Danielle’s Story

Birthing my purpose

As I lay on the table almost six months pregnant waiting to hear my little girl’s heartbeat, there was total silence. “I’ll be right back Mrs. Houston”, the sonographer said as she quickly rushed out of the room. I’m sure the cold, wide open, dark exam room felt nothing like the cozy quarters of a mother’s womb.  Something must be wrong. Tears began to slide down the sides of my face into my ears as I remembered being in this familiar place with a different doctor, different exam room, different tech, yet the same place. Déjà vu. October 2019 started to feel just like January 2013, when I was well into my second trimester with a cell phone in-hand, ready to record my first child, whose name I could not decide. The ultrasound technician said with a suggestive warning-like tone, “Put your phone away. I’ll be right back Mrs. Houston.” She scurried out and re-entered the room with the doctor. Without a word, OB\GYN gloved up and repeated the wand motions over my bulging belly, pressing down harder and harder. “Flip to the side.” I stared directly at her, no longer looking at the screen. “What side?”, I asked. “Any side.” I turned to “any” side, facing my husband and observed his look of worry and him trying to maintain his unrelenting composure. “Sit up Mrs. Houston. Your baby’s heart is not beating. You’ll need to deliver.” I was thinking something could be done to make the heart beat again. I was thinking maybe I’ll have to go into labor early and have a preemie. I very well heard her voice as clear as the blue sky that matched her eyes, however what she just revealed did not resonate with me.

She gave me the options of inducing labor or  an advanced abortion, a D&E, dilate and evacuate where you’d be put to sleep and when you wake up it’ll all be over.” Like ice cold water in my face, it hit me and I finally sat up. “How? Why? I don’t want an abortion. Give me a minute.” I sobbed. 

Instead of making a decision right then and there, head bowed not making eye contact with anyone, I left the hospital. Knowingly carrying around a decomposing fetus in my body for four days rapidly catapulted me into a walk in the wilderness filled with mental anguish. With the help of a laminaria, a device implanted to onset contractions, I experienced my very first bittersweet stillbirth. On my knees to move the pain out of my back, a few unassisted pushes later, the baby girl landed on my feet! The pain then transcended from my lower back to my heart when I held that tiny human being. I decided to call her Angel. Days later, we learned from the pathology report and autopsy, the baby died by suffocation. There were blood clots in the placenta, causing my blood pressure to spike. The uncontrolled pressures ultimately prevented the baby from getting the oxygen she needed to grow. Breaking my reminiscence, the Maternal-Fetal Medicine (MFM) doctor joined me in the room. Although I’m 32 years old now, I still felt so vulnerable and wanted my Mama even though she never could understand that physical pain to come was nothing compared to the stress I was currently experiencning.  I patted the tears away from my face as I was indeed certain something was wrong. The MFM gloved up, repeated the wand motions over my second-trimester belly, pressing down harder and harder. “Sit up for me Mrs. Houston. We can’t detect a heartbeat and your fluid is quite low. Sorry we took so long to come back in. We were trying to schedule your delivery. You can also go down to the ER”. His words resonated and I sobbed. Head bowed, again, I left the hospital. I anticipated in agony what was to come: a waiting period filled with an ocean of tears, being stationed in a triage near a well-lit nursery with visitors peeking in on live babies and greeting new moms with flowers and balloons, me lactating with no baby to feed, leaving the hospital broken-hearted and empty-handed, and a baby cremation for “closure and peace”.

Six days later, I met my fate. I did, for a second time, what no mother wants to do. This time it only took 8 hours to give birth to another baby girl who I would never get to see her open her eyes, nor hear her cry, nor see her smile. I decided to call her Imani. I had a healthy live baby boy in 2014, in between these two devastating events. The baby, doctor, pregnancy, and the entire delivery were perfect. Everything was so perfect, hence my husband and I planned our third child 5 years later, but ended up with ashes instead. 

What got me through it all? 

A network I never knew existed! I shared my story on my personal social media page and the outpouring was overwhelming. I had my family, friends and my church family praying for me. A friend of the family, we consider each other cousins, who lived 1500 miles away although proximity showed no relevance on our closeness, sent me a gift basket filled with a journal, scents, a blanket, soothing bath balms and other things to let me know she was thinking of me. She followed up and shared her story with me privately and I had no idea this happened to someone I knew! It was the first I heard of a woman actually having a broken heart because she was the mom of an angel baby who matters. I started to receive chocolates, cards, calls from neighbors and close relatives and friends. This experience somehow started to heal me. My baby girl wasn’t some figment of my imagination or one only I loved and lost. A cousin sent me a Mother’s Day message after delivering my first baby to say “You’re still a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day!” I will never forget the thoughtfulness of it all. She saw me when I felt alone. A different cousin told me about her Angel baby son but was more so asking about me and how I was dealing. I couldn’t figure out why she wanted to talk with me and I never knew she had experienced this pain. I learned not all women share and that’s ok too. I had a former co-worker and mentor of mine share her traumatic story about her baby being choked during delivery. I had a friend tell me how she miscarried twins at home. My grandmother shared how she miscarried only one twin and went to the hospital only to be forced to deliver her other baby who didn’t survive. She said things were different, and even thought it happened over 60 years ago thinks of her first two quite often! A lady in my neighborhood told me the names and birth stories of her two Angel sons she named. I was being contacted privately left and right by women and men who I would see or talk to frequently and never knew how they silently grieved, some never to try again but some to go on and have more children.

Angel Moms (and Dads) are resilient because we have to be! Despite experiencing the death of my two girls,  mental health and financial challenges as a result of not being able to work full-time, I was able to proactively work through my grief because of the support I had. I want to be able to extend those same resources, gift ideas, kind gestures, and listening ears to those who are in the Angel Babies Matter Network family. I am invigorated by the silver lining of my own trials to form a network of moms, dads, children, families, and supporters. While I’m not 100 percent “over-it” and I’m confident I’ll never be, I still want to help moms find the peace they’ll need to honor their angel babies now and forever. I’m here for it and I’m here for you. We all are.