- My daughter was stillborn over two years ago. I'm now pregnant with her brother.
- I'm still mourning my daughter's death as I process my pregnancy.
My daughter's body was brought from the warmth of my uterus into the bright light of the operating room via C-section. It was a Wednesday morning in September 2020. We named her Ruthie. She was 37 1/2 weeks gestation, nearly 6 pounds, and over 19 inches long. I fell in love with her instantaneously.
She was already dead, though, when she was born.
Now I'm 30 weeks pregnant with Ruthie's little brother. I could list every emotion in the English language and it still wouldn't cover my feelings right now. As I enter my third trimester, I'm preparing to bring my son home to an apartment that my daughter never saw, while I try to manage my fears, my love, my hopes, my grief.
I learned stillbirth is more common than many might think
I'm told that my son is growing well and that he's healthy and active. I was told the same about his sister. Throughout 2020 I received no warning that her life was in mortal danger.
Many parents of stillborn babies — myself included — are told that sometimes healthy babies just die. I learned that stillbirth is not a medical crisis relegated to the Middle Ages or to TV shows like "Game of Thrones." The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention suggests that about one in every 175 pregnancies in the US ends in the birth of a dead baby. These numbers, as with so many, are significantly worse for Black families. This data sticks with me.
I paid a lot of money to learn how my daughter died
When infants die at or before birth, autopsies are performed sporadically; many end with the declaration "no known cause."
When I first arrived at the hospital, I was tested for every malady and every illicit drug under the sun. None was found.
To get answers, I hunted down a placental pathologist who would pick up the investigation where the medical examiner had left off. The hospital nurses directed me to a beautiful peer support group called DC-PLIDS, and on Instagram, I found a community of loving, angry activists at Push for Empowered Pregnancy.
New friends in both groups gave me the number for a brilliant doctor at Yale. I had Ruthie's placenta slides sent to him, and he thoroughly reviewed them, answering my many questions. He pulled up dissected photos of her placenta for me to see on a video call and patiently pointed out exactly how he had come to his conclusion: that my daughter died of repeated cord compressions that led to a maternal-fetal hemorrhage.
My insurance paid only a portion of these costs, but the knowledge I gained about my daughter and her little life felt invaluable.
I'm still mourning the fact that my daughter will never grow up
My daughter — her sweet face, my memories of her kicks — is my metaphorical full moon, the brightest light in my darkest hour. But I will never know the color of her eyes. She was named before she was even conceived, but that didn't stop me from agonizing over her name for the nine months I carried her. Would it fit her? Would she like it?
She was named after my great-grandmother, a poet; and my neighbor, a professor who had just died of pancreatic cancer. Ruthie fit into our family — a keystone in our arch.
My son will be named after my father, who died suddenly on the day I told him I was pregnant. My son also is already wanted and necessary.
I'm traumatized by my daughter's death and birth, but my son won't be
Days after the death of my daughter, a longtime friend reached out to me and shared something I'd never known.
She'd had older twin sisters, Mariana and Helena, who had died within a week of their births. Her and her sisters' time on earth didn't overlap, but she'd grown up knowing about them, speaking to them, asking for their help on fourth-grade math tests and in high-school sports competitions. She loves them — a love unencumbered by the trauma of their deaths.
My greatest hope is that my son grows up feeling the same connection with his sister. I am determined to ensure he knows and loves Ruthie throughout his life.
I'm scared, but I'm also hopeful
Recently I read online that term babies in utero can cry. I have to carry the knowledge that, if she was crying, I didn't know. I do know the last sounds she heard before she died: the beating of my heart, the whoosh of air through my lungs. I hope they comforted her. If her brief life flashed before her eyes, it took place entirely with me surrounding her, loving her.
Knowing all that I know now, I'm scared when my son is sleeping and not playing kickball with my internal organs. I'm scared when he moves, imagining him tangled up in his cord. I know the limits of ultrasounds and prenatal testing.
He's a real swimmer, like his sister — he's constantly prodding me, as if he's saying, "I'm here, Mom! I'm here!" He's made more than one technician give in to laughter as they chase him around my abdomen with a wand, watching the ripples on my stomach as he dodges their heart-rate monitors. My dog likes nudging him through my stomach, and I swear he nudges back. My daughter flipped more; he dances. I squint at ultrasound photos until I have a headache, trying to determine whether he shares her cleft chin.
I don't know if I'll give birth to him alive or dead. Until we improve our prenatal technology, it's not possible for anyone to know. I hope so badly that he lives a very long life. I hope that throughout it he feels that same consistency of love that his sister felt.