The First Thing Our Baby Saw Was The Face of Jesus

It was unlike my prior first trimester and the first trimester after that.

It was the only first trimester (of the three I’ve been honored to experience) whose end I couldn’t wait to meet.

I didn’t have HG, the bloodwork was fine, and the ultrasounds always showed a healthy baby. But I knew otherwise.

I know other women have felt worse physical pain–I have, too. At one point in my life I couldn’t even walk for about a year. That’s a story I haven’t told you, but I may one day.

No, this first trimester was awful. When it’s about your child you just feel so much worse. My stomach was upset every evening. I can tolerate nausea, vomiting, and being tired, but this was something else.

Finally that first trimester ended.. but the awfulness didn’t go away.

Almost every evening, like clockwork, I’d have to be away from my husband and toddler because I couldn’t bear keeping my eyes open or even a few seconds of activity. My insides were twisting and I couldn’t stand living.

But I knew that if my baby was fine, I could withstand anything. I may be nauseous and tired every first trimester, but I’m otherwise glad to be pregnant and honestly take every symptom with joy because I know it means the baby’s developing well.

And yet… I couldn’t shake the feeling that this baby was different than our first.

Part of me thought everything could be fine because every pregnancy’s different, and maybe this one being more challenging that my first was completely normal–expected almost.

That’s an idea I held onto for a while to make myself feel better, even though deep down I knew otherwise.

The day before

On April 2, 2022, a Saturday, I went to urgent care after seeing some pink a few days that week and feeling some burning down there while I peed. (Excuse the TMI but this is my blog and I’ll write what I want to.)

A couple of days before that we had even heard the heartbeat: Completely healthy.

Because of who-knows-what, local urgent cares don’t have fetal dopplers, so the doctor on call humored me in my theory that it could be an infection and had me take a test. (Spoiler: We both knew it wasn’t–and it, in fact, wasn’t an infection. I’ve also never had a UTI.)

But he sounded very grim while talking with me, almost like he knew what I knew but didn’t want to say it. He suggested I talk to my OB first thing Monday morning if the symptoms persisted.

That night, my stomach felt the worse it had felt that pregnancy. I was about a month into my second trimester so the nausea had subsided, and yet something felt more wrong.

I had managed to (at least barely) participate in our toddler’s bedtime routine and then I needed to lay down as usual.

But that night, as I held so tightly to our baby’s (gender) ultrasound picture from the week prior, I kept crying out, begging him to be fine.

My husband kept trying to reassure me that he (yes, a baby brother for our toddler) would be fine; everything was fine.

But I knew otherwise.

That morning

As I was getting ready the following morning, Sunday, April 3, I had to go to the bathroom and felt a strong urge to push.

So I did. It hurt. It burned. Then a baby came out.

A perfect-looking, seemingly fully formed (albeit tiny at just 8″) baby.

Shock doesn’t even describe what I felt. I couldn’t move; I just stared, willing that precious baby back in my body so it could keep developing.

I swear I even wondered whether he could be put back (but rationally knew it was impossible).

There was my baby–too young to survive outside of my womb.

And there was the umbilical cord–just hanging, holding on to my baby.

I screamed my husband’s name, he rushed in the bathroom, and exclaimed, “OH MY GOD!”

I called the after-hours Nurse Line, where I was told to put the baby inside my underwear and hurry over to the hospital.

Then I called my parents to tell them the baby was out (I didn’t know a better way to put it) and to please come help us with our toddler.

I wrote down his routine/schedule while we waited for them to arrive. He was still sleeping and wouldn’t wake up for another couple of hours. I then sent it to my mom and when they arrived they looked so somber and sad.

It was hard knowing they had lost a grandson and that they couldn’t do much for their daughter.

The next few hours were a whirlwind.

For some reason, we first went to the ER, where I changed into a gown and, after almost an hour, was told they couldn’t do anything for me.

In hindsight, I absolutely wish we had gone to the Women’s Ward instead, where our oldest was born. The ER was a complete waste of time. (Some time later we received the bill for my time there and I was able to negotiate it down to half, I think.)

So I got wheeled to the Women’s Ward, and on the way, they kept talking about contacting “Share” for “pictures.”

I remember thinking, “No way anyone’s taking pictures of us or my baby! That’s weird!”

I was so wrong. The mementoes the Share volunteer gave us and made for us and pictures she took of that day are among our most valued possessions now.

Once in my room, the doctor noticed I hadn’t delivered the placenta yet, so that was the next step.

I hadn’t had a drink of water that morning and I remembered being SO parched. But I wasn’t allowed to drink much more than a few sips in case I’d need to have a D&C if I wasn’t able to push it out myself.

I was given some medicine to induce contractions; that was hell. I asked the nurse to let me go to the bathroom but she didn’t believe I needed to, so I finally told her to either help me or “I’ll go right here on this bed.”

So I went to the bathroom and felt better amid the contractions. Finally, it was time to push.

From the moment I learned I could end up getting a D&C, I prayed and prayed that I wouldn’t need it. That I could push it out and that’d be it.

