, 2019.
I woke up in the recovery room later, and Grant said he had seen the baby. It was so small, and red, but its eyes were open. He said they are pretty sure it’s a boy (we would later find out it was a girl, which was so mind blowing to me) and we decided on Phoenix Cole Howard as a name. Our parents had been there all night, sleeping in the waiting area on the lounge chairs and couches. They were able to come back and hold Phoenix and we took pictures of them holding her. Those are some of my favorite photos, but they also make me incredibly sad. She looked so small in my dad’s arms especially.
We had Phoenix in a cuddle cot (a special bassinet for stillborns with an icepack mattress so families can spend time with babies for longer) next to our bed, and fell asleep until morning. I was still recovering from all the drugs and hormones in my system—I was officially postpartum, 4 months before I expected to be. I wanted to hold Phoenix whenever I had a chance, because I knew I would never get that chance again.
Our bereavement doula Tabitha arrived that morning with a photographer, Ren, who took the most beautiful pictures of us holding Phoenix. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the camera, but every image is so special to me. Tabitha encouraged us to read to Phoenix, so we have a video of us reading Pat the Bunny and another little book about a duckling. Watching these videos is the hardest thing for me to see, but I’m so glad we did it.
After about 12 hours, we said goodbye to Phoenix. The nurses unwrapped her and we got to see her tiny little body, tiny limbs and all. I would never get to hold or see her again. Phoenix leaving the room was like a literal part of my heart being taken from me. We chose to have Phoenix cremated, which means part of me is cremated too. We’re together in that sense.
I left the hospital with a giant bag of typical postpartum pads, underwear, witch hazel and more. I begged for pain relievers because my back was in stabbing pain from my epidurals. But there was so much we left the hospital without—formula, hats, onesies, blankets and an occupied car seat.
Grant and Phoenix.
Being in the hospital for so long and with so much uncertainty was an awful end to my pregnancy, not to mention realizing I had been walking around with my dead baby inside of me for three weeks.
When we finally left the hospital that same day (Friday the 26th) we didn’t go home, but went to my parents house nearby for a few days. Luna was already there and my sisters would be coming into town for the weekend, including my older sister coming all the way from California. I remember looking in my parents’ backyard and the grass and bushes were the most insane shade of green I had ever seen in my life. My week was spent in a beige hospital room, so the color looked extra vibrant to me. I haven’t seen a shade of green like that before or since.
After
In the days and weeks after Phoenix was born, I was in a daze. I was crying as soon as I woke up, throughout the day, and before going to sleep. I was crying so much that I developed tear-stained red skin on the sides of my nose. I couldn’t help it, not that I wanted to. It was cathartic.
The mornings were the worst. I woke up not knowing if I could handle the day, I didn’t know what to do with myself. The single biggest “side effect” from my grief was that I couldn’t make decisions. I couldn’t decide what to wear, what to eat and when. The smallest decisions paralyzed me with fear and sadness. I didn’t want to be alone either, and had to have Grant sit in the bathroom while I showered. I barely had an appetite, and never wanted to eat. Nothing tasted good, or even tasted like anything.
The first time I laughed after being in the hospital was when Grant and I were watching a new sketch show on Netflix called I Think You Should Leave, and it actually startled me. I don’t recommend going days on end without laughing, just in general.
An overlook on our drive back home from the Homestead.
The next week, Grant’s parents very generously gifted us with a few nights at the Omni Homestead in Hot Springs, Virginia. It’s a beautiful resort in the western part of the state, and even just driving away from home and where all of this had just happened was healing. I was still crying a lot, but at least I wasn’t crying at home on my couch. I read Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore, which had nothing to do with pregnancy loss or death, and it was exactly what I needed. But sometimes what I needed was to read about pregnancy loss. We had a few resources from the hospital, but once we started attending our support group, I was able to take advantage of the huge library of books they provide to grieving parents.
I took the next 3 weeks off of work, taking short term disability so I wasn’t burning through my annual and sick leave. When I did return to work in mid-May, I kept wanting to take another week off, but I know I would never be fully ready to go back. I definitely wasn’t, but thankfully the semester was over so campus was quiet and I wasn’t very busy anyway. I cried at my desk a lot, and one day I couldn’t stop crying and had to leave about 2 hours after arriving at work.
That summer as a whole is just a blur to me now, and the days I tried to numb the pain with alcohol were never very healing. What was healing was having friends come over so I could tell them what happened, and they helped us so much by bringing food, gifts, things to honor Phoenix, flowers and more. Some of our friends even got a dog toy for Luna.
My sorority sisters were absolutely incredible—they banded together and made sure I was supported for weeks and weeks following our loss. I was still getting cards and gifts from them three months after Phoenix was born. I remember it was three months, because that was when I took another pregnancy test. I set it on our bathroom sink and had Grant look at it a few minutes later.
“Honey, you’re pregnant!”