This post is from the “True Story” collection of posts and contains details about the real and true events of my life. *Trigger warning* Child loss/Still birth

I should warn you, reader, that this chapter of my life is tragic. I am certain, even now, at the very beginning of my attempt to write it, that it will consume me all over again to try to reiterate it to you. 

There is no one, however, who could ever truly capture the feeling of losing a child, but someone who has actually lost one. So, I will– for any other women who still cannot bring themselves to tell their story– tell mine.

My husband and I discovered we were pregnant on July 15th of 2021, just one week after my 24th birthday. It wasn’t a terribly exciting experience: I took one of those cheap tests you can buy in bulk for ten bucks on Amazon, and then I did what I think a lot of women do: I stared at that test in every room, under different lighting, with my eyes squinted into slits of uncertainty, and then I threw my glasses on and stared some more. 

I Facetime called my mom to get her opinion, and from behind the wheel of her mid-day runaround between patients, she gave me the nod of agreement and a light-hearted congratulations before ending the call to assist some patient who undoubtedly had no idea what kind of moment they’d just ruined.

I snapped a picture of my faint, little pink line and texted my sister for a third opinion, asking her if I was delusional.

She said, “Yes.”

I replied, “I haven’t even sent the picture yet…”

“Oh. Still yes.”

Feeling confident I was not crazy, or at least not any crazier than usual, I texted my best friend to come over for a pool day, and I let my husband know to call me.

I couldn’t tell you what that conversation sounded like. It was nothing spectacular or overjoyed the way women are when they’ve been desperately hoping to conceive for years. We had only been married for five months, and we were okay with having a baby or NOT having a baby. We didn’t have the urgency or excitement that some people have, and knowing what I know now, I regret that.

I probably said, “I think I’m pregnant.” 

Jarod probably said, “No way! Is that okay with you?” because he is wonderful and is always considerate of my mental state.

When my best friend arrived at our apartment, I simply showed her my pregnancy tests, now four in number, all very positive. We squealed for a few minutes and packed up to go sit by the pool– same as any other day.

My pregnancy was perfect. I know many women would resent me for saying it, but it was honestly just– easy.

I had no morning sickness, no restless legs, no back or joint pains. My bump came in early, quickly pushing me out of the “is she fat or pregnant” zone, and the rest of my body never swelled up at all. I was cleared of any pregnancy-related complications, and my gestational diabetes test was a breeze. (Don’t worry fellow moms– my second pregnancy came with all those fun symptoms. More on that later.)

For months, I simply enjoyed my time teaching during the day, coaching cheerleading in the afternoons, and binging on Cane’s chicken and pepperoncini peppers at night. I drank my share of the Earth’s supply of grape soda, and I nested. It was wonderful.

My students and the girls on our cheerleading team were fully invested in my baby journey. They bought me little onesies and defended me when tougher students would push my buttons.

“Dude, stop. Ms. Durbin is literally pregnant. You’re gonna send her into laborruh.”

Unlikely at 15 weeks, but I appreciated the sentiment.

Around week 17 of my pregnancy, after multiple failed attempts to determine a gender, Jarod and I decided to pay an elective ultrasound facility to help us get an answer. I am, by nature, a bit of an overplanner, and the seemingly massive chunks of time between OBGYN appointments was not helping my anxiety or need to know. 

I suspected it was a boy, because of how easy the pregnancy had been so far, but all of my students were hoping for a girl.

We visited a place in town that could do elective ultrasounds and record your baby’s heartbeat. It was, like the rest of my pregnancy, a walk in the park.

They had little stuffed animals lining the walls and little heartbeat recording devices to put inside them. Jarod sat on a small leather couch while I laid on the patient table. We watched our baby sticking out their tongue and rolling around. 

Jarod commented, “Oh god, can you feel all that?”

Barely. But it was the strangest and best feeling in the world.

He eventually came over and held my hand while the technician pointed out some little black and white blobs and blurs on the screen. 

“Do you see what I see?” she asked us, smirking.

I smiled and said, “I think so!” even though I didn’t.

She froze the screen and added a little arrow with the words “Baby is a boy!”

We asked the technician to record our son’s heartbeat and put it in a stuffed elephant for us. They were sold out of elephants, but we were stubborn and dead set on a cuddly pachyderm, so we had her save the heartbeat and order an elephant to be picked up at a later date. That small hiccup ended up being a blessing in disguise.

We left the ultrasound facility and drove straight to a party city, for a couple of large boxes and blue balloons, one set for my friend, and one for my mom.

Both reacted as I expected, overjoyed, but possibly secretly wishing for a girl. My mom and grandmother had both only had girls, so it seemed fitting. 

But I was so excited to be a boy mom. My husband was a former athlete, now an IT guy, decently adept at video games and smoking meats. I felt confident in his ability to raise a good man like himself, and I was excited to play my role in raising him to be helpful, determined, and considerate of women. 

The unexpectedly problematic side of my pregnancy wasn’t actually related to the baby at all.

