I was pregnant.
I was pregnant with my sons, Nicholas and Zachary.
I was about 23 weeks pregnant.
I was uncomfortable.
Swollen, bloated, exhausted, nauseous.
I thought it was just twin pregnancy stuff.
A week or two earlier, I’d been kicked out of the only midwife practice I could find that would accept twin pregnancies.
They hadn’t been able to control my rising blood pressure.
Well, they actually didn’t try. They told me to “eat less salt.”
It didn’t help.
It didn’t help because I not only had PIH (pregnancy induced hypertension) but also because it was just the beginning of a cascade of symptoms that would try to kill me.
Those symptoms were from the disease of preeclampsia.
It’s rare that early in a pregnancy.
But it happens.
I kind of hate those midwives. I feel like they should have done more.
But I kept getting sicker.
I felt pretty awful, in fact, the day that my husband, my best friend, and I went in for a normal ultrasound.
But we laughed and joked anyway as the technician slathered my belly in goo and began the scan.
Her face changed.
Something was wrong.
One of the doctors came in.
One of the boys had died.
He handed me a box of kleenex.
I ignored it.
He sent me to my regular OB.
In a stroke of luck, the nurse ran my pregnancy vitals.
Blood pressure: 180 over 120. Protein in urine: 3+++. Weight: Spiked 18 lbs in five days.
My OB took one look and sent me to the hospital. I could tell from his body language it was bad.
They hooked me up to a million things. Two IVs running medications. A catheter for urine. Cuffs on my legs to try to squeeze the fluid out. A blood pressure cuff that went off every ten minutes.
I felt horrible.
My head hurt.
It hurt so much. I’ve never felt pain like that.
Even so, I resisted taking pain meds because I’m a recovering drug addict.
I started vomiting.
Two hours later it hurt so much I was blind with the pain.
They gave me more medicine, stronger medicines, until I hit the maximum possible dose.
The doctors spoke to my husband in hushed tones as I writhed in pain.
By seven the next morning, it was clear the medications weren’t working. A large number of doctors came to stand around my bed to tell my husband and I that I would die if this went on much longer.
The pregnancy had to be terminated.
My remaining son had to die.
We sobbed, my husband and I.
We gave consent.
It all happened really fast after that.
Things were done to my body while the tears ran down my face.
Doctors spoke to me over and over, telling me the same thing several times, until I snapped at one of them, probably a student or intern, and told them to leave me alone.
The tears never stopped running.
A stupid doctor commented on my tattoos on my back when he gave me the spinal block. I told him to fuck off. I was still crying.
During the surgery, I woke up enough from the sedation and tried to run away from the table.
I heard my doctor tell them to give me more sedation.
That was it, until I woke up back in my room, feeling scraped out and empty.
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I’ve written a version of this same post every year, I think, for the last seven years.
They would be turning seven, you know.
Nicholas and Zachary.
I still remember it all, and vividly.
I remember other things, too, like looking out the window after I came home from the hospital and seeing a little girl in a cute knit hat and just weeping inconsolably. I remember my hands shaking as I handed out Halloween candy a few days later. I remember lying on the couch, watching episode after episode of Angel, just hollow and empty.
It hurts, you guys. It still hurts so damned much.
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This Saturday is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. It’s the one day of the year when I’m not alone, when all of us who lost babies – whether early in pregnancy, stillborn, or as babies – can stand together. Our shared grief helps us all stand, makes it less horrible.
If you’ve lost a child, light a candle. Know I’ll be lighting one with you.
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I also say this every year: I was lucky.
I had excellent medical care.
Some folks don’t.
Watch this, and then visit Every Mother Counts. Donate if you can. Because thousands of women DO die from the disease that tried to kill me. Thousands. Every day.
{ 64 comments… read them below or add one }
Cecily,
I;ve read your story before and it hurts my heart for you. YOu are so strong and brave and amazing. I know we do what we have to, to survive the pain of loss but you do it with grace. I am SO Sorry that you ever had to experience such pain. My thoughts are with you today. XO
I’ll be lighting a candle, for my angels and for yours.
I’m weeping with you. I will be lighting a candle for your beautiful Nicholas and Zachary. I am so sorry you’ve had to endure this pain, too. I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.
i am so sorry. . .i’ve read your posts from years past. . .and they always touch me – they always make me cry. . .what a horrifying terrible ordeal – and I am so sorry you had to go through that. I admire your strength and your tenacity – to share and to work to help others – your boys would be proud.
hugs-
Hillary
I’m sorry. It doesn’t fix anything. But it’s all I know to say. My heart breaks for you, and your story. I’m glad you share it with us. I will light a candle today, and it will be for your boys.
