“I’m so sorry, but I don’t see a heartbeat,” the ultrasound tech said, her voice filled with compassion and sorrow. Immediately I covered my eyes with my free hand and my body quivered as I tried in vain to stop the sobs from coming.
Ben held my other hand and watched in stunned silence as she proceeded to show us that there was no blood flowing to, or in the baby. I didn’t know that they could tell that on an ultrasound, but it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter in that moment.
Each silent sob shook my body in unflattering jolts. The ultrasound tech excused herself, giving us time to process the news in private. Our first child was dead.
As the door closed behind her I let the sobs come unhindered. Ben leaned into the exam table where I was lying and held me. I turned into him and we wept together for some time before I finally got up. Then we cried some more.
I couldn’t believe this was really happening to us. Not even a week before we had heard our baby’s heartbeat for the first time, and now it was gone. At some point in the course of the week, our baby had died, and we would never hear its heartbeat again.
After a while, the ultrasound tech returned to take us to another room where we would meet with the doctor. As we were leaving, she gave me a hug and said, “I’m so sorry. I lost one of mine too.”
My doctor came in and told us how sorry she was. She told us that miscarriage – especially in the first pregnancy – is actually incredibly common. I had no idea. She said most likely it was caused by some sort of chromosomal abnormality or flaw in the baby’s DNA that kept it from developing properly.
We discussed options moving forward: D&C, induction medication, or natural labor. We opted for natural labor, which meant that it could be weeks before my body recognized that the baby was dead and proceeded to “eliminate” the remains. Since I had already started bleeding, my doctor anticipated it would happen sooner.
She cautiously explained some of what I could expect. I asked her if I would be able to recognize the baby. She said that most likely I would not, but told me what it might look like.
I think she was trying to reassure me, thinking that I wouldn’t want to see the baby. But in reality, I had asked because I couldn’t bear the thought of my firstborn child being unceremoniously flushed down a toilet. My baby deserved more than that.
As we left, I thought that everyone we saw on the way out must have known we had lost our baby. It was written all over our faces. When we got to the car we cried some more and Ben prayed, then we headed home.
After eating lunch – which was punctuated by bouts of tears where Ben knelt beside me on the dining room floor so he could hold me as I wept – we went upstairs to call family and friends and tell them that our baby had died. I was numb. The news was still so fresh to us, were we really delivering this terrible news to those we loved?
Nothing can prepare you for making these kinds of phone calls. Never before had I seen Ben so wounded and broken as he was when he told his mother that our baby had passed away. I will never forget how he hung his head sobbed, the tears dripping from his eyes bitterly. I held him tightly, but it seemed so inadequate.
When we called my parents, I could barely get the words out between choking back tears. My mom was hurting because her baby was hurting, and it grieved her deeply that she couldn’t be there or take the pain away. My dad was initially silent, struck with grief.
Last I called a friend in our small group who had known about our appointment that morning. She took care of sharing the news with the rest of the group and began organizing mercy meals for us.
Somewhere in the course of making those phone calls, I had begun having fairly regular cramps. We timed them: three minutes apart. I remembered reading that walking could help speed up labor, so we decided to go for a walk.
It was a beautiful day. Sunny. While we walked, we talked about what we wanted to do with the baby’s body, how we wanted to remember its life, how to grieve in a healthy way, how we were feeling… The cramps got worse and more frequent.
I timed them again: a minute and a half apart and lasting about 20 seconds. I was timing them just like contractions, but at that point I hadn’t actually recognized that was what they were. No one ever told me that miscarriage could be so much like labor.
Shortly after we got home, the contractions became quite intense. I began pacing the living room, groaning and moaning instinctively. By this time I recognized that I was in labor. I focused on relaxing, and kept changing position, but it didn’t matter how I moved, the contractions continued without any change in length or intensity.
All the while, Ben stood by, watching and encouraging me. When it got really painful, he would comfort me and cheer me on. “You can do this babe. Your body was made to do this.” At times he looked bewildered, not knowing what was going on or what to do. But he stayed close by and made sure I had whatever I needed, including water to stay hydrated.
Suddenly, I felt something different. Before I realized what was happening, our baby came and I was holding it in my hand. It was no bigger than a thumbprint, but I could still see its little black eyes, teeny fingers and toes.
“It’s the baby,” I said to Ben, holding it out for him to see. I remember thinking how amazingly proportionate the baby’s body looked, and marveling at how clearly I could make out its features. Ben stepped forward, hesitant, but getting to see and hold our baby was an answer to my prayers.
After some time, we wrapped the baby up in tissue. The tiny bundle was so small that it fit into a baby food jar we had left over from our DIY wedding décor. When I had cleaned up, we carried the jar out to the backyard. Ben dug a hole near a shrub and placed the baby inside. The whole thing seemed so surreal.
“What should we name him?” Ben asked.
“We don’t even know if it’s a boy or girl.” I said.
“It’s a boy.” Ben decided. I couldn’t argue with him.
“We should name him Adam, because he was our first.” I said.
We were the only attendees at Adam’s funeral. Ben said a few words and prayed. Our voices broke as we sang the doxology. Then we buried him, there in our backyard.
I still remember the feeling of the cool, wet dirt, as through my sobs I took handfuls and placed them in the hole. With a shovel, Ben pushed the rest of the dirt over the baby-food-jar coffin and our son disappeared under the earth.
It was March 17, 2014 – St. Patrick’s Day – but we will forever remember that day as the day Adam Patrick Fennell was born.
Job 1:21b “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Matthew 5:4 “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”