One month ago today, our third son, Finley Cade, was born. A little before 7:00 in the morning, he slipped into my hand in the tub, and I lifted him from the water. But this was not the water birth I had imagined for us. At only 14 weeks pregnant, Finley was the 6th and, most likely, final miscarriage for me. I gazed down at him, so small in my hand, his features as yet somewhat undefined, but there. So very there… and so very human. Eyes, mouth, and nose, spindly limbs, tiny hands and feet, even tinier fingers and toes--ten of each. I counted each one even as I started screaming.
My screams of heartbreak, rage, anguish, and destroyed dreams brought my husband running into the bathroom. He had been asleep, cuddling our three year old in a different bedroom, and didn’t know what was happening. He walked in to see Finley’s body in my hand, and a bathtub filled with blood. I had begun hemorrhaging and didn’t even know it. Contractions worse than any I had ever experienced in either of my sons’ births took everything I had—worst of all, they stole my precious and limited time with Finley.
I called my midwife who reminded me the placenta in a 14-week fetal demise often does not want to come out. Those contractions were my body working overtime to get it to release. She came immediately when I described the bleeding. Three times I filled the tub with six inches of water, and each time the blood and clots turned the water black and viscous within a few minutes. After her arrival, she tried for some time to manually remove the placenta, but it was shredded and necrotic. The blood and the contractions continued until I vomited and passed out. At that point, EMS came, and I was transported to the hospital.
As a student homebirth midwife, I respect and appreciate the hospital and the OBs who offer medical intervention when normal birth goes off the rails. As a pregnant woman, I had no intention of ever setting foot in one for pregnancy or labor. Both my births occurred in the safety of my own home, attended by skilled and highly-trained midwives. My previous miscarriages had passed naturally and without incident. But this one? The bleeding didn’t stop. The placenta didn’t release. The contractions were unrelenting. I was shamed by the ER doctor and the OB for refusing morphine. I wanted to remain alert as much as possible and advocate for my own care. The OB, to her credit, didn’t rush me into surgery. She attempted manual removal. Still unmedicated, I urged her to keep going as she dug through my uterus with ring forceps, pulling out placenta pieces and trying to stop the bleeding. But she was unsuccessful and told me frankly that we were out of time. They took me back for a D&C under general anesthesia. I woke up in recovery finally free of those excruciating contractions but aware that never again will I be pregnant.
I’ve spent the last month recovering physically and grieving and trying to come to peace with the new normal. I’ve been a mother of three in my heart since I was a young child. I wanted two boys and a girl. But once I had my two boys, I was unsure about the girl. I love being a Boymom. I know boys and their needs—their sweetness, their unstinting love and generosity, their noise and chaos. I was not sure whether I wanted a girl brought into that mix, although of course I long for a daughter. Either way, a third baby would have been welcomed, loved, and cherished. A dream come true.
The miscarriages have haunted us for seven years. The first, so unexpected, happened with my first pregnancy. At only seven weeks, it was heartbreaking and physically painful, but I was reassured by doctors and midwives that it meant nothing in terms of my fertility. And sure enough, we had our first son one year after that first miscarriage. When it came time to add a second child, we were not worried. My body knew how to do this. But miscarriage after miscarriage after miscarriage followed, and the midwives sent me to doctors who sent me to specialists with their dire warnings who offered tests and interventions. Pregnancy number 6 finally stuck, and our sweet younger son joined us in 2013. We thought we had figured out the problem—low progesterone, easily supplemented.
The third baby should be a breeze, we hoped. With high hopes, we decided to go for it—Baby #3 at 40 years old. We were healthy and happy, secure in our marriage, delighted with our boys, thrilled with career changes (me from lawyer to midwife, my husband from teacher to marriage and family counselor). Life was crazy and busy, and we had not enough time or money, but more than enough love to welcome one more person into our family.
My 7th pregnancy, supplemented by progesterone and buoyed by a sugar-free, gluten-free, pristine diet and exercise, seemed on track. I made it farther than I had with the other five losses, but a sonogram showed a heartbeat that was much too slow and development 2 weeks behind dates. I miscarried a few days later in November 2016. That loss hit hard, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that, as a student midwife, I should have some insight, some institutional secret to fertility. But of course, infertility and pregnancy loss remain one of the greatest medical mysteries. And one of the least acknowledged private griefs that so many experience.
