Madeline

Loss is tricky to navigate. Each person grieves differently, processes differently, and gets “back to normal” at different paces. I thought I knew about loss. I thought at the age of 27 I’d come to understand how it feels when someone is there one minute and gone the next. I felt like an expert at navigating life when someone you love wasn’t around anymore. I’ve mourned family member after family member, and yet no loss comes remotely close to losing a child. Because you never think it will happen to you. Until it does. You see statistic after statistic, hear all the stories, grieve with those going through it, all while saying to yourself “I can’t imagine what that feels like.”

Until one day you have no choice. You’re no longer imagining it. You’re living it.

I don’t believe in TMI or oversharing. I am real and honest to a fault. I don’t sugarcoat, don’t minimize myself for the sake of other people’s comfort. I’ve taken the same approach when it comes to sharing my loss experience, so proceed with caution. I trust you know your own triggers.

So, who am I and what do I know about loss? What makes me qualified to start a blog about child loss? My name is Madeline, and my son died while he was still inside of me. I’m a 27 year old teacher and wife in South Carolina. My husband and I live together with our 2 dogs and 3 cats. In October of 2024, we decided we wanted to start navigating starting a family. We did all the research, watched all the TTC Tiktok creators, learned whatever we could. In early November, I got my first positive pregnancy test. A few days later, I started my period. I chalked that experience up to a faulty test and we moved on. November came and went, and in early December the same thing happened: positive test, bleeding a few days later. After doing some research and scheduling an appointment with my OBGYN, I learned what I’d experienced was called a chemical pregnancy. That’s what a very early miscarriage is called, usually happening before or around 5 weeks. My OBGYN suspected low progesterone due to recently coming off the birth control pill that I’d been on for 10 years. He prescribed me progesterone to start the next time I got a positive test and sent me on my way.

January 27th, 2025 came around. I had a dentist appointment that day and suspected I’d be getting x-rays. I remember standing in my classroom while my students worked and having this feeling in my gut that I shouldn’t go to my appointment. I called and canceled it, and when I went home I took a pregnancy test. It was positive, but so very faint. I took another test from a different brand, and it was more clearly positive. I let myself get my hopes up. I got out the onesie I’d bought to surprise my husband when a pregnancy finally stuck around. I laid it on his gaming keyboard and told him when he got home from work that I’d gotten him a little gift. He came sprinting out of his game room similar to Michael Scott in the episode where he keeps shouting “All right, everyone stay calm! What’s the procedure??”

I continued testing for a few days. I wanted to see those lines getting darker. I was seeking reassurance that the pregnancy was progressing. I started spotting a few days later and I remember the sense of dread that came over me. The spotting didn’t last long and never got “heavy” but it was enough to scare me. One Saturday, I volunteered to help represent my school at our district’s job fair. When it was over, I stopped at the nearest grocery store and bought a pregnancy test. Then I went across the street to the gas station and took it. I cried tears of relief when I saw that despite my mild spotting, my test was now a “dye stealer” — a term used to describe pregnancy tests when the test line is darker than the control line. Getting a dye stealer is the moment when you’re like, “Damn, I’m pregnant pregnant.”

Doctor’s appointments came and went. I remember the nerves I felt at the first ultrasound. I had convinced myself that we wouldn’t see a heartbeat. I’m often a pessimistic person. I don’t like getting my hopes up or thinking something good might happen to me. But there we were in February, at 7 and a half weeks pregnant, sitting in the ultrasound room watching our baby’s heart beat at a strong 165 BPM. I almost couldn’t believe it. That was MY baby on the screen. The tadpole looking thing was just . . . inside me. It was an out of body experience. Our anatomy scan at 18 weeks was traumatizing, but that’s a story for another day.

At 24 weeks, I had a regular checkup with my OB. I told her we’d picked out a name: Oliver. We listened to my son’s heartbeat, talked about moving to biweekly visits starting at 28 weeks, went over the glucose test, and discussed what I do to find a pediatrician. I didn’t know when I left that appointment on one random Tuesday in June that it would be the last time I heard my little boy’s heart.

Because of the traumatizing anatomy scan and the findings, I had monthly check ups with MFM. Nothing was a threat to my son. We just knew we needed to prepare for some surgeries and physical therapy after birth. Again, story for another day.

