It happened just two weeks before my son’s due date…
Just a few weeks earlier, we were celebrating our baby shower. Several weeks before that, we were putting the finishing touches on the nursery, ready to welcome him into our home. Months before that, we found out he was a boy and we gave him a name, Owen Henry. And even before that, I felt his movements for the first time, and I knew I loved him already. I loved him even long before that. I loved him since the moment I knew he existed, and I began imagining about how our lives were going to change once he arrived.
During my last prenatal checkup, everything seemed perfect. We heard Owen’s heartbeat. We even saw him stretch and yawn during the ultrasound.
It was so close… He would be here any day.
As first time parents, we were filled with anticipation—both excitement and anxiety—about what our lives would be like. Whether we would be good parents. What he would look like. What it would feel like to see ourselves looking back as this entirely new little being.
We had no idea…
Three days later, I noticed I didn’t feel him kicking or squirming, and something just didn’t feel right. We went to the hospital half-believing maybe I was in labor—but when we got there, there was no heartbeat.
It took a while for me to understand why the nurses kept saying, “I’m so sorry.” No one would come out and say it, so I had to ask them if this meant he was dead.
Owen was gone, but he was still inside of me.
None of the childbirth classes we had taken had prepared us for anything like this. There was no hope. No single good outcome to focus on. Just the most empty, horrible pain you could ever imagine… and it only got worse, as I was rapidly developing severe complications that put my own life at risk.
The only thing that got me through that night was the love and support of my husband, Jamie. This was just as painful for him, but he was so strong to support me. I couldn’t bear to cause him even more pain. I needed to get through this for him.
After eighteen hours of labor with no real progress and worsening vital signs, I was taken to the operating room for an emergency c-section. Jamie and I barely had a chance to say goodbye. As the anesthesiologist put the mask over my face, I wondered if this would be the last breath I would take.
My memories of waking up after the surgery are more like snapshots. I remember the brightness of the operating room. I remember voices of people talking around me. I remember seeing Owen in the bassinet and Jamie handing him over to me. I can barely remember seeing him for the first time. I remember the nurse showing me a knot in the umbilical cord.
As I lay in the hospital holding my sweet baby, who would never take a first breath. Never giggle. Never play. Never open his eyes. Never grow up… As I held him, and looked at him, and saw all the ways he looked like both of us combined—the shape of his lips, his fingers, his ears… I knew he would still matter to this world. I would not let him be forgotten. As his mother, I owed it to him to give him a life.
That was the defining moment of my life. This is where my story begins.
We left the hospital with our brand new carseat. Empty. It was a beautiful summer day. People were outside enjoying the sunshine and going about their business, but I felt like we were moving in slow motion. It was like we were watching a movie. Life continued to go on, even though everything inside us just stopped.
On that ride home, I thought about what it was going to be like when we walked in the house. When we were faced with our lives as they were when we left… The dishes still left on the counter from our dinner that night we went to the hospital…. The pile of mail on the table…. (Sympathy cards had already started to come pouring in…)
I thought about what it would feel like to walk into that nursery. To touch the soft blankets that had been knit just for Owen. To sit in the chair where we had envisioned ourselves rocking him to sleep. To go through the clothing I had carefully washed with that special detergent—the kind that costs more, but you don’t care because its the best for your baby. To look at the things we had placed in the room so he would be surrounded with love. To see all the gifts from our friends and family, who already loved him too.
It was the scariest thing I’ve ever had to do, going up to that room. It was the most important thing I had to do. I owed it to Owen to feel everything and hold everything. To smell it. I would not let him be hidden or forgotten. I owed it to him to face it, all of it. I wouldn’t let my fears of what was inside keep me away. And when Jamie and I walked into that room…it was…breathtaking. There was so much love in that room, everywhere, in every ounce of every detail.
We were completely enveloped with love, and all of the world outside of that room just seemed to melt away.
We lived inside this bubble for a while. We were protected from the world. People treated us differently too. Some people didn’t know what to say, and I never faulted them for that. Other people though, began sharing things with us, telling us stories about their own losses, whatever they may be. We even received letters from strangers who had read the obituary in the newspaper, from other parents who had experienced a stillbirth or miscarriage, who just wanted to reach out and let us know we were not alone.
It was so incredible, this feeling of love and support. There was also the most horrible deep, empty sorrow you could ever imagine, which I suspect will always be there… lurking… popping up when you least expect it. But it was the love that prevailed. It was the love that made me think about what really mattered in life, and what I wanted to do, and how Owen’s life could make an impact in this world.
It’s funny how the things that hurt us the most, somehow also make us better.
My daughter, Paige, was born the very next year. One year and ten days later to be exact.
If any parent can tell you how much joy, how much love, how much peace they felt the first time they held their child, I can assure you that feeling was ten times greater when I experienced it. I just love her so much. Too much almost… I love her so much I am afraid to let her go.
It startles me how much parenting is really about letting go. Everything goes by so fast—its impossible to hold on. They outgrow the clothes, the toys, the car seats. They stop needing your help with the little things. Eventually they’ll even start to focus on some pretty big things all by themselves—until one day (if you’ve done your job well), they’ll be the ones taking care of you.
So much time is spent celebrating and applauding all of the accomplishments of our children, and seldom do we acknowledge the secret loss each milestone leaves behind. Parenting is bittersweet.
The bitter is what makes the sweet taste so good.
I owe it to both of my children to face my feelings, both the bitter and the sweet. Just as I needed to draw up the strength to go back in that nursery, I need to look back at my memories with Paige—even though I am saddened by how quickly those things are already gone. Touching them and holding them strengthens me and helps me heal.
My bittersweet memories remind me that every day is a gift, and it is up to me to make the most of it. The bitter keeps me strong and helps me endure. It allows me to appreciate every sweet moment. The bitter gives me the courage to try great things, and that is the sweetest gift of all.
This incredible combination of feelings, both bitter and sweet, bring me back to that room where I am enveloped in love, and I remember what is important in life.
