Our baby didn’t disappear.

After we started to share Evelyn’s story with others, I noticed a theme emerging. Confusion.

We said things like, “While we in labor and delivery…” or “After I gave birth to her…” and people seemed stunned. It took a while, but I realized that if you haven’t walked this hellish road before, it’s unlikely that you know what happens when babies die before they’re born.

Our baby did not disappear. Babies do not just disappear. We give birth to them, in the same hospital rooms that you become parents in. We go into labor. We feel every contraction. We push our babies out into the world where the only sound that can be heard is parents’ cries of agony.

We spent a full day waiting to go to my doctor to hear the news that I already knew. Our baby had no heartbeat.

It wasn’t a surprise. I felt her leave us the night before. I knew she was dying and I knew the day they told us that she was already gone. It didn’t hurt any less.

They sent us home to get our things and then come back to the hospital to be admitted to labor and delivery. I stared at the things in our bedroom. I hadn’t read the chapter yet on what to pack in your hospital go bag. I was only 20 weeks pregnant. I was supposed to have so much time. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I caught a glimpse of my pregnancy memory book I bought for myself on my nightstand where I documented each week’s milestones. Bill had to hide it because looking at it made me physically sick. I felt so stupid for even having it, like of course my pregnancy wouldn’t last. Why would I believe that because we had made it well into the second trimester that we would have a healthy baby? Infertility made me distrust my body and pregnancy loss was the evidence that I needed to confirm that my thinking was correct all along: My body was only meant to fail me.

We checked into the hospital with tears silently rolling down my cheeks, 20 weeks too early. The man checking temperatures at the hospital entrance, upon hearing that we were headed to L&D, said, “Wow, your lives are about to change!” He was not wrong.

They put us in a large room. Everyone looked at us with sad eyes. These are the eyes that everyone looks at you with when they know your baby died. Our nurses were kind. They started me on a drug called Cytotec to induce labor. It was slow going overnight and I was thankful for it. I wanted it to last as long as possible. When people go into labor and prepare to have a baby, they hold onto the fact that, at the end, they will hold their healthy baby in their arms. They will take that baby home and begin their lives together. Labor is just a blip on the radar of their journey, something to get through as quickly as possible. I wanted my labor to last forever. Evelyn was still inside my belly, and I was terrified for her to be born and to leave me. Once she was born, she would leave me forever.

Contractions kicked in during the morning. I was again unprepared. I didn’t take any of the classes. I didn’t know any of the techniques. My body was preparing to give birth, but my brain didn’t know what to do. I felt like a failure again. I eventually got an epidural. I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I couldn’t keep my daughter safe. The epidural never fully took the physical pain away, but I didn’t care. A part of me felt like I needed the pain, because it was a distraction from the fact that my heart had completely shattered into a million pieces.

While I was in labor, the nurses had to talk to us about making plans for an autopsy and funeral arrangements. Add this to the list of things no one prepares you for. We decided on having an autopsy done and picked a funeral home between contractions.

Evelyn arrived into the world at 4:53 PM on Wednesday, April 21, 2021. It happened so quickly. My epidural had just been increased and a new wave of pressure hit. Nurses and midwives and eventually the doctor came running in. I told Bill this was it. I dreaded every second of it. I wanted her to stay with me, but it was happening. The doctor held our tiny daughter in her hands and she fit perfectly. Evelyn was born still inside her amniotic sac which they told us was so rare. I was shaking and crying and it felt like I would never stop. The nurses held onto us and let us cry. They put my daughter on my chest and we touched her impossibly tiny hand, taking in every detail, trying desperately to memorize everything about her. Did she have my nose? Bill’s ears?

The whole evening is so hazy to me now. The nurses cleaned her up so carefully and put her in a beautiful tiny blanket. We held her for hours. My parents came to meet her. I sang to her through sobs and told her I love her more times than I could count. I watched my husband’s heart simultaneously break and overflow with love every time he looked at her. Eventually we couldn’t stay awake anymore and the nurses took her for the night so we could try to sleep with the promise that we’d get to hold her in the morning until we were ready to say goodbye.

We just met her, and we had to be ready to say goodbye.

We signed more documents the next day and took turns holding her and taking every last bit of her in. I don’t know how long we held her. In hindsight, it doesn’t matter because there wasn’t enough time in the world. We held Evelyn, together, told her for the millionth time we loved her, and handed her over to a nurse. To this day, I do not know how we both summoned the strength to do so.

One of the most amazing doctors we encountered on our journey at the hospital came to talk to us before we were discharged. He shared with us his experience with loss and talked to us about grieving a child. I believe in my heart that he was sent to us to bring us just a tiny bit of comfort before we had to leave the hospital and face the world, a world that doesn’t understand.

We walked out of the hospital with a box filled with information on grief and loss and keepsakes to help us remember our baby. The sad eyes followed us out of the hospital, the same way they followed us in. The sun was shining so brightly and I hated it. It felt like the world didn’t get the memo: Our baby died. You can stop feeling so cheery. I wasn’t pregnant anymore. We weren’t bringing a baby home. We drove home, silently crying and figuring out how to survive, minute by minute.

Evelyn was born on a snowy day in late April. She didn’t just disappear. She is loved so deeply and has been loved so deeply, since before we even knew she would be ours.