On the early morning of January 19, 2008, I woke up to excruciating pain. It was my due date. My stomach felt unusually tight, and contractions were hitting me every 5-6 minutes. This must be it, I thought. I had been eagerly anticipating labor, even resorting to old traditions to hasten its arrival. But when the pain struck, I questioned why I had yearned for it so badly. My boyfriend was asleep, so I called my mom and drove to her house seeking reassurance. Each contraction left me unable to speak, and I found myself rocking on the floor. My mother confirmed that this was indeed labor and urged me to get to the hospital.
An aside: A noticeable change in my body was that my belly felt softer and lower than the previous day when I wasn’t contracting. I had attributed these shifts to the onset of labor.
Since my boyfriend’s mother worked at the hospital, specifically in labor and delivery that day, I immediately drove to his house so we could call her. She and the nurses advised us to wait a bit longer at home. So, we did. I endured contractions until they became unbearable. Finally, it was time to head to the hospital, with my partner driving. The journey was excruciating as every bump in the road intensified my pain during contractions.
Upon arriving at the hospital, we were promptly taken to room 102. I changed into a gown and provided a urine sample as instructed. Then, I lay on the bed for the nurse to place a monitor on my belly. She fiddled with the positioning of it for quite a while before saying she needed assistance. Although I didn’t know what was wrong, I sensed it wasn’t good. As she left the room, I confided in Christiana’s dad that something was wrong. He reassured me that the next person would have better luck, a response anyone might have given at that point.
Eventually, a team of nurses and doctors arrived and did an ultrasound. My midwife, standing by my side, held my hand and shook her head in disbelief. I can’t recall what happened afterward, but every time I reflect on that moment, tears well up. It felt as though my world had crumbled. Have you ever experienced that falling sensation right as you’re about to fall asleep, causing your body to jerk involuntarily? That’s how I felt at that moment. Regrettably, I would experience that same sensation again later in my life through miscarriage, infertility, and a family loss. As my boyfriend finally started to comprehend the gravity of the situation, I just couldn’t believe this was my reality.
Since I knew my mom was already en route, having stopped to buy me some gum, I decided against calling her. When she finally arrived, she entered the room with my gum but saw our faces. She anxiously asked, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” I could only shake my head. After coming to the realization that my baby was gone, she burst into tears of disbelief, . My boyfriend’s mother was equally as distraught, and both began making phone calls to family.
I don’t remember them starting an IV, performing lab tests, monitoring my contractions, or administering Pitocin, but I know they did. I was emotionally detached and couldn’t endure the physical pain of labor alongside the emotional agony. At 5 cm dilation, I requested an epidural. However, while sitting up for the procedure, I fainted. Looking back, I realized a student was attempting to administer the epidural. It was a decision that, in hindsight, should never have been made for someone suffering greatly already. I was swiftly given a bolus and the epidural was successfully completed. Following the epidural, my midwife broke my water, which was black due to meconium, and scared the hell out of me!
Amid the chaos of breaking my water, the thick black fluid, my inability to bear the pain, and passing out during the epidural, I was living a nightmare. One thing stands out—I watched the clock. There was a basic hospital clock on the wall across from me, and I stared at it the entire day. I couldn’t tell you the exact timing of events, but as I watched it, I kept thinking, “Why isn’t this over yet? Why must I keep enduring this?” And finally, when my labor was over, I then wondered, “Did this really just happen? Is this my life now? How do I move forward from this? How do I leave this hospital without my baby?” Those 40 minutes pushing were the longest of my life. Imagine that pain, followed by the deafening silence of a baby born into the world without a cry. The people around me sobbed, but I couldn’t bear to look. I had never seen a stillborn baby and was terrified.
Complicating matters, my family didn’t approve of my boyfriend, making this ordeal even more challenging. Because of their disapproval, none of my family, except my mother, came to support me during labor and delivery. My brother and dad arrived much later, but the atmosphere was very strained, and, to be frank, still is today. I’ve made peace with that. As for my other siblings, no one else came. In contrast, my partner’s family was a great source of support, and I’ll forever be grateful to them and my mother.
