Mrs. Yoyo here. I’ve invited my sister-in-law and best friend in the world, Terri, to share the story of her son Luke. Little Luke was stillborn about six months into her first pregnancy.
Five years ago, when Terri called me to tell me what had happened, I rushed to the hospital to support her in whatever way I could. I remember sitting in the hallway outside her room, blindsided and blubbering, feeling so helpless. As one of the doctors passed by, he looked down at me sadly and said, “You know, labor and delivery isn’t always a happy place.”
I hope you’ll read on knowing this isn’t meant to scare anyone. Rather, it’s a chance to open up a dialogue about something that is still kept quiet too often. While the Internet is certainly helping, there remains a certain taboo to talking about stillbirth that does no one any favors, especially the mothers who suddenly have to cope with a shocking new reality.
She’ll tell her story in two parts – the first will be her personal experience, and the second is her recommendations on how you can better support any friend or loved one who experiences a stillbirth.
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I am a mother of three beautiful boys, but when you look at our family portraits, you’ll only see two of them. Let me back up a little and explain.
Five years ago, I was almost six months into my first pregnancy, eagerly anticipating what was to come. We were expecting a boy – a boy who we’d named years before. His name would be Luke, and despite the fact that I’ve never seen “Star Wars” the whole way through (I know, I know…), I looked forward to years of jokes involving my husband carrying him around and saying, in a deep, Darth Vader-type voice, “Luke, I am your faaather.” I nicknamed him “Starbuck” and thought I might call him “Lukie” from time to time, especially when he was a teenager, and I planned to embarrass him in front of his girlfriends.
I also worried. I worried about not having enough money when he was born. I worried about my body not returning to its pre-pregnancy state, of stretch marks, of thunder thighs, of the third-trimester woes involving ugly toga-like dresses. Oh, how I would grow to hate myself for those worries, normal though they were.
But I thought I had such perspective and wisdom, and we looked forward to life with our much-anticipated baby. My father bought him a Spiderman fishing pole, eagerly waiting for the day when he’d walk with him alongside the ocean and teach him how to fish, and tell him stories about what it was like when he himself was a little boy.
The news
Then came that day in April 2007. I was just over 24 weeks pregnant. It was the day after Easter; we had spent the day with family and even gotten a tiny Easter basket with Luke’s name on it. I had been concerned that Luke wasn’t moving a lot, but was told repeatedly, despite my concerns, that it was a first pregnancy and I didn’t know what to look for.
After my doctor brushed off my concerns yet again, he placed the Doppler on my still-kind-of-smallish belly and listened. And listened. After what felt like eternity, all we continued to hear was the swooshing of my own beating heart. “It’s OK,” the doctor said. “He’s just curled into a ball, hiding. Go to the hospital for a quick ultrasound. Everything will be fine.” And I believed him.
Everything wasn’t fine. Later, with my husband and my parents at my side, a resident scanned my abdomen. What she said next ripped my hope, my world, and my identity from the core of my being.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. There is no heartbeat.”
I sat in shock, confused, unsure of why they weren’t bringing in a crash cart, slicing open my uterus, and ripping out the baby to save him. They do it on TV, don’t they? Why was my father curled in a ball in a chair, with tears streaming down his face? I flung myself from the bed, locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed.
Meeting and honoring our son
The days that followed involved a 30-hour labor with no epidural until the last half-hour. There was something oddly comforting about extreme physical pain as a distraction from reality.
And then I said hello and goodbye to the beautiful boy who made me a mother. He had ten fingers and ten toes and dark hair. He was perfect because he was mine. I held him, though not for as long as I would have liked. I had some pictures taken, though not as many as I would have liked. But really, what would have been enough? A few loved ones (my parents, my husband, my beloved Mrs. Yoyo) saw him, and for that I am thankful, because they know he was real. We entered the hospital with everything, and we left it with nothing.
