A story in six words
There’s an old story that floats around, unconfirmed (but compelling, nonetheless). As it goes, Hemingway once boasted that he could tell a story in six words, with a beginning, a middle and an end. When asked to prove it he grabbed a napkin and wrote down these six words:
“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.“
I only came across this story recently, and it knocked me over with how perfectly it describes the entire story of a baby that never truly gets to live. The hope, the planning, the potential, the expectation, all cut short.
October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day and today I am going to break my own silence. At this point I’d like to suggest that for anyone who might find this to be a sensitive subject, it may be better to save for later if you’re at work. And hugs to you today, too.  I know you might be wondering why I’m posting it here. Honestly, I couldn’t think of a better format for this story. I also work with the most amazing people in the world (seriously, how did I get so lucky?) and I don’t believe that they would decide against hiring me because of this. If they would, it’s okay – I’m already busy enough that I’m turning away work.
I was going to have a little boy this year. Soon, actually. I was due on November 3rd and would have been 37 weeks, 2 days today. He would have been here right around my 30th birthday, and just in time to see his awesome big sister turn two.
We got the best news of our lives again in February, and while we were cautious we couldn’t have been more excited. It was a terrifyingly complicated first trimester that had me back and forth to the hospital and doctor’s office, but despite all of the chaos Maude (a nickname with a long story that’s probably only funny to us) was doing amazing. A little behind on size, but with a glorious little heartbeat. We watched that little baby grow every week from fetal pole to gummi bear to baby. At eleven weeks he was perfect. We counted all of his little fingers (ten!) and watched him dance, and there was no reason to think that after our NT scan the next Friday that we wouldn’t be sharing the big news with all of our friends at a party the next day. Life was good. This was really happening. There was going to be another baby.
On April 20th the sky fell. We left Isla with her grandparents and happily set off for Toronto for our NT scan and a lunch date. We went in for the ultrasound and at first everything seemed perfect, but then something seemed off with the tech. I know her well and she’s given me plenty of good and bad news over the years, and that day her face told me it was a bad news day. She brought in two more techs to discuss what they were seeing while Craig and I waited in terror trying to understand what was happening. We caught snippets of discussion. “No fingers,” (but there were fingers last week?). “Face looks wrong,” (what does ‘wrong’ mean?). “Problem with the legs,” (those legs that have danced and kicked for all this time?). “The good news is that the nuchal fold looks good, so Down Syndrome probably isn’t an issue,” (but… what the hell is happening in there?).
We left the clinic in shock, with sympathy from our team and a referral to a high risk OB. That day we knew that we’d never get to bring Maude home. We talked to our parents and asked them to fill in all of our brothers and sisters, and got in touch with the few friends we’d already shared our news with. We cancelled all of our plans for the coming weeks, not knowing exactly what was coming, but aware that at this point I was visibly pregnant and wouldn’t be able to hide it any longer. And what could I say when I was inevitably asked if I was pregnant? How the hell could I answer that question?
The next few weeks passed in a flurry of trips back and forth to Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto. What was once a happy place for us now just felt sad and ominous. The halls where we’d once walked out 23 of my 30 hours of labour now took us to ultrasounds and procedure rooms, and tiny, quiet offices designed for giving big news. We left each appointment feeling shell shocked and wondering how much worse things could get. Between those visits we looked for happy things to combat all that sad. An amazing set of friends made sure that we came home from every appointment to a fresh bouquet of flowers, and our little house was filled with colour. We focused all of our energy on Isla, doing everything we could to keep her from feeling all of the heartbreak that we were going through. Walks, park visits, and even a trip to the zoo. Anything to keep us going and help us remember that while the world was collapsing, there was still life and we had to keep going – for us and for her.
We finally received the early results of our chromosomal testing, which confirmed that one of the three conditions that they expected was present. Our Maude, our son, had triploidy. Completely random and always fatal. It occurs in 1-2% of pregnancies but 99% of those are lost early in the first trimester because the effects of the condition are so serious. Our OB was shocked that he’d managed to survive so long and that his heart was beating so strongly, given how damaged they were now able to see it was. But of course he’d made it that far, because he was ours. He was fighting as hard as we were to have him join our family.
But that was an impossible battle. He had no chance of surviving the pregnancy, and they didn’t even expect him to make it to the anatomy scan because of how quickly he was deteriorating. And as though all of this wasn’t difficult enough, there were complications associated with this pregnancy that were putting my own health in jeopardy. We discussed our options. Some people with a triploidy diagnosis choose to continue to carry until the baby dies, then deliver. Our OB was strongly opposed to this option given the risks, and we were just within the window of being able to have a D&C. A few more days and that would no longer be an option due to size. These were our choices. Risk my health to carry and deliver a dying baby in a few weeks, or have surgery in a couple days and end his life. There’s really only one reasonable answer here, but I confess that it was much more difficult to make this decision than it should have been for any logical person.
