Madeline

Life After Loss

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27 year old teacher in South Carolina. Wife, dog & cat mom (2 dogs, 3 cats), trying to navigate life after our son was stillborn at 27 weeks.

  • The Uglier Side of Stillbirth

    There are a lot of things I never thought I would have to encounter in life. Outliving my child is one of them. I delivered Oliver over 3 weeks ago, and each day I’m learning something new about myself, my triggers, my relationship with other people, and navigating life after the death of a child. I plan on writing about everything I’ve learned, but today I want to talk about the uglier side of stillbirth, or child loss in general. The things no one could ever prepare you for. Things you can only learn while you’re in it. A big part of why I started this blog and writing about mine and Oliver’s experience is to help other people.

    Here are the 10 most unexpected, challenging, painful things I have experienced since Oliver died.

    1. Report of Fetal Death. Before or shortly after my c-section to deliver Oliver (I can’t remember a lot from my hospital trip), I was handed a stack of paperwork to fill out. On top was something titled North Carolina Report of Fetal Death. I was given no warning about what I was filling out. I don’t even remember what all was included. I just remember the title stealing the breath from my lungs. It took me a good while to fill out the paperwork, because I still couldn’t believe this was my reality. It isn’t something anyone can warn you about.
    2. You have to call the funeral home. Yep, it’s true. After the death of your child, you still have to call the funeral home to give them permission to pick up your baby from the hospital. There was a misunderstanding at the hospital, and I thought the hospital staff had called and sorted everything out. I quickly learned before we were discharged that I had to initiate contact first. I’ll never forget calling the funeral home, sobbing, and saying, “I don’t even know how to say this, but I need to talk to someone about picking up my baby from the hospital.”
    3. The morning you leave the hospital. This might be an individual experience, and I’m sure it’s different for all loss parents, but Jordan and I both agreed that the morning we got discharged from the hospital was the worst out of the 5 days we were there. Learning Oliver didn’t have a heartbeat was awful. Delivering him and never hearing him cry was also awful. But having to put him down for the last time, knowing I would never hold him again, felt like someone had punched into my chest and shredded my heart. I could sit surrounded by dictionaries, thesauruses, English teachers everywhere, and I would never be able to formulate a sentence that accurately describes that pain. We had to press the call button and ask a nurse to come take him back to the morgue. I couldn’t watch them take him away. I remember telling Jordan that I wished they’d leave me and him together in that room until I died, too.
    4. Your first postpartum visit. I had many health complications while in the hospital delivering Oliver, so I’ve had more postpartum appointments than a typical person. We left the hospital on a Friday, and my first appointment was a blood pressure check at my OB’s office on Tuesday. I remember being worried about walking into the waiting room and seeing pregnant women or babies. I’m grateful that the office was empty that particular day, and my appointment didn’t last long at all. I’m not sure how I would have reacted otherwise. And this is why I firmly believe OB offices everywhere should have 2 waiting areas: one for pregnant women & newly postpartum women with their babies, and one for everyone else.
    5. The funeral home visit. Jordan and I decided very quickly that we wanted to cremate Oliver. I knew there was no way I would survive burying my child. I wanted him home with us where he belonged. 3 days after getting out of the hospital, we had to visit the funeral home. There was paperwork to sign, questions to answers, urns to pick out. Jordan handled everything, while I sat there and stared at the floor. I might have said a sentence or two to the funeral home director. When he left the room for a moment, I remember looking at Jordan and saying, “This is so fucked.” That was all I could think while we were there. I remember picking out an urn; we picked a green one, because that was Oliver’s color in our minds. The rest of the visit I’ve tucked deeply into the back of my mind.
    6. “Do you have any children?” I know this question was asked in good faith, and it was mostly to make conversation, but dealing with any variation of this question after you lose your child is like a punch in the stomach. It’s up there with, “How many kids do you have?” It’s an impossible question to answers. Technically yes, I do have a child, he just lives in Heaven. But when I answer that way, people become awkward. They start to apologize and rush to end the conversation. But it’s not like I can’t say “no” either, because I do have a child. I have a sweet, perfect baby boy, and I will always celebrate and claim him.
    7. Finding pictures you thought you’d hidden. When we were still in the hospital, I went through my camera roll and added every photo I could to my hidden album. I hid pictures of pregnancy tests, outfits I’d bought, pictures of his room, and pictures of him I’d taken in the hospital. I was afraid to stumble upon them randomly one day. I did a really good job of hiding most of them, but a few days ago I found a picture from the hospital I hadn’t hidden, and it ruined my entire day. Not because I don’t want to see him — of course I do. But because I need it to be on my terms.
    8. Hearing people talk about babies and pregnancy. A few days ago, I had to go get blood drawn for genetic testing in an attempt to figure out what exactly happened with Oliver. Before this, I decided to treat myself to a manicure and pedicure. It was the first time I was in public alone since everything happened. As I was getting my nails done, the nail tech and her customer were beside me talking about their nieces and nephews and how one of their sisters is pregnant and so uncomfortable. I held back my tears until I got to the car. My triggers are no one’s responsibility but my own, and of course these two strangers had no idea my son had just died, but hearing the conversation hit me in a way I hadn’t expected.
    9. Seeing pregnant women or couples with newborns in real life. Again, no one is responsible for my triggers. I have to learn to work through them, and I’m learning new ones every day. There are several women in my life who are pregnant, and I am so unbelievably happy for them. Each time they reach a milestone in their pregnancy, I celebrate them, because I know how huge it is. But I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a small voice in the back of my mind that says, “Look at them. They get to have everything you don’t.” It isn’t their fault my baby died. I have nothing against them. I love my pregnant friends and their babies. But I have some jealously and self-pity to work through.
    10. Seeing all the pregnant women you followed on social media. When I found out I was pregnant, it felt like everyone on my Tiktok for you page was pregnant around the same time. I immediately followed everyone with the same general timeline as me. Even though we didn’t know each other, it felt like a small community, knowing there were other women out there experiencing what I was when I was. Then Oliver died, and they all got to keep their babies. In the same vein as above, I’m so happy for them. I wish with all my heart no one else would ever have to feel what I’m feeling. But I look at them with the same jealously and happiness combined. I celebrate their pregnancies, and I wish them the best, but I had to unfollow most of them. It is a constant reminder of what I unfairly lost.

