I Was Forced To Carry A Baby I Knew Would Die — And It Nearly Killed Me, Too
HuffPost
"It was silent in the room when my son was pulled out of me. He couldn’t cry, open his eyes, or move."
On Dec. 18, 2014, in Fargo, North Dakota, I walked drugged and disoriented through a hospital hallway decorated for Christmas. Music played — maybe from a piano, maybe over the PA system. I couldn’t tell. A few hours earlier, my newborn son had passed away less than 30 minutes after I had given birth. Shortly after that, I suffered a severe postpartum hemorrhage and a near-death experience.
Two liters of blood later, there I was, barely alive and walking through a holiday fog, wishing that I wasn’t.
A woman touched my arm and said, “Your pajamas are cute.” I wanted to vomit.
Our doctor had recommended terminating the pregnancy after we received devastating test results. However, by the time we had a confirmed diagnosis, it was legally too late in my state to do so. I had no choice but to carry a baby I knew would not survive until I reached 37 weeks of pregnancy, when induction was possible and a care team could be in place.
Babies don’t wait. Three days shy of 37 weeks, my water broke. Delivering my son nearly cost me my life. In that hospital hallway, although I’d physically survived, something in me turned off so I could mentally survive. It stayed off for almost a decade.