You never forget who was there on your darkest day.
They took our baby girl out of the room to clean and dress her. Later, they brought her back to our room and we were both terrified. I can only remember sobbing upon seeing her. Christiana Charlene, my angel baby. She was dressed in a gorgeous satin white gown and bonnet, which I still have. She had the darkest brown hair, and her eyes were blue. The umbilical cord had been wrapped around her neck three times, and I remember they had to cut it before I could finish pushing. Unfortunately it had caused some skin damage but she was still beautiful. Her lips were rosy, and her nail beds too. Her skin was porcelain white. I leaned over her, crying, and her dad did the same. Both our mothers took pictures with their hands next to her, showering her with love when we were too afraid.
It was upon seeing her that the midwife informed me she probably hadn’t been gone for long. This made me wonder: “When did I stop listening to my body? When did I dismiss my intuition?” The only incident that came to mind was the day before when I was shopping and felt a strange cramp, though it didn’t strike me as significant.
I know it wasn’t my fault, but as a mom in charge of carrying her baby, it definitely felt that way.
After moving to the postpartum unit, things calmed down and my boyfriend’s brother visited us. He brought dinner and lightened the mood with his humor, just as he always did. After he left, we were both so tired. We were both living a nightmare without any assistance. My boyfriend couldn’t sleep so I gave him the Ambien they had given me, as I did not want it. As a nurse, I now recognize that this was not handled appropriately, but rational thoughts escaped me during that time. I felt like a failure, not just because my body had failed me but because this pregnancy had motivated me to clean up my life and focus on my goals, only to end in tragedy.
It shattered my self-worth.
In my earlier years, I loved to party and have a good time, lacking focus and clear goals. Miley Cyrus’s lyrics, “I know I used to be crazy, I know I used to be fun, You say I used to be wild, I say I used to be young,” perfectly encapsulate that phase of my life. However, the moment I learned I was pregnant, the partying ceased. My daughter transformed everything for the better.
After losing her, I had numerous days when I didn’t want to get out of bed or go to work, but pushed through because I didn’t know what else to do. I recall attending support groups where a Mom would say, “I’m thankful for my other children because without them, I wouldn’t have the will to live.” I had no other children, but I understood that sentiment. I wasn’t suicidal, but I often wondered why I was still alive and forced to live without my child. I set goals for my life, focused, and found the motivation to live and improve each day.
Fast forward a couple of years after my delivery, and a close friend was giving birth at the same hospital where I lost Christiana. I had already returned to that hospital multiple times for support group meetings, so there was no apprehension about visiting her. When I entered her room, I realized she was in the same room where I had endured the most painful experience of my life. There on the wall, was that same clock, staring me in the face. I explained its significance to her, and she suggested we take it. So, I closed the door to her room, climbed onto a chair, and slipped the clock under my coat. I still have that clock, and the story has become a humorous memory for me.
Now, 14 years after losing Christiana, I can tell you that it’s possible to learn to live with such a tragic loss. You can and will find joy again, and discover ways to honor your baby in your everyday life. My life is now filled with love and happiness, but it has also been marked by moments of profound sadness and trauma I wish had never occurred.
Joy and grief can coexist.
There is more than this tragic experience that has defined my path in life. Yet losing Christiana has had the most positive impact on its upward trajectory. I’ve since become a nurse, a wife, and a mother again. I’ve discovered passions, traveled, discerned who my true friends are, and continue to live a fulfilling life. Looking back, I can now smile at these memories and even laugh about some of the things that were once so raw.
The purpose in sharing my story so publicly is to offer hope that happiness will return to your life again, and to reach those who feel isolated in their grief. I am a big believer in the power of community and have always found healing by attending grief support groups. However, I do realize that attending support groups can be intimidating and isn’t for everyone. For those who aren’t ready for in-person support, yet still seek a sense of camaraderie and understanding, I encourage you to listen to the Blindsided podcast. The stories there aim to provide you with the support and connection you’ll need on your journey.
If you wish to share your own story or need support, please don’t hesitate to reach out to us at nicole@theblindsided.com or desiree@theblindsided.com
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