That day I contacted my nurses, the incredible women who have gotten us through some crazy stuff, and let them know the diagnosis. That evening my regular doctor, possibly the busiest and most caring man I’ve ever met in my entire life, called me to tell me that he’d been filled in and was devastated for us. He offered to perform the surgery for us at the clinic so that we would be with a team that we were familiar with and avoid the chaos of a hospital D&C. I also knew from experience that this was someone I could trust with a very delicate procedure. I’m so grateful to him and his team for reaching right out to us.
On my last day with Maude, after I’d put Isla down for a nap, I sat down and did for him what I wouldn’t have the chance to do later. I knit for him the tiniest blanket you could imagine, so that when he was gone he’d have something from his mom with him. On May 8th, just short of 15 weeks pregnant, Craig and I again left Isla with her grandparents and headed back to the clinic in Toronto. 22 years earlier I lost my dad on that date, and here I was again losing one of the most important people in my life. But there was comfort in this coincidence. Surely whatever happens after this life, my dad would be there to take care of my little boy.
A lot of things happened leading up to the surgery, and I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life for the nurses who took such great care of me that day. I don’t think I can type out those details, all of those last words and thoughts and tears that will be always be with me now.
And then it was over. Just like that. Maude was gone. I would never get to hold him, or kiss his tiny nose. I’d never get to give him a proper name, or introduce him to his big sister and his whole family. I’d never get to find out who he was going to be, and help him along the way. Maude wasn’t our first pregnancy loss, unfortunately. Not even close. And while what happened with Maude was big and awful, all of those losses are devastating and we think of those babies every day. We wonder what life might have been like today if things had been different for any of them. We wonder who all of those little people might have been and wish they were here with us.  We love you, kiddos.
Maude, my tiny little boy. I wish I could tell you how much I love you, and will continue to love you for the rest of my life. I wish you could know how deeply you’ve changed us and what you meant to us, even though you were with us for such a short time. I hope that wherever you are, you know how much we wanted you and fought for you. We don’t know what our family will look like now. Maybe there will be other kids, and maybe not. But whatever happens you will always, always be with us. We think about you every day and everywhere we go.
Isla. Oh, you amazing girl. I’m so sorry for all that you’ve lost, too, even though you don’t know it yet. You’re such an incredible kid, and I hate how many times we’ve told you and then had to untell you that you were going to be a big sister. You should be someone’s sister. You’d be great at it. We love you more than we’ll ever be able to tell you.
That’s Maude’s story. A little longer than six words, but I’m no Hemingway. I’ve thought a long time about whether to share this. I’ve been nervous about it because the most well meaning people can always manage to say the absolute worst things, and it’s amazing how deeply ‘kindness’ can cut sometimes. We stayed quiet to protect ourselves from all of that. I also worried about making people feel uncomfortable. This isn’t something that gets talked about a lot and people often don’t know how to react.
So why am I sharing now? A few reasons.
The biggest one is that it feels awful to me that my son is a secret. This child who changed us forever. I’m not ashamed of him and his short little life was one of the biggest things that will ever happen to us. I love him and I want people to know he was here and that a big part of us is gone now.
Going through this I found a lot of comfort from some incredible people who have shared their later losses with me. Most people who lose their babies in the second trimester have already told the world about their pregnancies, but our situation was a little different and we never really had that chance. It helped me to talk with people who had experienced loss and know that I didn’t have to explain to them how I was feeling. I knew that I could get a hug from those people and that they understood right down to their feet how much all of this hurts. In the past months I’ve had a surprising number of people open up to me about their own losses, often right out of the blue. I wonder if they somehow know that I’m a safe person to talk to about this, that I’ll understand. Do I look different? I feel different. Maybe it’s all more obvious than I think it is.
And maybe if I share this here it’ll let someone else who’s going through something like this know that they aren’t alone. Maybe they’ll know now that yes, I’m a safe person to talk to. And if you’re dealing with a loss and need a chat or a hug, I’m here. Any time.
If you haven’t been through loss and you’ve read through this whole thing anyway, thank you. Thank you for taking time to read about my little family. I ask only two big things of you.
1) Never ask another woman if she’s pregnant. Please? She’ll tell you if and when she’s ready to share news, if she has any. But if she’s like me, that question just really hurts and it’s been particularly difficult during some very sad times in my life. There are a lot of women like me, but most of them are keeping their stories as quiet as I’d kept mine.
2) If you know someone who’s having a hard time adding to their family, there’s one perfect thing to say: ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I love you,’ is also great, and hugs are awesome. Everything else isn’t as helpful as it might seem to be.
Thank you all again, and much love to you all.