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By TJ Heck
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I'll never forget the moment I heard the words, “Your baby has no heartbeat.” I already knew something was wrong based on the nurses saying “let me check” and “the doctor will be in soon,” when I asked what was happening. My doctor finally entered the room and said, "I'm so sorry but your baby is dead. We are going to go on a journey together and it's not the one that you had hoped for but know that we will do this together.”
I was 40 weeks and 6 days pregnant. My induction couldn't be scheduled because the labor and delivery unit was overrun with pregnant moms in my rural town. I was called to come in early on a Saturday morning. As I was getting into the car, I looked for my husband. He had decided this was the perfect time to clip his toenails. I was hugely pregnant and very unhappy with his choice. Halfway to the hospital, the nurse called and said another few moms had come in and again there wasn't room. We headed back home to await another call. A few hours later, I was finally in a hospital bed. But by the time we arrived, it was too late. How much too late, I'll never know. In an instant, I became an unfortunate statistic: Stillbirth remains a public health crisis in the United States, and nearly half of them occur without a cause, according to research.
Looking back on that moment still brings me sadness and grief for what could have been. What I wasn't ready for was how thankful I am, 12 years later, that my baby didn't live.
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Let me be clear: I wanted that child. My husband and I were in our late 30s. We had children from our first marriages, two for each of us. I was so excited to finally have a baby with someone I knew would be a wonderful dad. I had been a single mom up until that point. I struggled with working full-time, finding and affording quality daycare, and being present for my children. When I met this wonderful single dad, I felt like I had won the jackpot.
Then our baby died.
In the hospital, I asked the doctor to please just cut him out and she explained that wasn't the safest way. The safest way was going through labor. Twelve hours later, I delivered a dead child. Hearing the cries of newborns in rooms across the hall was heartbreaking. Walking out of the hospital with an empty car seat was devastating. My body—torn apart from labor and delivery—was not nearly as mangled as my heart.
Spiraling sadness and sickening grief enveloped me after my baby died. For days, I sat brokenhearted in my bed wondering what I had done wrong. I racked my brain for any signs I had missed, blaming myself for not being able to ensure my baby was safe and healthy.
My husband and I dealt with our grief differently. “Why can't you say his name?” I screamed at him. “You don't even acknowledge that he died and go about life as if nothing happened.” We were in the van either coming from or going to one of an endless number of kids’ activities. He looked at me—mouth tightened—and gave some excuse about letting people grieve differently. I knew there was more to it than that, but in the moment I let it go. Unfortunately, the grief ultimately broke our marriage. We split up three years later.
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Coming out of the fog after my stillbirth, I worked to be present with my living children, to find joy in their joy and to see their needs and wants, not just my grief. The support from my community—friends, colleagues and even strangers—was overwhelming. Numerous women came forward to share their stories of loss, creating empathetic spaces where I wasn’t alone; I was part of a club I never knew existed. Seeking out therapy was imperative in my healing process. Every day, I would watch my living children and wonder how our lives would be different if they had another sibling. But it was hearing their musical laughter as they jumped on piles of fall leaves, opened Christmas presents, and played in the snow that made me realize I needed to heal my heart so it wasn't broken for them.
Looking at my life now, I don't think I would want to have a 12-year-old. I wouldn't want to be tied to my now ex-husband through a child. I'm thankful I didn't have custody calendars and handoffs to navigate. I don't think I would have finished my Ph.D. in science education had I been caring for a small child. I’m thankful I didn’t have to wrangle a 7-year-old at my hooding ceremony. I wouldn't have launched my career as a nationally-recognized expert in science assessment. My two children and I were able to make that happen—all while I was cheering them on from the football stands and beaming with pride at dance recitals. That was possible, but to do that with one more younger child seems impossible. My life dealt me one of the hardest blows—losing a child—but then life showed me how lucky I am to have just my two wonderful children.
I'm grateful that my kids are almost grown and very independent as I look down another scary and exciting path marking the end of my time taking care of them. This is the beginning of the part where I get to know myself as a friend to my amazing kids. I'm glad I won't have to wait for another child to grow up to start my next journey.
TJ Heck is a mom, educator and researcher living in Michigan who is dedicated to causes that uplift and humanize LGBTQIA2+ children and families.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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