On June 14th, 2024, I walked into the women’s health facility for my final checkup before labor and delivery. As I walked through the door, I immediately noticed another couple doing paperwork, discussing things quietly amongst themselves. Once I was called back, the nurse mentioned that the couple in the waiting room were being referred to a specialist, as their pregnancy was getting complicated. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have had two healthy pregnancies, and couldn’t imagine being in their position.
Arriving at my appointment, I was getting so anxious to meet my baby girl. I had been so miserable in the last few weeks of my pregnancy with Esmé, and I was beginning to have a lot of discomfort. I was dealing with both gastrointestinal issues and acid reflux — throwing up pure stomach acid at one point. As usual, the doctor came in with the fetal doppler and started scanning my stomach. This time, he squished and pushed it, maneuvered it each way he could, but the only sound coming through was the static that it transmitted… No heartbeat. “Is she okay?”, I asked. “I’m not sure”, he said. “Lets get you over to ultrasound to take a look.”
Right then, all the strange symptoms I’d been having came to mind. I’d never gotten sick before during a pregnancy, but I was just sick this past week. Her movement had slowed, but I assumed she had run out of room like my daughter had. The way I was carrying felt different, like I had deadweight between my legs. Regardless of all of these things, I didn’t think I had a reason to worry. My OB appointments had all signified a healthy pregnancy, so I could justify anything that seemed strange.
When I walked down the hall to meet the ultrasound tech, I remember how quiet it was. I scanned the walls, studying the posters filled with information and miscellaneous health tips while she prepared the machine. I kept checking in with myself, questioning everything about the appointment, certain she’d find the heartbeat and send me straight to the hospital. The doctor had mentioned before that fetal dopplers can be unreliable, so I held on to that hope.
When she squeezed the gel onto my stomach and began the ultrasound, it was confirmed—there was no heartbeat. I saw my daughter’s outline, her perfectly formed ribs and spine, all her tiny bones carefully knit together in creation. There were no flaws in her being, and yet she was gone. I saw her lifeless body, still resting within me.
Returning to the room, my husband had arrived, and I confirmed her demise. The doctor explained that we had a choice: we could go to the hospital and deliver immediately, or go home and return when we felt ready. We decided to go home first to see my daughter and my mother-in-law, who was watching our daughter.
We walked in the door and were greeted as usual. “Hey, how was the appointment?” she asked.
“They didn’t find a heartbeat,” I said softly. “The baby is gone.”
We went home to pack our bags, then headed to the hospital later that afternoon. Around 3:00 a.m., as delivery drew just minutes away, I looked at my husband and said, “I don’t want to do this.” I didn’t want to give birth to my daughter knowing she was gone, but I knew I had to. I kept repeating to myself, mothers always do what they have to do for their children. So, I quieted my mind, gathered myself, and pushed.
With no sound except the quiet shifting of arms and the clinking of instruments, they cleaned her and wrapped her gently before bringing her to me. I was so nervous to see her, afraid the image might stay in my mind forever—but I knew I would regret it if I didn’t see or hold her. Let me tell you, there is something profoundly humbling about holding your lifeless child.
She had the sweetest little button nose and was the spitting image of her sister. We were taken aback by how much she resembled our daughter, Freya—her daddy’s big eyes, my folded ears. She was, beyond definition, perfect… But, by then, her skin had begun to peel, and her tiny mouth was turning dark. They placed her in a cooling crib to preserve her while we decided what we wanted to do. Words like “funeral home” and “arrangements” floated around the room. The thought of giving my child up—to be prepared somewhere else or taken away for examination—felt impossible, and completely out of the question. Burial was impending, so we wanted to make the most of what time we had.
We signed a release to take her remains with us and went home later that day. My husband still recalls the weight of her tiny body in the plastic container they gave us to carry her home in. He placed her gently in the refrigerator at his parents’ house until we could bury her that evening. The deepest trauma lived in those silent moments—in the smallest details, in the strange, surreal awareness that all of this was happening to our child.
That evening, friends and family gathered in the back field of my in-laws’ property to say goodbye to my baby girl. It was the most beautiful way we could honor her short, sweet life, and I truly believe her life had purpose—that God’s hands were present through it all.
To any mothers who may be reading this in search of comfort, please know that everything you’re feeling is valid. Don’t let anyone tell you how you should or shouldn’t grieve. You have lost a child, and grief looks different for everyone. It’s hard for others to know what to say in a situation no one ever imagines facing. And finally, take heart in this: I believe with all of mine that one day you will see your baby again and know them fully.
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