Jarod and I had been, since April 2021, building our second house together. The closer we got to our due date in March of 2022, the more nervous, and angry, we became at the fact that our house was not done. 

We’d been told the house would be finished in November, and as the holidays passed, it became obvious that we were going to have to bring our baby home to our apartment, overactive cats, lingering, neighboring-tenant cigarette smell, and all. 

We converted our second bedroom into a storage space for all our baby supplies, but we made the decision to wait to assemble the crib until we could move. We had the bassinet set up next to our own bed, and we cleaned everything twice.

In February, just four weeks before our due date (yes, I know that is a bit late), we had our baby shower. With very few friends at our disposal, it was, like most of my pregnancy, not anything special.

We had all the greens and beiges you expect to see at a modern, matte party, and we opened presents with tiny outfits and baby seats inside.

We took photos in front of oversized teddy bears and balloon arches, snacked on donuts and finger foods. I was proud of my mimosa bar and jealous that I couldn’t partake in it.

My husband’s friends sat awkwardly together, unsure of what to do with their hands. They probably discussed the previous week’s devastating Super Bowl outcome for the Bengals.

My parent’s avoided each other, as usual, and I was far less interested in the whole event than I probably seemed.

By week 39, our baby, now named Jackson Daniel, like the whiskey, was showing no signs of going anywhere any time soon. I was no centimeters dilated, no percent effaced, no percent anything, and 100% done with being pregnant.

I was officially unemployed, by choice, and frequently bumping into surfaces around the house, not by choice.

My OBGYN, a no-nonsense, extremely intelligent man, advised me to consider an induction. I trusted him– and I still do– so I agreed. He offered me two choices: come in on that Thursday, when I would be 39 weeks and 5 days for an induction, or wait until Sunday, my due date.

Reader, I know I had no control over what happened to me. I have endured hours of therapy, self-reflection, and every treatment you can imagine to come to terms with that fact. At the end of the day, it is not anyone’s fault that I lost my son, and had my experience ended differently, my daughter would not be here.

However, I chose to wait until Sunday, and I have regretted that decision every day since March 20th, 2022.

On March 18th, my best friend came over to visit for the evening. I remember Jarod beaming.

“I’ve been practicing changing diapers on the stuffed cow. I’ve literally never changed a diaper before, but I think I’ve got it.”

I still have photos of him leaned over the changing table, wrapping a diaper around that stupid stuffed cow.

On the morning of Saturday, March 19th, we had a very sudden realization: We never got our stuffed elephant with our son’s heartbeat! (Reader, I promise it’s relevant).

While I could have let it go and simply called for a refund, something told me to go get that elephant, so I called the ultrasound facility to ask about the elephant, and they were closed. The service rep told me the closest facility that was open on Saturday was about an hour south of us.

We took that last little trip down I-65 to the ultrasound facility, determined to get our stuffed elephant. We talked the whole way about the crazy concept of us being parents by the very next day.

The poor technician at the facility was very confused by our urgency. I told her.

“I’m being induced in the morning. This is the last opportunity for us to get the stuffed elephant before our son is born. I’d really like to have that recording.”

She understood, and asked us for the heartbeat device that we’d received when we first came in.

Confused, we told her. “We didn’t leave with one. They kept the recording and backordered the elephant. Were they supposed to give us the heartbeat?”

“Yes. Not a problem! We can just squeeze you in real quick and re-record it.”

No, thankfully, I did not find out that my son had died at that elective ultrasound facility, an hour from home. 

I laid back, we watched Jackson sucking his thumb, we recorded his heartbeat, and we made a last minute adjustment.

“There’s our boy. You know what? I think I want to put the heartbeat in a lion instead.”

We plucked a scraggly little lion with wild hair off the bookshelf and stuffed the heartbeat inside. The last time I ever heard it.

If you know me, you’ve seen that scraggly lion. I have it tattooed down the length of my arm, so he is always with me.

We drove home, happy as two people could be, seemingly twelve hours from becoming parents. I hugged that little lion to my chest the whole way home, and set him in my son’s bassinet to await his arrival.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

My induction was scheduled for 9 AM the following morning. I laid in bed, feeling Jackson kick me until around 5 AM, when my husband woke up and told me I needed to sleep. I was so nervous, terrified of childbirth but so ready to see him.

I looked across our room at my cowhide hospital bag, packed for the morning, the bassinet on my husband’s side of the bed, the rolling cart we’d assembled on my side, full of diapers and wipes. I knew to expect something at least a little bit painful, but I knew it would be so worth it to be able to roll over and see him, watch him breathe and coo and wiggle.

I fell asleep around 6 AM to the feeling of Jackson kicking and woke up an hour later to get ready and head to the hospital.

We parked in the massive parking lot outside the women’s health wing and rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. Before checking in at the front desk of the labor and delivery unit, we paused for a minute to take a selfie.

Our eyes were squinted, my husband’s smile lines poking out at the corners, our smiles hidden behind our at-the-time mandatory masks. I have my thumbs up in delight, and Jarod is carrying my hospital bag.

I hate that picture.