Coming Home After Loss

After my water broke in the middle of the night and we hurried to the hospital, I remember thinking that the next time we came home, we would officially be parents.

Nathan was born on a Saturday afternoon and I was discharged from the hospital after my C-section on Monday. When Jordan and I got home, we covered the couch in sheets and made a game plan for my first night at home. I was exhausted and exhilarated. We were NICU parents in action, ready for the long haul with Nathan at the hospital and preparing to bring him home in four to eight weeks. When I woke up in the middle of the night to pump, I was excited about the routine and proud of what I could do for my baby.

The next morning, we left home to visit him. That evening, we came home after he had died.

Jordan’s brother and sister-in-law, Ryan and Kate, had visited Nathan earlier that day, and Ryan stayed through the afternoon with us. He was the first family member we told that Nathan had passed. I’m so grateful he was there to drive us home because I only remember snippets of the drive. 

We were all in shock at how quickly everything had turned. I tried not to replay the sound of my parents hearing the news when I called them, or Kate’s reaction through the phone when Ryan called her. I remember thinking that I needed to cancel the monthly daycare deposits and the baby prep class scheduled for the upcoming weekend. There was nothing to prep for; I already had my baby, and he was gone. 

Jordan was pretty quiet on the drive home. But less than two blocks from the hospital where our son had just died, he spoke up to say that he didn’t want to become bitter. I felt a rush of love and admiration for my husband through my heartbreak. And he spoke up again later, telling Ryan to take a less bumpy route so that the drive would be less painful for my recovering body.

Once we got home, the garage door opened and, in the rearview mirror, I saw the crib and a wall of baby things. With a sigh, Jordan said, “And… we’re home.” I remember doubling over in the back seat while they got out, closing my eyes, and willing everything to be a nightmare that I could wake up from. 

I went upstairs in slow motion, both because of my C-section pain and the dread of being back home after everything had changed. Inside, the house still held every version of the previous three days. New maternity clothes on the dining room table with their tags on, left over from the abrupt end of my pregnancy. The pumping station waiting beside the couch, still holding the happiness and glee of the night before. Baby books and little toys from the baby shower, waiting for our baby. Everything around us had been arranged for pregnancy, postpartum recovery, and our son.

My parents had been able to hold Nathan’s body in the NICU and say goodbye. Jordan’s parents were asleep in France and did not yet know that he had died. Friends were sending messages to ask how he was doing. Before we could let anyone else know what had happened, we needed to get a hold of Jordan’s parents.

One thing that stands out from that horrific day is that both of our dads led with prayer when they learned that their grandson had died. Our families are both Christian, but we come from different denominations and traditions. Having my Dad say a prayer over Nathan’s body in the NICU broke me. We recited the prayer for eternal rest and it shattered me. I had said those words many times for other family members, but saying them with Nathan’s name meant admitting that my son was gone. Having Jordan’s Dad say a prayer over the phone, in their early morning and in our evening after the worst day of our lives, helped Jordan and me hold each other and the horror of the day more gently. For our families, faith has continued to hold us together through prayer, religious traditions, and the moments when we feel closest to Nathan, whether we are in church or outside in nature.

I do not remember changing out of the clothes we had worn that day or going to bed, but obviously we did. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up at 1 am, 2 am, and 3 am.

My midwives later explained that my hormones and my body may have been expecting me to wake through the night to nurse or pump. Grief and adrenaline were keeping me awake. I did not want to sleep, and I did not know what I might dream about if I did.

At some point, I went downstairs looking for the brown envelope the hospital had given us after Nathan died. I wanted the Certificate of Life they had mentioned preparing because I needed something tangible to confirm that my nightmare was real. The doctor told us when Nathan no longer had a heartbeat, but we had not been given a formal time of death. I wanted to know my son’s exact time of death, just as I had memorized his exact time of arrival into the world.

I found a brown envelope on the dining room table and began pulling out information about pumping, postpartum checklists, and creating his social insurance number. I was confused by these instructions for caring for myself after birth and beginning the administrative life of our new baby.

Then I realized I had opened the envelope the hospital gave me when I was discharged after he was born. It was the life envelope, but I was looking for the death envelope.

I remember lowering my post-C-section body down the stairs, squeezing past the new rocking chair that was still in its delivery box, finding the other envelope in the truck, and pushing myself to climb back up the stairs. Instead of information about pumping milk for my baby, it contained information about what to do when your milk comes in and your baby is no longer with you. Instead of postpartum groups and resources, there was a list of funeral homes.

When I finally found it, the Certificate of Life was such a disappointment for me. I wrongly assumed that it would have more medical details, but it was a document with his name on it, time of birth, and heart clip art all along the border.

I already had proof that my son was alive. I had a C-section incision across my body. My milk was coming in for him. His onesies were in the house. Jordan and I had held him. We had watched him respond to our voices and squeeze his Dad’s finger. 

I had not fully accepted that he had died, so I continued my search. At around three in the morning, I called the hospital. For the first time, I said it out loud to a stranger:

“Hi. My baby died today, and I would like to get hold of the NICU.”

Once I was transferred, I said it again:

“Hello. My baby died today, and I would like to know his time of death.”

The person on the phone could only guess. I emailed one of our midwives in the middle of the night, and she confirmed the correct time by morning.

Knowing the exact time felt urgently important to me. So much had happened outside of my control, but I could at least record the facts of his life accurately. 

Once I had that information, my next step was to write an update for our friends and family about what happened to Nathan. I wrote versions of it, stopping to sleep and type a bit more every few hours, until I slept for a few hours straight. By 9 am the morning after Nathan’s death, our closest people knew what had happened.

That first night home, I didn’t realize that those brown envelopes would be a metaphor for the fullness of our experience: the life we had begun and the death that ended the future we had been preparing for.

Looking back, I probably seemed calm that night, but it was a false calm. It was emotional numbness for self-preservation. It was not the calm-hearted feeling that I would later cling to in the weeks and months that followed, when I found brief reprieves from the deep sorrow and pain of my fresh grief. That first night, I began learning what it means to be Nathan’s Mom without him. After the calls, the envelopes, and the draft to update our people as soon as possible, I finally gave in, and I slept.