San Fransisco Chronicle Stories
CALLING ALL ANGELS
The stillbirth of a baby is a devastating occurrence. When are we going to find out why it happens? And when will we start talking about it?
THE LOSS
Life changes when you see a pair of pink lines on a pregnancy test strip. If it's good news, your life becomes a 38-week countdown to holding your future, safely swaddled in your arms. You read books, you post sonogram pictures on the fridge, you make plans for a nursery, you put your name on child care center waiting lists.
[Listen to Podcast]
You don't plan for the doctor to tell you your future has no heartbeat. You don't plan to deliver a baby who will never open his eyes. You don't plan on coming home with an urn of ashes instead of a bag of diapers. (continue reading)
HOPE WITH A HEARTBEAT
With worry a constant companion, the author embarks on another pregnancy, post-stillbirth
It can't happen again.
That's what my doctor told me. She said stillbirth is such a rare occurrence that it never happens twice.
I knew she was wrong. I'd seen the stories of women with multiple losses on online message boards. I'd read studies showing women who have had one stillbirth are at an increased risk for another.
Besides, if subsequent losses weren't possible, why designate women with a prior stillbirth as high risk or recommend increased fetal monitoring? Is it because no doctor wants to be blamed for overlooking something a second time around? Or is it because women with a loss begin to question the gap in knowledge in a system they trusted with the lives of their babies?
I didn't say anything to her. I didn't know how.
I knew my doctor said it to reassure me that this time my baby would live. She didn't want me to worry.
What she didn't realize, and what every parent who has lost a child knows to be the only hard-and-fast rule of a subsequent pregnancy, is that worry and doubt are as constant a companion as prenatal vitamins. Nothing a doctor says or does causes the worry.
It has been there since the first time I thought about getting pregnant again.
It will be there until I hold a living, breathing baby in my arms.
Nine months is a long time to wait to find out if this time it'll be different. It's hell. But hell with hope and a heartbeat. (continue reading)