Grief, Infant Loss, Stillbirth

A lot of people tell me that they can’t even imagine what I must be going through. I get it, I couldn’t have imagined either before it happened to me, and even what I had imagined doesn’t stack up to the reality. I write this as a mother who has experienced the birth of my living child and how it compares to my experience of having a stillborn child. I wrote this in hope that through my experience parents will gain an even deeper appreciation for their children, as I have for my own living child through this experience. I also hope to bring about a deeper understanding of the emotions and experiences a bereaved parent faces. If you really want to try to understand, here is the best I can do.

Picture the moment your child emerged from the womb and you heard that loud, beautiful wail and saw their limbs flailing as they drew their first breaths. Now imagine they emerged completely limp, still, and silent.

Remember gazing into your baby’s eyes, watching that rhythmic sucking of their mouth as they drew in nourishment, evolving from the moment they were born. Now imagine their eyelids never opened, their mouth never rooted in anticipation of being fed, every moment wasting away a little more.

Remember that moment you dressed your baby up in their going home outfit and proudly buckled them into their car seat for their first ride home? Instead, imagine kissing your baby goodbye for the last time, sending them to their autopsy and walking empty handed out of a birth center that is so full of new life, never to see your child again.

Think of when you first brought your baby home, and brought him or her into the nursery you put so much love into preparing, with stacks of outfits and diapers waiting to be worn, and a crib ready for much slumbering. Now imagine the same as you come home with empty arms and these things sit unused, collecting dust.

Think of your older child kissing his little sibling’s head or holding them while you look on proudly. Now imagine they can only kiss a picture of their sibling and hold their hospital blanket.

Think of the postpartum recovery, the pain, hormones, producing milk, a body that is geared up and ready to care for and nurture a baby. Now imagine there’s no baby to nurture and help you forget those ailments, with the added grief that your baby is gone.

Recount all of the dreams you have for your child and all of the experiences you ever hope to have with them. Now imagine those hopes buried forever along with your child.

In the good times, when you hold your peacefully sleeping child and watch them reach each new milestone, give thanks to God because there are mothers with empty arms who can only imagine what that would be like. In the hard times, when your child is crying, fighting sleep and their eyes refuse to close, give thanks again because there are mothers who never get to see those eyes open or hear those cries.


Grief, Infant Loss, Stillbirth

As I walk through this grief journey, I have so many people tell me how strong I am. I don’t feel strong, but I think what they see is Christ strengthing me (Philippians 4:13). Sometimes I think about where I would be in this journey without God, and it’s a scary thought. Without God and the encouragement of His word, I would certainly be angry and bitter at the unfairness of life, especially given Finn’s death on top of our fertility issues. I would likely be in a deep, dark pit of despair with no light shining in. I think I would also feel a lot of unrest.

Something I have felt ever since we found out Finn had died is a great deal of peace about the situation. In the hospital during labor, lyrics from the song “Lord (I Don’t Know)” by the Newsboys kept repeating in my head:

Lord I don’t know where all this is going
Or how it all works out
Lead me to peace that surpasses understanding
A peace beyond all doubt

The interesting thing is that I hadn’t heard that particular song for years, yet it came to me when I needed it most. This was the inspiration for the verse that is printed on Finn’s urn, Philippians 4:7.

And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

The next couple of weeks after Finn was born was filled with questions. I felt tremendous guilt because I thought that I inadvertently did something that caused Finn’s death or didn’t go to the hospital soon enough. The preliminary autopsy results came back with no abnormalities, adding to my fear that I somehow failed to save my perfectly healthy baby from dying. Then, we got a call from the geneticist saying she had an explanation for Finn’s death, and we scheduled an office visit.

It was a long few days waiting for that meeting, but when it finally came, we got a completely unexpected explanation — Trisomy 9. It was quite shocking to discover that every cell in Finn’s body had this extra chromosome when he looked so perfectly formed. We learned his condition is always fatal, and that most babies with Trisomy 9 are miscarried in the first trimester.

It was then that Finn’s purpose began to sink in. At the doctor’s office laying on the exam table, I prayed to God that he would allow me to become pregnant and send me a baby to love. God answered my prayer in a way I never imagined. I did get pregnant (after 2.5 years of no success on our own), and God sent me a baby to love, but he was not designed for Earth. There was nothing on Earth that could have sustained him. He wasn’t meant to survive here for a reason. He had a purpose in heaven.

God allowed me to experience the joy of another pregnancy and loving another child. It wasn’t overshadowed by the knowledge my baby was going to die until the very end. And through Finn’s death, my faith has been strengthened beyond what it ever has ever been. It has given me a platform to share the love of Christ, celebrate the meaning every unborn life has, help other grieving parents, and share information that can help people understand grief, and even save other babies. I don’t yet know what Finn’s heavenly purpose is, but the ripple he has created so far on Earth had been larger than I could have imagined and I know it is because God is working this for our good.

The biggest difference between grieving with God is that I grieve with the hope that I will see Finn again, healthy and whole, when I join him in heaven one day. While this doesn’t negate the need to grieve or change the fact that I miss him or wish the outcome could have been different, it does bring me great comfort to know he is in a place more beautiful than I can imagine, where there is no suffering.