Henry’s Birth Story – My Journey of Love, Loss, & Healing

December 21st, 2014 started off like any other day, but ended with my happy dream of the future turning into an unthinkable nightmare; at 38.5 weeks pregnant I lost my baby boy, Henry Xavier, before he was ever even born. It’s very difficult for me to share such a deeply personal experience publicly, but I’ve decided to put my story out there, for one, because I find talking about it extremely therapuetic, and also with the hope that my journey helps others dealing with a similar loss and to know that they’re not alone.

It was a normal, busy Sunday focusing on my toddler, running errands to prep for Christmas, and trying not to think about the fact that I was HUGE and still pregnant when Oliver had been born at 37 weeks. It wasn’t until about 3pm standing on the playground watching my husband and son play that I realized it had been awhile since I felt the baby move. And then, i felt a strong, sudden jolt deep down in my uterus – half of me felt relieved to feel him move and the other half concerned that it didnt seem normal. The rest of the evening I was hyperaware of the lack of movement and began trying frantically to get him to do something – but I held back calling my midwife because I had already made one ER visit at 32 weeks and everything had been perfectly fine – chalked up to baby having a lazy day. And he’d been perfectly healthy the whole pregnancy. But finally before bed I decided to call, and my midwife Susan graciously offered to drive 45 mins to my house to check me. When she arrived, I eagerly laid on the couch fully expecting to hear his rapidly beating heart, as i always had. But as she rolled the doppler all over my belly, searching everywhere for that sweet sound, my heart began to sink to my feet and I let out the loudest, most painful wail I think I’d ever made. I knew what was happening but hope was still there that the more sophisticated hospital equipment would detect it, and so off we went. An hour later, lying in a hospital bed, I saw what no mother ever wants to see – a baby as still as a portrait on the ultrasound screen; no beating heart, no movement. Tears spilled from my eyes as I called my husband – who had to stay home with our sleeping toddler – and said the only words I could muster before breaking down into tears: “he’s gone.”

From there the nightmare only got worse – once Gary arrived along with my doula, Laurie, it was time to make decisions we never thought possible. We decided to stay and give birth that night via induction, and once the drugs were administered, we waited. Three agonizing hours passed without progress and I finally begged for some ambien to give me a little rest and the strength I knew I needed to get through it. I awoke around 9 am to a powerful, intense contraction. With Gary holding my hand and Laurie kneeling by my side, I gave just a handful of pushes and my dear Henry was born. He did not cry. He did not breathe. He did not open his eyes. My beautiful, peaceful baby was placed in my arms, and Gary and I stared in disbelief at our angel who looked so much like his big brother. My body burned with unbearable sadness; I couldn’t believe how perfect he was and how unfair it felt that he wasn’t alive and wouldnt be coming home with us.

The rest of that day we held onto Henry, soaked him in, tried to commit his face to memory, knowing his body would soon be gone forever. In such a state of shock , I dont even know that I fully processed what was happening. Eventually though we did part with Henry and went home to be with Oliver and to begin our journey of greiving and healing. Now that the shock has subsided, and reality settling in I find myself often asking, why? Where did I go wrong? What could I have done to prevent this? It’s unfair. He should be here with me – he was too beautiful, too healthy, too loved to be gone. Yet he is. We hope to soon recieve a medical explaination (most likely a cord accident as he was born with it wrapped 3x around his neck), but we’ll probably never really understand why. And deep down, I know theres nothing I could have done to prevent it…but it still hurts the same.

Gary put it beautifully in his eulogy for Henry: “They say that life is unfair – for Laura and I, it certainly feels that way. They say that burying your child is a task no parent should ever have to endure – for Laura and I, that is a task we neither wanted nor could ever have expected but yet one we now have to complete. They say a parent would give their life for their child – I would have freely taken his place in heaven, alas I was not afforded such an option. And so they also say life must go on – and for Laura and I, it will go on.”

It will go on, and with each passing day I find a little more strength to move forward and be thankful for my blessings, Ollie being one of the greatest – he brings us so much joy, love, and hope in the midst of our grief and forces us to keep going. I’ve realized now that there is nothing I can do to change what happened, but I can choose to be strong and positive, and know that Henry will always be our angel up in heaven. A lot of people may not see his life as significant, being as it was so short, but to us he lived and he’s taught us so much about love, faith,
family and what’s truly important in life. Where we’ll go from here, I don’t know; I struggle to see what next week will bring at this point. Hopefully someday we’ll have the complete family we’ve dreamed of; only time will tell. But I do know that no matter what happens, Henry is and will always be a part of it.

A Poem for My Henry:

Henry Xavier,

I carried you inside of me for nine hopeful months,
Gave you warmth, love and nourishment to grow,
Dreamt of your face and imagined your future.
You gave me joy and excitement with each kick, roll and beat of your heart.

I carried you in my arms for a few precious hours,
Stared at your beautiful face, so similar to your big brothers
Told you I loved you, cried with Daddy that we couldn’t take you home.

And although I won’t carry you through your infancy or sling you on my hip as a toddler,
I’ll carry you forever in my heart and in my soul,
And I’ll remember that you lived, that you’ve given me a great gift,
and that someday I will see you again.