One year ago today, we saw our first ultrasound of baby Finn at 7.5 weeks. Even that early on, we could clearly see a head with two little eyes looking back at us, and the beginnings of arms and legs. The two sides of his heart flickered on the screen as he bounced around in the womb. His heart looked like a little bow tie in the sonogram picture, so I always imagined him wearing a bow tie in the womb. In fact, that was the inspiration behind requesting our Finn Bear to have a bow tie. We zoomed in on his heart and the beautiful sound of his strong, fast heartbeat filled the room, a sound we had waited so long to hear.
Little did we know that six months later, at this same hospital, we would see a sonogram of our baby at 35 weeks. His dark silhouette and lack of activity was obvious before we even zoomed in on his heart. I don’t need a picture to remember how his heart looked then, its two halves motionless and silent as the technician confirmed, “It’s not moving. I’m so sorry.” It is forever burned into my memory. We heard the deafening silence that was my body without his heartbeat. However, despite the ending, I also like to remember my little Finn at his beginning, strong and seemingly playful, with a little class in the form of a bow tie.
Before my baby died, I have to admit that I didn’t know a lot about infant loss or grief. Despite experiencing primary and secondary infertility, I had never miscarried, and my first pregnancy was uneventful until the arrival of my healthy baby boy at 41 weeks. I had heard of a few families who lost a baby, but I thought it was very rare beyond the first trimester. I heard about a couple of infant losses during my second pregnancy. I was saddened by the news and clutched my belly protectively, hoping and praying my baby would make it into the world safe and sound. Before my loss, I knew that when a baby died they wouldn’t be here on earth anymore. I thought about the fact that they lost their baby at that point in time, but not about their grieving process and what it felt like not having their baby there with them.
I didn’t think about how the parents had to tell their extended family and other children that the baby wouldn’t be coming home. I didn’t think about how they gave birth in the maternity wing of the hospital, surrounded by celebrating families on the worst day of their life. I didn’t think about the silence in the room as their baby entered the world without a cry, how they never moved or opened their eyes. I didn’t think about how they held their dead child in their arms with just as much love, gentleness, and admiration as if he was still alive, saying hello and goodbye at the same time. They took pictures, rocked their baby, maybe even bathed and dresses them. They stroked their hair, counted fingers and toes, talked and sang to them. I didn’t realize their child grew colder and more purple with every passing hour. I didn’t think about how they gazed upon, kissed, and touched their child for the last time before walking out of the hospital without them. They resisted every parental instinct to run back into the hospital and get their baby as they heard the cries of healthy newborns around them. They anticipated the arrival of their child for months and instead only held a box of memories.
I didn’t think about how the mother’s body would still produce milk for a baby it couldn’t feed. She would long to hide her maternity clothes from view bit not fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes. She would go to her postpartum check-up and sit in a waiting room full of expectant parents discussing upcoming ultrasounds with excitement, when the last ultrasound she saw was of her baby’s heart not moving.
I didn’t think about how the parents would see babies and constantly think about how theirs was missing. I didn’t think about how the parents would long to hold babies or even change diapers. I didn’t think about how the parents would long to talk about their child, but hardly get a chance to mention their name. They would deal with people who pretended their child never existed. I didn’t think about how well-intentioned people who were unaware would ask, “How’s the new baby?”. I didn’t know that “How many children do you have?” would become one of the hardest questions to answer. I didn’t realize…
Not only do we represent the 1 in 4 statistic for pregnancy loss, we also represent the 1 in 8 couples that have experienced infertility and secondary infertility. In some cases the pregnancy loss(es) can be related to the cause of infertility, but in our case it likely is not related. Infertility also causes a form of grief, a grief over the inability to get pregnant easily. Sometimes as in our case, the cause of the infertility is not clear. It can impact younger couples as well as healthy people. For us, it took over a year for the first pregnancy and over two years and medical assistance for the second pregnancy to happen.
I wish it could be easy for us. I wish the process of growing our family could just fall into place for us. Future pregnancies are not a given for us; each time, we don’t know if we’ll ever have another baby.