We found out we were pregnant in January 2018 and were over the moon. We had waited years to start a family after finishing school, buying a house, lots of travel and adventures. The next few months were uneventful in the best way, and we got excited to meet our baby girl. We named her Adelaide.
Around 33 weeks, I woke up in the morning and felt no movement, during a time when Adelaide was typically active. So we headed to the hospital. Fast forward to the NST (non-stress test). We breathed a sigh of relief when we saw a strong heartbeat. We were told I couldn’t feel her because she was on the smaller side, I had an anterior placenta, and fluid was a little low.
We had a follow-up with our midwife two days later, then were referred to the Fetal Maternal Medicine Clinic for a follow-up ultrasound to be safe. We trusted our baby girl was healthy and everything would be fine. My husband didn’t even come to the ultrasound because we weren’t concerned.
The tech didn’t say anything, but I knew she wasn’t finding a heartbeat. My heart raced but I kept calm; it just couldn’t be true. The doctor came in then. She started an ultrasound and said, “I’m so sorry, but your baby has died.”
From there it’s a blur. A phone call to my husband to tell him he needed to come to hospital, walking up to labour and delivery bawling and holding my belly. Induction was started, which took a long time.
We cried, we prayed, we laughed, we cried. Then August 29, 2018, at 6:55am, Adelaide was born. She was so perfect. We memorized her lips and her little nose, held her tiny little hands. She was 3lbs 6oz, 19 inches long. Our perfect girl, who, for whatever reason, could only be with us for a short while. Our hearts burst with love and shattered to a million pieces simultaneously.
I can hardly describe the pain I felt holding her and seeing my husband hold her. All our hopes and dreams for her life died with her. The life we imagined died with her. We spent hours with her, but I don’t think any amount of time would have felt like enough, not when we had planned for a lifetime.
Eventually we agreed it was time. We knew it was just her earthly body. She was already safe and at peace in the arms of Jesus. And while that thought provides comfort, I’ll tell you that it doesn’t make it easier to leave your baby.
Years have passed and not a day has gone by that we haven’t thought of her. She is always missing. Family photos, holidays, and happy moments come with a sting. It’s not always just on her birthday or anniversaries or holidays that our grief is the strongest. Sometimes it’s just a Tuesday and the weight feels too heavy to carry and you just cry until there’s no more tears.
Waiting on Sunrise 