One more time, we thought. We have one more chance left in us. Let’s put everything we have into it. We waited until I sure that I wouldn’t let fear rule me. I wanted to go all in. I wanted to shower that final pregnancy with love and hope and to dream big. We spent months getting ready. Vitamins, food, drink, supplements, exercise—we did everything we could to ready our bodies for one last try. And it worked. Just as with every single one of our eight pregnancies, we conceived on the first try. It’s like a grand, cosmic joke. We can literally choose the day we want to get pregnant, but we can’t keep the pregnancy.
I knew within 48 hours of conception that I was pregnant. And I reveled in it, sure that this time would work. Everyone around me felt the spirit of this pregnancy more deeply than ever before. At 8 weeks, I had a sonogram—a normal, healthy baby with a strong heartbeat. Everything looked great. I went ahead and bought a couple of maternity shirts—one that said I’m Bringing Home a Baby Bumblebee and another with the Death Star on the belly and the words, “That’s no moon…” Kelly and I planned out birth announcements, and I contacted a birth photographer.
A few weeks later, we told the boys that they were going to be big brothers. I made a scavenger hunt around the house with clues leading to baby items—a lovie, some pacifiers, butt paste. The final clue led them to a onesie with the words, “Mama is going to have a baby!” written on it. I had bought Big Brother tee shirts and decorated cookies to mark the occasion. They were thrilled. We celebrated together and answered endless questions about when the baby would come, how big he was, how he was growing.
At my first official prenatal appointment, there was no heartbeat. Another sonogram confirmed that, yet again, we had lost our baby. But this time, we lost the hopes and expectations for the family we dreamed of as well. I lost the idea of being pregnant again, of one more labor, of 3 more years of breastfeeding, of marking each month of that first year with sweet pictures, marveling over how quickly they grow.
The boys lost their brother, and they took it hard. Our younger son was confused and angry. A few days after we told them, he hit me and said, “You are mean for letting the baby die!” As my heart plummeted to my feet, I scooped his stiff body up in my arms and said, “I know you’re angry and hurt that the baby died. It’s ok to feel that way. And it’s ok to be scared. I will always do everything I can to keep you safe.” He softened into me and started crying and told me he really wanted to be a big brother. I held him and cried too, telling him how much I wanted for him to get that chance and how sorry I was that we had all lost our baby.
Our older son understood more and had more questions and concerns. But he also carried more grace than any of us. A few weeks ago, he came to me and asked if we had buried Finley yet. When I told him not yet and that we would never do that without inviting him to be part of it, he said, “Good. Because I have some plans for things I want to give him and tell him…and afterwards…I think we should make him a cake. Is that ok? Because he WAS born, and we love him. So we should celebrate him.” I stood in awe at the wisdom of my 6 year old.
Each loved and lost baby has strengthened our legacy. I am a certified bereavement doula and attend stillbirths as part of my life’s mission. Kelly speaks openly about our losses and has informally counseled friends, colleagues, and strangers. Between the two of us, we love deeper and harder, we are more willing to reach out to those suffering loss in their lives, we have grown closer to each other, and above all, we cherish our boys with each healthy, strong breath they take.
I am surrounded by pregnant women and babies. I believe in the normalcy of birth and in the power of women’s bodies to grow and nourish and birth babies. Thankfully, my losses have not diminished that belief. I am awed daily by all that women go through to get pregnant, stay pregnant, and bring children into the world. I get to bear witness to the moment when new life enters the world, and it’s awe-inspiring. Every.Single.Time. But pregnancy and labor often walk a thin line between life and death. Midwives spend at least some of our time in that grey space. We support and empower women. We love babies. But we know the veil between the earth and the spirit world, however one wishes to define it, is thin indeed. We give thanks for the health of our moms and babies with each birth, and we grieve along with them when there is not a happy outcome.
I’m not sure yet what Finley’s legacy will be. Perhaps just the simple empathy offered to a client experiencing a loss. Or the unmitigated joy of welcoming a rainbow baby. Maybe offering these words to the world will open up a conversation for someone who miscarried but never fully grieved their loss. We need to talk more openly about miscarriage. So many people carry the private, silent burden of pregnancy and infant loss but don’t feel entitled to their grief. The pain is real, and we should lift each other up and hold each other close. We deserve to stand up for our personhood and honor our babies and the hopes and dreams that we lost with them. Our time with our babies may have been too short, but it mattered. Our older son was right. Finley was born, he was loved, and we should celebrate him.