Invisible Baby

Custom sonogram piece by local artisan, Felted Among Friends.

When our son died shortly after birth at 23 weeks, the feeling that surprised me the most was probably the loneliness.

Sadness, grief, emptiness… Those were all anticipated. But despite the incredible support we were receiving from family and friends - or, maybe, because of it - I hadn’t expected to feel so utterly, entirely alone.

As we left our hospital room and walked through the crowded hallways, after laying our son in the hands of our nurse and asking her to “please take care of him,” I remember being completely overcome. I remember seeing everyone walking around, doing everyday, normal, mundane things like buying coffee and paying for parking, and all I could think was, “how can you just keep going on like nothing happened? Don’t you know my son is dead!??”

Because I wanted them to know. I wanted the whole world to know him. Even though he had died and they couldn’t see him anymore, I wanted everyone to know that my son had lived. He had lived inside me - and outside, too! - and he was loved and wanted and missed so very, very much.

So I told them.

I told anyone and everyone who would listen all about my second child, my first son, Marlow.

My son, Marlow.

I told them the story of his birth, about the waiting and the wondering. I told about how he was born as the sun rose on our second day in hospital. How he was born and placed on my chest, just like his sister had been two years earlier. I told them that our photographer came and took photos of him and our time together, and that his grandparents and aunts came to the hospital to meet him, and how we all - myself included - were surprised at how tiny and utterly perfect he was.

As the days and weeks and months passed, I told them everything, over and over, keeping his memory alive. I love that because of this, friends and family tell me often how they feel like they knew him. And now, almost 8 years later, I look back on the brief time I had with my son and I smile. I cry, sometimes, but mostly I smile, because I can picture his beautiful face and say his sweet name, and even though I wish he were here with me, I’ve learned how to live with a memory instead.

So when it happened again this spring, I thought I knew what to expect.

“I never wanted to say goodbye - until I didn’t get to.”

I was 14 weeks pregnant at a routine appointment when my midwife couldn’t find my baby’s heartbeat. She said because it was still quite early, it was possible baby was just “hiding,” and that we shouldn’t assume the worst.

An ultrasound later that evening confirmed what I already knew - a mother knows - and I went home to prepare myself for the next day: prepare myself to once again meet my baby and then say goodbye.

I thought I knew what was coming. After all, I’d done this before.

I knew nothing.

Unlike Marlow, who was born alive and lived for a few precious minutes, this baby had died inside me. In fact, it had been several weeks since baby had passed, which meant that my body wasn’t doing what it was “supposed” to do. There was no blood, no cramping, no passing of baby; I wasn’t miscarrying. I was experiencing a “missed miscarriage.”

Because of the circumstances surrounding my baby’s death this time, I wasn’t able to birth (miscarry) my baby. This meant that instead of being induced, like I was with Marlow, I had to have a D&C to remove “the pregnancy,” as they called it.

I went to sleep pregnant, and when I woke up I just - wasn’t.

And that was it; it was over. My baby was surgically removed from my body and disposed of along with the rest of the “medical waste.”

This time I had nothing.

No teeny footprints. No memory of tiny, perfect fingers resting on mine. No way to know whether or not he - or she - looked more like my daughters or more like my sons.

This time there is nothing to tell.

This time there is nothing to show.

And even though I know it wouldn’t make me miss this baby any less, I will always wish I had more than two pink lines, three months of morning sickness, and one motionless sonogram to remember this baby by.

I wish I could have held you. I wish I could have seen you. I wish I could have known your name.

I miss you. I love you. My sweet, invisible baby.