February 18, 2025
It’s February, and it’s a bittersweet month for me. My daughter’s birthday is coming up, and I miss her every single day. But as the anniversary of both her birth and death approaches, that sadness hits me even harder. She would be 7 this year. Seven long years without her. In honor of her special day, I wanted to share a bit of my birth story with you.
At the time, I had just transitioned into the role of school counselor at a new school in a different district. I was excited to find out that a conference was coming up in February, and that the school had already budgeted for me to attend! It was going to be my first work trip! I remember waking up the morning I was supposed to leave for the conference and feeling off. I wish I had paid more attention to that feeling. Our baby girl (we had just found out she was a girl a few weeks earlier) had dropped lower, and it was causing some discomfort. A few weeks before the conference, I volunteered to drive my colleagues and myself to the conference. I hoped the discomfort would ease. I didn’t want to miss the trip or inconvenience anyone by no longer being able to drive, so I pushed through. The discomfort stayed but was bearable, at least until the next day.
As the day went on, I became more uncomfortable, and I called my doctor’s office several times. The nurse thought it might just be pressure and normal at this stage of pregnancy, but they told me to come in when I returned and go to the hospital if things got worse. That night, I started thinking I might have an infection, and I considered going to the hospital or at least urgent care. But I was in an unfamiliar area and didn’t know where to go. I decided to wait since I’d be home soon. I can’t help but wonder if that was a mistake, knowing now that it was probably already too late.
The next day, on my way home, I started leaking amniotic fluid. We stopped at IHOP for a bathroom break, and when I stood up, I realized I was leaking. My mind was racing. I told my colleagues what was happening and called my partner and my mom to let them know. I was about 4 hours from home, so I told my partner to get to me as soon as he could, and my colleagues rushed me to the hospital.
At the hospital, I learned that my cervix was open and dilated, and my amniotic fluid was infected. I was told I had an “incompetent cervix,” or “cervical insufficiency”. Once in a hospital bed, the nurse placed me in the Trendelenburg position, with my head lowered and my legs raised in hopes this would keep me from going into labor. It didn’t. Within an hour, I was in full-blown labor. I had no idea what to expect, and I remember asking my colleague what a contraction felt like because I simply didn’t know. She looked at me sympathetically and explained how it might feel.
The next few hours were a blur—texts and phone calls to family and friends, me crying uncontrollably as I labored. The hospital staff urgently attempted to establish how far along I was in my pregnancy. According to my last menstrual period, I was 23 weeks and 6 days, but my medical records showed I was 22 weeks and 6 days. During my dating ultrasound, the amniotic sac measured smaller than was expected so they adjusted my due date. I didn’t agree with that change because I knew my dates were accurate. I never in a million years thought it would be an issue. It felt like an unnecessary nightmare.
Then, they performed an ultrasound and found my baby was measuring about 25 weeks. This was important because they needed to know if they could perform life-saving measures if she was born too early. A NICU doctor came in and asked if I wanted to intubate her when she was born. I could barely process what she was saying. I was a mess of emotions, but I said yes—I wanted them to at least try. Later, after the ultrasound, a different, and less kind, NICU doctor came to speak with me and ensure that I was choosing life-saving measures. She explained that if the smallest tube did not fit, they were under no obligation to “save her”. I was devastated. I wanted her to leave. I didn’t need or want to hear that information again. I got it. My baby was probably going to die. Thanks.
I was desperate for my family to be there. I had always imagined my mom being with me when I gave birth, but she was too far away. I called my aunt and sister to see if they could get to me, but no one knew how long my labor would last. I just wanted someone there with me. I was in so much physical and emotional pain, and the pain meds they gave me didn’t help—they just made me feel out of it.
Before long, I had the overwhelming urge to push. My colleague went to get the medical staff, and not long after, I delivered my baby girl. She was born at 23 weeks and 6 days. She was tiny—just 1 lb. 8 oz—and she had a beautiful cry. They managed to intubate her and whisked her away to the NICU. I struggled to deliver my placenta, which can happen after premature deliveries. After several painful attempts, I was given a D&E to remove my placenta.
My partner arrived about 2 hours later, and we were able to sit with her in the NICU. Unfortunately, the hospital wasn’t equipped to care for such a premature baby, so they had to transfer her to a hospital with a level IV NICU. I remember feeling confused and crying uncontrollably in my partner’s arms. The hospital was at least 20 minutes away. I was in extreme shock. This was not how I planned the delivery of my first baby. Things were not going according to plan.
She made it through the night, and for a brief moment, I had hope. But at 6 a.m., after an attempt to adjust her ventilator settings, things took a turn. My partner went to be with her at the other hospital. While I begged the doctor to discharge me so I could be with her. For a few hours, things seemed stable, but then everything quickly went downhill. She died, succumbing to her extreme prematurity. That was the day my life changed forever.