On Monday, July 14, I was 27 weeks exactly. My husband couldn’t get the day off work, so I was going to my MFM checkup alone. Nothing about that bothered me. I knew what to expect at the appointment, knew how quick it would be and that I’d be leaving with some cute pictures of my baby. I had felt Oliver move that morning when I was getting ready, so I felt really good going into the appointment. The ultrasound tech brought me back and we talked about how I’d planned my pregnancy perfectly to line up with the fall and winter breaks I get as a teacher.

When she started the scan, I had this feeling in my gut. I can’t explain it. I tried to ignore it. I thought this was me being overly paranoid again. But I’d always prided myself in finding his heartbeat quickly when getting ultrasounds, even before the tech went over the area, and as she was scanning his head, I noticed I couldn’t see the flutter of his heart I’d come to zone in on so quickly. I remember telling myself she was the expert, not me, and I didn’t really know what I was looking at. And then she said the words that I still hear sometimes when I’m going to sleep: “I’m having a hard time finding the baby’s heartbeat. I’m going to go get the doctor to double check.”

When she left the room, I started sobbing. My already bad feeling had basically been confirmed. I knew when the doctor came back, she would tell me the same thing. My son Oliver, who was wiggling and kicking me 3 hours before, was dead. His heartbeat that I was so in awe over at 7 and a half weeks was just . . . gone.

I remember my MFM doctor and the ultrasound tech crying with me. They held me while I clutched my stomach and screamed. I remember asking how this had happened, telling them it didn’t make sense. I asked what I had done to cause this, because the guilt crept in immediately. And even after they and everyone else had told me it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t do anything to cause this, I’m here to tell you that I’m 2 weeks postpartum and I still don’t entirely believe that. I carry guilt with me every day, and I think I will for the rest of my life.

My MFM doctor called my husband. I don’t remember what she said or what he said. I vaguely remember calling my sister and my mom. I told my best friend while I was sitting in the parking lot. I don’t remember the hour drive home. What I do remember is getting home and crying with my husband. I remember telling him I wanted to go to the hospital that day, because I couldn’t cope with the idea that my son was inside of me dead. Because that’s what he was. I didn’t “lose” him like you lose your car keys. He wasn’t “gone” like a pet that ran away. He was dead. My son was dead, and that is a sentence I’m still trying to wrap my mind around. It is a sentence that will follow me for the rest of my life. It is an unnatural progression of words that has somehow become my reality.

The hospital stay is something I’m not going to get into right now. I think I’m going to do another post all about that. But spoiler alert: despite the awful circumstances that led me to the hospital, I had an incredible experience. I have zero complaints.

I gave birth to Oliver on July 16th 2025 at 3:22 pm via c section. He weighed 2 lbs 6 ozs. We got to spend the rest of that day and the entire next day with him. I got to hold my son and kiss him. I shared him with his dad, his aunts, his grandparents, and a few of my friends who visited us. I stayed up late one night holding him watching House Hunters International. I just talked to him the entire night. I told him how sorry I was, how much I loved him and would do anything for this not to be our reality. I told him all about the people who visited him, and the ones who didn’t, because everyone loved him. I don’t think there has ever been a child more loved than he is. I told him silly stories, talked about all of our animals at home, and told him he was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He saved my life, literally, but that’s a story for another story for another day. But that night in the hospital, just me and him while my husband slept, is one of my fondest memories. When you lose someone, you cling to every minute you had with them. I didn’t have many with Oliver, so every single experience I cherish.

Leaving Oliver in the hospital while my husband and I came home empty handed was awful. It felt so unnatural, because it is unnatural. No mother should leave the hospital without her baby. We came home to a house cleaned by family, animals well taken care of, fridge and pantry stocked. But we also came home to an empty nursery. We came home to diapers and wipes and nursery decor I’d ordered that was delivered while we were in the hospital. Things that now sit in the nursery untouched.

So, who am I and what do I know about loss? I’m a mother without her son. I’m a mom missing her baby every second of every day. I’m a statistic I never imagined, a ghost pacing the halls trying to figure out how all of this happened. I’m a battery operated toy going through the motions, brushing my teeth and taking a shower and responding to people who reach out, just so no one worries.

What do I know about loss? I know loss stronger than most. I carried loss inside of me. I will carry loss forever, heavy in the back of my mind. For as long as I live, loss will be apart of me.