A funeral wasn’t enough to honor him, but it’s the best we could do. We did our best to try to make sense of a world torn apart. We came to find that in the throes of physical and mental anguish, breasts full of milk for a baby who didn’t need it, a body recovering from a birth that brought nothing but pain, we were not alone in this parallel orbit. There were others, part of a secret club that you don’t know about until you join. Quiet hands reaching to us in the dark, saying, “We know. We’ve been there. We will lead you.” That is the good that comes of this. The gossamer web that extends around the world: grieving parents holding each other up. You can’t see it. But it’s there.
Clockwise from top left: 1) Town of Luc-Sur-Mer (“Luke by the Sea”), Northern France – picture taken by Luke’s grandparents, summer 2010; 2) Flowers for Luke at the Buddhist temple in Oahu, HI; 3) Candles burning for Luke at Notre Dame in Paris, 2010; 4) Luke’s tree, blooming for his birthday (2010)
Going through the motions
It seemed as though the world kept spinning, but I stepped off into an alternate universe, and when the time came to return, I no longer spoke the same language as everyone else. On the rare occasion in those early weeks when I mustered the nerve to attempt to leave the house, I would stand inside my front door and wonder if I could face the world that day. More often than not, I turned back around and decided that I couldn’t.
Physically, the recovery took time. The same things that happen after you give birth to a living baby happen when you give birth to one who has died – you just don’t have anything to distract you other than non-pregnancy-related TV shows (they can be hard to find, suddenly) and the occasional friend or sibling who drags you to see mindless comedies or on pointless trips to Home Depot just to force you to keep on going.
People said things they meant to be helpful but were just the opposite. I was told to wait two cycles before attempting to get pregnant again, and I was also told that I should take antidepressants. I was dismayed at the lack of support from medical professionals who just seemed not to understand or even acknowledge what I was going through. I wasn’t depressed – wouldn’t the very definition of “crazy” have been if I wasn’t sad?
A new pregnancy
On Father’s Day of the same year, after we traveled to New York to bury our son in my family’s plot alongside my grandparents and my older sister, also stillborn, we found out that we were expecting again. We spoke only of the baby as something that might happen, not something guaranteed, because our blissful faith in the future was gone. Each sentence began with, “If things work out this time …” and we took pains to protect ourselves, as if somehow one could prevent grieving if the worst was to happen again. Every night, I talked to Luke, begging him up there in heaven to protect this sibling he’d sent my way. I was superstitious, refusing to eat at restaurants I ate at last time, wearing different clothes, doing everything differently, as if this time, the path would lead to a different place, as if I could control the uncontrollable.
In February 2008, we welcomed another little boy, now 4. Another followed in October 2010. Luke has two little brothers now who know someone came before them – someone special who we love. They know that it’s OK to love someone, to be happy they existed and sad that they died. People may give them a strange look when they say they have a brother in heaven, but we’ll teach them that families transcend heaven and earth – that their brother will always be part of our family, and that we will always love him.
blogger / pineapple / 12381 posts
Thank you for sharing. This is really powerful and I can feel your loss in a palpable way. My sincere condolences. I hope that your tragic experience is able to help others traveling your same path.
pomegranate / 3225 posts
Thanks for sharing your story. I’m so sorry. It’s terrifying but I too find it so troubling how things like this are dealt with in our society. I’m right now in the early months and my husband and I are also repeating “if things work out” this time.
Did they tell you any answers as to physically why that happened to Luke?
pomegranate / 3045 posts
I am so incredibly sorry for your loss. Your story had me in tears here at work – I really appreciate you sharing it with us.
blogger / pomelo / 5400 posts
@kml636: They did eventually ID a cause, which only happens about half the time. She’ll cover that in Part II.
squash / 13199 posts
Wow this is incredibly sad. To be honest the thought of stillbirth terrifies me.. sigh… pregnancy is such a worrisome journey
cherry / 187 posts
Thank you for sharing. I am so sorry for your loss.