    If you find yourself in the situation I’m in, I’m so sorry. I hope as I continue this journey, something I say can comfort you or prepare you.

    If you never find yourself in this situation, I hope you recognize how fortunate you are, and I hope you never take that for granted. I also hope sharing the things I’ve learned helps you sympathize with and be patient with child loss parents. We are grieving and learning new triggers every day.

  • How to Support Someone You Know During the Death of a Child

    I try to choose my vocabulary intentionally. Even so, I still catch myself referring to my son dying at 27 weeks as “loss.” It is the generally acceptable term, the one that doesn’t make people uncomfortable like the D Word does. But it isn’t the accurate term. I said this in my previous post: I didn’t “lose” Oliver, he isn’t “gone” — he is dead. Sitting in the discomfort of that mindset shift is hard, but it’s necessary. Death sounds ugly and messy. It sounds painful and tricky and just wrong, because it is all of those things. And if you find yourself uncomfortable or uneasy when it comes to hearing stories about the death of a child, then I want you to take a minute and imagine being that child’s parent. Whatever emotion you feel, whether it be pain or sadness or empathy or just being at a loss for words, I want you to remember that the child’s parents are feeling all of that and more, and it’s all multiplied by a million.

    What you say matters. How you show up for others experiencing the unimaginable matters. Offers you make, trips to stop by, messages you send when you’re hurting with the parents, they all matter so much. Unfortunately, there is no step by step guide for how to help people who are grieving. I mean, I guess there might be, but every person grieves differently. There is no one size fits all approach to help support the people you love. Effort and intention matter, of course, but in the weeks since Oliver died, Jordan and I have come to learn a few things I thought might be worth sharing. There are approaches that don’t help, no matter how well meaning you may be. And the flip side of that is that there are gestures you can make, things you can say or do to help support grieving friends and family, that make all the difference in the world.

