It’s often said that the moments surrounding a profound loss can blur into a haze, rendering the details of life seemingly trivial compared to the gravity of the event itself. On a seemingly ordinary day, October 16, I found myself engulfed in an unsettling fog, carried primarily by the absence of my baby’s usual movements. Initially, the eerie quiet didn’t alarm me; instead, it stirred a quiet concern within. When my husband, Jeff, arrived home that evening, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. My disquiet manifested in simple gestures as we attempted to elicit signs of life from the tiny occupant within me with fruit juice and a piece of Halloween candy.
As I reclined on the couch, the familiar anticipation of feeling my baby kick was overshadowed by an inexplicable stillness. That evening, I called my midwife, who provided guidance that I hoped would bring me solace: a glass of water and an hour of quiet reflection. However, that hour stretched interminably, filling me with dread rather than comfort. What should have been a soothing moment quickly morphed into a prelude of unbearable silence and a realization that my life was on the precipice of irrevocable change.
After what felt like an eternity, we contacted our midwife again, informing her of my continued lack of sensation. To my disbelief, we were instructed to head to the hospital. As we prepared for the unexpected journey, Jeff, our son Reeves, and I packed our essential hospital bag—the logistics bloodlessly routine amid a brewing storm of emotions. It was my first experience of what the impending chaos would feel like in the calm before the tragedy. I timed the contractions that began to seize my body as we drove, convinced it was just a part of the process. The vibrant lights from a Friday night football game flickered by like snapshots of normalcy, amplifying the surrealism of our situation.
Upon our arrival, a nurse secured the heart rate monitor around me, and together we strained to listen for our baby’s heartbeat. That glimmer of hope dimmed agonizingly when we realized it was my heartbeat they detected. As medical staff began bringing in ultrasound machines, I felt a sense of dread wash over me. The appearance of multiple doctors infused the room with foreboding; those unnecessary formalities morphed into waves of despair. It felt imperative that we receive news seemingly too terrible to assimilate: our baby’s heart had stopped beating.
The moments that followed vacillated between numbness and overwhelming grief. The delivery room transformed into a venue for terrible decisions. The details felt surreal as the hospital staff compassionately laid out our choices for us. I was thrust into a reality I never imagined would be mine—the impending induction, the thought of what to do with my daughter’s remains, and whether to pursue an autopsy. The support we were offered was a faint glimmer of humanity in an increasingly dark world where my dreams for my daughter were being methodically dismantled.
I experienced emotional anguish that has since become a harrowing reminder of my reality. The staff demonstrated extraordinary compassion, cherishing the sanctity of our loss, and facilitating the space for us to grieve together. They decorated our door with a handmade angel, a poignant visual cue of our tragic circumstance. As the induction began and the room unfurled its heaviness, I grieved silently, clinging to the hope that perhaps my daughter would emerge living and breathing, defying the odds that were working against us.
A Lasting Impact
When I finally held my daughter, Madison Reid, I felt the heartbreaking dichotomy of love and despair wash over me. She was warm, perfect, and utterly still—a tangible paradox that forced reality upon me, starkly contrasting with the expectations I had held just hours before. The world around me turned silent, underscoring the depth of this immeasurable loss. Leaving the hospital without her was unprecedented; I felt akin to betraying her by doing so. Every instinct within me cried out to stay, to hold onto that sliver of maternal connection for just a while longer.
The passage of time since that fateful day has not diminished the magnitude of the loss. Instead, it has driven my determination to foster awareness for stillbirth prevention and advocate for the importance of monitoring fetal movements—a vital awareness I lacked during my pregnancy. In a country where one in 175 pregnancies end in stillbirth, I have joined the Count the Kicks initiative to ensure no other family must endure the heart-wrenching journey we traveled.
As October approaches each year, I find my heart aching not only for my lost daughter but for the community of families navigating similar tragedies. Madison would be eight years old this year, yet her memory is woven into the fabric of our family. We resolve to honor her legacy, cherish our memories, and support those who share this path of grief, reminding us all of the weighty importance that each life holds—however brief it may be.