“There were others, part of a secret club that you don’t know about until you join.” I felt exactly the same way when my daughter was born and immediately whisked off to the NICU (a birth defect she eventually had surgery for at 2 months). I didn’t think I knew anyone who had been through it until I was in that situation and they reached out when they heard from someone else. I still wish that I could help others going through what I did, but this is also usually handled quietly (I didn’t even tell most of my friends for days).
olive / 50 posts
I’m so very sorry for the loss of your little boy. Thanks for sharing this with us.
honeydew / 7968 posts
thanks for sharing such an intimate part of your life. there really truly is a secret club and you really don’t understand it until you’ve been there. didn’t have a stillbirth – a miscarriage. i think stillbirth is SO much harder because you actually get to see the baby, hold the baby. whereas the pregnancy i had was still at the early stage so everything was still surreal. but i still felt your pain. and you had me in tears. glad you had your rainbow babies.
guest
I’m so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your story and reminding us that even in the face of tragedy, life goes on…Your family is beautiful!
cherry / 112 posts
Thank you for sharing this. I’m so sorry for your loss, but I think it helps us all to hear you talk about it.
grape / 75 posts
Touching story. Thank you for sharing it.
guest
This is a secret club I know neither of us wanted or even dreamed of belonging to. Your story echoes mine in many ways. My Lucas and your Luke are together in the beautiful playground of heaven sending hugs and kisses. Your story had me in tears , love to you!
GOLD / apricot / 341 posts
I can’t stop crying reading this. So sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your story.
cherry / 106 posts
I am so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your story.
guest
THANK U SO MUCH TERRI FOR SHARING YOUR STORY. I AM SO HAPPY THAT YOU ARE BRING AWARENESS.
honeydew / 7504 posts
Thank you for sharing this with us.
guest
I am speechless, in the best and worst way. Thank you for sharing such a personal, sad and touching story.
admin / watermelon / 14210 posts
thank you so much for sharing such a personal and moving story. i’m sure many people will be touched and comforted by it!
cantaloupe / 6146 posts
Thank you for sharing. What a beautiful and terrifying story. I am sorry for your loss.
And I love that your two little boys say they have a brother in heaven.
grapefruit / 4671 posts
Thank you for sharing, that was incredibly touching and shook me to the core.
cherry / 135 posts
Thank you for sharing Luke’s story. I can imagine those were hard words to share but your strength to move forward and overcome is admirable. Thanks again for sharing your journey with us.
blogger / eggplant / 11551 posts
I’m crying reading this. Thank you for sharing your incredibly difficult story… I can’t even imagine…. but what strength you seem to possess!
cherry / 114 posts
thank you for sharing your story. i’m so very sorry for your loss.
guest
Dear Terry,
How very proud of am of you for sharing the deepest part of your being with the world. It is obvious that you continue to touch the lives of so many people with your sensitivity to this issue. Luke must be very proud of having such a wonderfuf mother who has shared his story with the world. He knows that even though he had just a short time on this earth yet his precious existence is still touching so many through you! As always, Helen
hostess / wonderful apple seed / 16729 posts
I’m so sorry about your loss. It was very heartbreaking post to read. Thank you for sharing your story and helping us support a friend or our self if this happens.
guest
I cannot tell you how much this story touched my heart. My first child was stillborn on June 3, 2009. At 5 1/2 months.. a beautiful little girl. The things you wrote are just so similar to how I felt and still feel. We have a son now (17 months) and we constantly talk to him about his older sister in Heaven. We talk about her constantly and make it a point to include her memory in whatever we can. She is part of our family regardless. Thank you for sharing your story. Although it’s horrible that there are so many of us in this silent club of grieving families, it is, at the same time, comforting to know we are all there for each other and can relate our thoughts and feelings. May god bless you, your family and all three of your angels
guest
@Emily: I am so sorry for your loss and so happy that you have your rainbow baby. I’m part of an online group for pregnant and parenting rainbows – feel free to contact me if you’d like more info
We all share the tough reality of balancing how happy we are with our rainbows and how sad it is to know that they have a sibling who they will never know. Big hugs to you.
olive / 63 posts
Thank you for sharing your story. It really touched me.
guest
Thankyou.
My son, Benjamin was born sleeping at 28weeks last Thursday. He is so beautiful. I feel so lost back at home and my heart is broken. Your story has helped me to know that i am not alone.
guest
Amazingly brave and wonderfully written. My story is a replica of yours. I lost my boy at 24 weeks and 2 days. I now have a 16 month old daughter. I wont say any more except…