I'll never forget the moment I heard the words, “Your baby has no heartbeat.” I already knew something was wrong based on the nurses saying “let me check” and “the doctor will be in soon,” when I asked what was happening. My doctor finally entered the room and said, "I'm so sorry but your baby is dead. We are going to go on a journey together and it's not the one that you had hoped for but know that we will do this together.” I was 40 weeks and 6 days pregnant.
My induction couldn't be scheduled because the labor and delivery unit was overrun with pregnant moms in my rural town. I was called to come in early on a Saturday morning. As I was getting into the car, I looked for my husband.
He had decided this was the perfect time to clip his toenails. I was hugely pregnant and very unhappy with his choice. Halfway to the hospital, the nurse called and said another few moms had come in and again there wasn't room.
We headed back home to await another call. A few hours later, I was finally in a hospital bed. But by the time we arrived, it was too late.
How much too late, I'll never know. In an instant, I became an unfortunate statistic: Stillbirth remains a public health crisis in the United States, and nearly half of them occur without a cause, according to research. Looking back on that moment still brings me sadness and grief for what could have been.
What I wasn't ready for was how thankful I am, 12 years later, that my baby didn't live. Let me be clear: I wanted that child. My husband and I were in our late 30s.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
