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Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day so, I want to share my story. I wanted to remember my Declan, who I never got to hold in my arms. I don’t get to celebrate his birthday or his milestones. Instead, I mark time by mourning what could have been on what should have been his due date and on the day we lost him. I know it sounds morbid but these two days are all that I have. I don’t even get to talk about him. I’ll never have a picture of him on my wall or get to hear him call me “mommy.” I was robbed of all of it, even though I desperately wanted him.
I lost my third child on May 1, 2012. That day is seared into my soul and the wound is still as fresh today as it was that morning as we drove to the hospital. I was sitting there in the car with my husband but I felt more alone than I’d ever felt before. That day changed everything for me; not just my perspective of the world but who I was and how I would move throughout that world for the rest of my life. I’m not the same woman I was before that moment I was told that my baby no longer had a heartbeat. It’s not an easy story to tell, but I think it’s important. Maybe you’ve been through something similar, or maybe you know someone who has. Either way, I hope sharing this helps in some small way.
The Day It All Fell Apart
It was a Monday morning. April 30, 2012. Just another day, right? Except it wasn’t. I was 10 weeks and 4 days pregnant, and I had a routine ultrasound appointment to confirm everything was okay because I had some slight spotting. No big deal, I thought. I’d done this before with my other pregnancies. But the moment I saw the tech’s face, I knew. You know that feeling when your heart just… drops? Yeah, that. I wanted to disappear and stop everything.
I didn’t want to hear whatever they were about to say. I knew. She didn’t even have to say the words. But she did anyway. “I’m so sorry, we couldn’t find your baby’s heartbeat.” And just like that, my world imploded.
The Aftermath
You know what’s weird? How the world just… keeps going. There I was, my entire existence shattered into a million pieces, and outside that window, people were still walking their dogs, grabbing coffee, living their lives. It felt so wrong. Nothing felt alright. I didn’t even recognize myself. The grief and sadness were primal.
I remember sitting in my car afterward, just… wailing. I’ve never cried like that before or since. It was this primal, gut-wrenching sound that I didn’t even recognize as my own voice. And then, because life is cruel sometimes, I had to pull myself together to pick up my daughter from preschool. Can you imagine? Pretending everything’s fine when your heart is breaking into pieces? Even speaking was nearly impossible, the lump in my throat was choking me. How was I supposed to survive this?
The Silence That Followed
We hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy yet. You know how it is – that fear of jinxing it. So when we lost the baby, it felt like this secret engulfing grief. Like I was carrying this enormous weight that no one could see.
I wanted to scream it from the rooftops. I wanted everyone to know that my baby existed, that he mattered, that I loved him fiercely even if I never got to hold him. But instead, I was quiet. Because how do you even begin to explain that kind of loss to someone who hasn’t been through it?
But this was too big to keep from those who mattered; those who loved us and would want to help shoulder the pain. I sent a text to our family and my closest girlfriends and told them the news. I dropped this catastrophic bomb that had just blew up my entire life and asked them not to contact me because talking to anyone, forming words and making sound, was too big an ask for me in this state.
Breathing felt like a privilege that I didn’t deserve. How could I go on living when my child could not? You’ve not known survivors guilt to this magnitude until you’ve had to go on living in a world where your beloved child cannot exist.
The Physical Reality
Let’s talk about something that people often gloss over – the physical aspect of miscarriage. It’s not just emotional pain; it’s physical too. I remember begging my doctor, “Please, get him out of my body.” I know that sounds harsh, but the thought of carrying my baby, knowing he was gone, was more than I could mentally bear. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I was existing in feral and primal mode. I just wanted to disappear from everyone and everything I’d ever known.I felt shame for my body failing my child. I know, rationally, that it wasn’t my fault but when you are desperate for answers to why something so heinous happens, your mind can go to dark places.
The next morning, at 6 AM, May 1, 2012, I was at the hospital for a D&C. It felt so final. Like I was saying goodbye before I ever really got to say hello. My heart was broken wide open and I was hemorrhaging every rational thought that I had ever had. I was so detached and in so much mental anguish that I couldn’t even muster enough care to even ask my husband how he was feeling. I didn’t have the bandwidth to care about anyone; I was just trying to survive the most traumatic event of my life.
The Lingering Pain
Here’s the thing about losing a baby – it doesn’t just go away. Even now, 12 years later, I can feel that lump in my throat when I think about my Declan. That’s what we named him. He existed. He was real. He was loved. He was going to be Declan Wayne, carrying on his father’s name, as is the tradition in his family.
I still get angry sometimes. Why us? It’s not fair, and it’s okay to feel that way. Healing isn’t linear, you know? Some days are easier than others, but that dull ache? It’s always there. My arms are always just a little empty; my heart always holding space for our little boy. Every happiness is tinged with a little sadness because he should be here to celebrate with us. I don’t think there will ever be a day when I don’t feel this loss; this longing for something that’s missing.
Finding Light in the Darkness
I won’t lie to you – this journey is tough. There were days when getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest. But here’s what I’ve learned: we’re stronger than we know. Somehow, we keep going. We bend, but we don’t break.
You know what helps? Talking about it. Sharing our stories. That’s why I’m telling you mine. Because maybe, just maybe, it’ll help someone else feel less alone. And that’s something, isn’t it?
A Message for You
If you’re reading this and you’ve lost a baby, I want you to know something: Your baby mattered. Your grief is real. Your feelings are valid. And you are so, so strong.
It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to laugh and then feel guilty for laughing. All of it is okay. You’re navigating something incredibly difficult, and you’re doing it the best way you know how.
Moving Forward, Not Moving On
People talk about moving on, but I don’t think we ever really do. Instead, we move forward, carrying our babies in our hearts. We find ways to honor them, to keep their memory alive.
For me, writing helps. Sharing my story helps. And on October 15th, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, I’m lighting a candle. It’s a small thing, but it matters. It’s my way of saying, “You existed. You were loved. You are remembered.” Our Declan, he is at the top of my Dia de Los Muertos ofrenda. This is a sacred place of honor to me and when anyone comes to my house, they see his ultrasound scan. The one I insisted they take that morning before my D&C. The only tangible proof I have that he ever existed to the outside world.
A Final Thought
I know this is heavy stuff. But I’m glad you’re here, reading this. Because it means we’re in this together. We’re part of a club no one wants to join, but here we are. And you know what? We’re going to be okay. Not the same as before, but okay.
So, if you’re struggling, reach out. To me, to a friend, to a support group. Don’t carry this alone. And if you know someone who’s lost a baby, just be there. You don’t need to have the right words. Sometimes, just sitting in silence and acknowledging their pain is enough.
Remember, your story matters. Your baby matters. And you, my friend, you matter too.
Take care of yourself, okay? And know that you’re not alone in this. Not ever.