The wait for the medicine to take effect took longer than the pushing but I was so relieved I prayed. That brought me much solace. I recall pushing didn’t take very long, and having never seen a placenta face-to-face, I was fascinated by it, even if my baby’s dead body was lying next to me in a cold incubator (especially made for dead babies).

At the hospital

After the placenta was out, I could feel I kept bleeding every so often. And bleeding A LOT.

My husband later admitted he was scared to death seeing how much I was bleeding.

Being so thirsty meant I was also very cold, but I was finally allowed to drink lots of water, thank God.

Speaking of God, aside from my fear of a potential D&C, the whole time I was at the hospital (maybe starting with the moment our baby was born) I felt like he was holding me. I felt AT PEACE.

Incredibly sad, sure, but also at peace. I trust(ed) him.

I knew, while looking at our baby’s dead body next to me, that the next pregnancy would “take.” I knew he’d help us, I knew he’d keep our oldest well.

I knew he loves us.

Losing a baby is NOT EASY. And I’m not telling anyone who’s lost a child that it’s easy.

But I felt so redeemed, so forgiven, so at peace. Like he was telling me to not be afraid.

We spent the night at the hospital. They wanted to monitor me and see if I’d pass any clots and what they were like.

I thought I was going to die

I’m not a saint. I may be working toward sainthood and leading our family to Heaven, but I know I’m no saint right now.

I can say that confidently because as at peace as I felt that whole day, once night came, I feared for my life and leaving our toddler without a mom and my husband without a wife.

I doubted God, you guys.

I didn’t want to fall asleep, and after waking up from a nap that evening I was relived I was still alive. I didn’t want to fall back asleep, though. I dreaded closing my eyes.

While writing this post, I’ve either worn our youngest while she napped or watched priests talk about The Chosen (a must-watch show, by the way!), which is ironic in how well it reminds me of how flawed I am.

Looking into the eyes of our baby (that same baby I knew would be born after the miscarriage) and her big brother makes me feel so inadequate sometimes, like I don’t deserve so much goodness.

But I try to squash those thoughts and apologize to God immediately, telling him I’m sorry for thinking I’m not worthy of his love and blessings–even though we all are and he’s shown us we are.

Anyways, back to that night: I didn’t die. Waking up that morning felt so nice, and waking up every day since then in particular, and knowing God has given me another day to spend with my family, has been amazing.

In talking with my Catholic therapist whom I started working with after the miscarriage, I learned that those intrusive thoughts of dying were very normal. After all, I had just lost someone near to my heart, and that taught me how fragile life was. So of course I’d think that I could also be next.

Where that Loss Led Us

Later on that first day, the day we lost the baby, there was one thing I KNEW I had to do: Contact our priest.

For a little backstory, my husband and I are cradle Catholics. We got married in the Church and had our oldest (and later our youngest, after our Reversion) baptized. But we weren’t very close to the Church and didn’t attend Mass regularly for years.

Our baby’s death kickstarted a newfound passion for the Church in me, and I just had to get ahold of our priest (the same one who married us and baptized our first) for some kind of guidance and a blessing for the baby.

Unfortunately, he was in a another state as he had retired, but he connected us with our local priest. When we called him, he had already heard from the first priest and said he’d come right over.

He wasn’t exaggerating: he arrived a few minutes later. I have three favorite priests: Father M, my high school priest; Father J, the priest who married us; and Father S, AKA this priest.

Father S arrived, we talked for a few minutes, and he went on to bless us and the baby. You might think that was a minor gesture but I remember feeling God’s grace envelop me all over right then, and just knowing how blessed I was, as I sat next to my husband, and with our kiddo at home with my parents.

After Father S left, my husband said something remarkable, “I guess we should return to Church!”

God doesn’t cause death; I know that. Yet as BITTER as losing our baby was, it also opened so many doors that I’m very grateful for.

Later on I’ll discuss those doors, but suffice it to say that I have a community now, I follow numerous edifying and actually enjoyable Catholic resources, I’m studying the Bible and Catechism, and in general, I’m so proud to be Catholic. I don’t think that’d have happened had that baby been born, to be honest. Or maybe it’d have happened much later? Who knows.

I’m now more open to accepting when I’m wrong. And I’m glad we reverted to the Church when we did.

I was like the prodigal daughter whose return made the Father SO ecstatic. And believe me, I’m so happy to be back.

~ ~ ~

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It’s been exactly 18 months since the day we lost little Owen Luke but I’m very grateful for the time we had with him.

We visit his grave often and are working on teaching the kids that he was and is always a part of our family; that they should pray for his intercession and ask him to pray for them. Little Owen may not have had a fighting chance, but we feel his presence and assistance daily.

If you or someone you know experience what we did, PLEASE KNOW YOU’RE NOT ALONE. Feel free to visit these helpful Miscarriage & Stillbirth Resources if you want to know where to go from here.

Thanks for reading this post–the most difficult one I’ve written.