    So, as you continue to read, I’m going to share ways people showed up for Jordan and I that were the most helpful and meaningful. Remember, grief and navigating life after the death of a child is quite possibly the most difficult thing a person can go through. No one grieves the same, and therefore no one’s life after is the same. What worked for Jordan and I may not work for others, and vice versa. But this is what I’ve learned so far.

    1. Reach out. Often. It doesn’t have to be a long thoughtful message. It can just be something as simple as “I’m thinking of you today.” Something that lets the grieving parents know that while you can’t comprehend their pain, you support them and you’re there for them. Your words matter so much. Don’t let your messages drop off after they’re home from the hospital either. Continue to check in and ask how they’re doing weeks and even months following. Everyone wants to reach out and offer words of love and encouragement when a child dies. But reaching out long after the event will mean so much to the parents. It shows you haven’t forgotten about them and the enormous change to their lives.
    2. Ask them about their baby. Talking about Oliver is hard, but it’s also my favorite thing to do. I don’t ever want him to become a topic people shy away from or are afraid to bring up around me. I love my son fiercely and as long as I’m alive, he will be talked about loudly. But that comes with the knowledge that maybe I’m oversharing or annoying people. Personally, I don’t care (and if you don’t like it you can mute me or unfriend me), but if you have someone in your life who has experienced what I have, then they may want to talk about their baby and just don’t know how. Ask them about their baby, invite them to share whatever they’re comfortable with. They might cry, they might not be able to answer right away, they might not even know what to say right then. But help them keep the memory of their baby alive.
    3. Don’t expect a response. I know, I know, my last two points were all about reaching out and communicating. But you should do so without the expectation that a grieving parent will respond. Their world has just been absolutely shattered and destroyed in a short amount of time. They are absolutely reading your messages and they appreciate you and your words so much. But responding or even acknowledging you might be too much. After Oliver died, Jordan and I had so many amazing people reach out and send us words of love and sympathy and encouragement, but so many of those went unanswered, simply because my immediate focus was keeping my head above water and not letting my thoughts wander to the place they really wanted to. I was in survival mode, like so many parents are when they find themselves in the situation I’m in.
    4. Clean their house while they’re at the hospital. This sounds so silly and you’re probably thinking, “Clean their house? Why?” Because like I said above, my immediate focus was keeping myself alive. I was in survival mode (and some days I still feel like I am). Grieving parents are so consumed by moving from planning a future with their baby to accepting the fact that the future will forever look completely different now. The last thing we had the motivation or mental capacity to worry about was if the dishes were done, if the litter box had been cleaned out, and if the trash had been taken out. Our family stepped in without being asked and cleaned our house for us. They intercepted baby items I’d ordered and moved them out of sight. They took care of yard work, stocked our refrigerator and pantry, washed our bedding, and even worked on our janky dryer.
    5. Share their story. We’ve already established that the death of a child is a difficult topic. The unfortunate truth is, it’s more common than you’d think. 1 in 4 women will experience a miscarriage. 1 in every 175 births in the United States end in stillbirth. It’s so common that the couple in the hospital beside us was also experiencing a stillbirth. Odds are, I’m not the only person you know or have heard from that has experienced stillbirth. Share their story, both the good and the bad and the ugly. Talk about their precious baby. This will help the parents feel like you genuinely care about keeping the memory of their baby alive, and it could also help another couple going through the same thing feel less alone. You 100% have my permission to use Oliver’s story as a means to help support someone you know who has lost a child.

    If I’m going to have to live without Oliver for the rest of my life and always have this hole where he was supposed to be, I want to make my experience helpful. I want my words to be a comfort to those going through similar situations. Or maybe you’re not going through something similar, but maybe you know someone who is. I hope what I share during my healing journey can help you support someone else. From the day I learned Oliver no longer had a heartbeat, to delivering him, to coming home, to every little thing in between and after, I wished I’d had a big sister to turn to who understood and could prepare me. But I didn’t, so I have mostly been navigating this alone and learning how to live again. Oliver and I both want to be that for someone.

  • Who Am I & What Do I Know About Loss?

    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.