JCat.
I sit at my desk with tears rolling down my face. You are a strong, amazing woman. I know you know that but it never hurts to tell someone that.
I know your story well, but it still breaks my heart each time I read it. I’ll be lighting one candle for you, and one for me. They’re also for everybody else who’s lost a child. AND for those who can’t — or just won’t — understand that you and Tori are here today because you had access to an abortion.
Oh mama! Words are meaningless but I couldn’t read and not say anything, holding you and your sons in my thoughts.
You already know that you and I have this loss in common. After 10 years it doesn’t hurt any less for me either. It’s a pain that never goes away, just rests just below the surface. Enough that nobody can see it, but we always will feel and know it’s there.
Oh honey, it makes me so sad to know you went through all that. Even after reading all 7 years worth of your posts about that day it still hurts on this side and makes me cry because I want your boys to be here with you not only in your memory.
Love you, and am thinking about you.
Every year I cry for you and your boys. Keeping all of you in my thoughts…
Cecily, I am sorry for your losses. Know there are two angles you will meet again some day. Preeclampsia sucks and is so scary to experience. I’ve dealt with it twice, thankfully my boys were eventually okay. Preeclampsia, and it’s medications, not only wreak havoc on our bodies they wreak havoc on our babies. And what many don’t know is preeclampsia can continue even after you’ve given birth, as happened to me with my 3rd son. Thank you for sharing your story and bring awareness to this. I don’t think many of us are aware of preclampsia until we are dealing with it.
May the long time sun shine upon you. All love surround you and the pure light within you, guide your way on, guide your way on, guide your way on. Peace and love to you forever and ever. <3 xoxo
I find it hard to leave a comment because I know there is really nothing I can say to ease your pain. Please know that I will be lighting a candle for you and your beautiful boys.
I can’t seem to find the right words to share my sympathy with you….because this post has left me speechless….and moved. Your love for your boys shines through, and you’ve kept their memory alive through your writing and the way you get involved in things like this Million Moms campaign. And with your honesty about your recovery and your experiences…you help people. And I admire that so much about you. It takes a lot of bravery…and we need more brave, honest people in this world.
Sitting here and crying for you, your boys, and the babies I lost. I’ll be lighting a candle for all of them on Saturday.
“What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.”
― Walt Whitman
Seven years ago Iwas pregnant with my daughter. She will be seven in januari. Right now I am to read her a bed story…Serven years ago I remember reading about Zachary and Nicholas and sobbing. i sat in the nursery a long time praying my baby will be allright. I so ,lucked out but I will be lighting a candle… And I will be reading for them to tonight…
*hugs*
They died and you lived (Thank God), but your relationship is for always. You will always be there mom, and they will always be your sons.
I’m so terribly sorry for all you’ve endured.
I’ve been reading a long time and I’ll say again how sorry I am that you all endured all of it — the care that didn’t catch it before it was too late, the emergency, the real risk of losing you AND the twins, and of course losing them. Because of you (and Julie), I knew about pre-E when it was my turn. I got PIH at 30 weeks and my OB did “treat” it and I was able to get to term. No one ever suggested cutting my sodium (which I suppose should have been obvious) but instead put me on bedrest and blood pressure meds. It has always bothered me on your behalf that more wasn’t done to even attempt to stem that tide while there was still time.
Thinking of you and your family.
I struggle for the words to write. “I understand your pain” is wrong, because I don’t. It doesn’t matter that I had to terminate my pregnancy 11 years ago this Saturday because of the same damn disease you had. Our pain is different, because we are different. Still, my heart aches for you. It aches for both of us.
On Saturday I’ll light a candle for Maggie, Nicholas, Zachary and all the other babies who left behind grieving families. I’ll remember how lucky I am to be alive, even though some days it hurts like hell.
I’m so very sorry you have to do the same.
~ Jenny (@jenndola)
“I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
Big hugs. For me and my heart, I like to think that someday soon, we will all be together again with our missing loved ones, and when it happens, it will be as if no time has passed at all.
I am so very sorry for your loss, Cecily. *hugs*
every time I read this story it has made me cry
and I hope your heart heals, just a little bit, each time you write it out
Me, too. What Moomser says. It doesn’t help that my kids are named the same as the boys that you lost. I think of it every time I see your name come up. I think, “what if that had happened to me, to my beautiful boys?” Having had a loss, I know how hard it is. I hope that someday it hurts a little less.
Rest in Peace, Nicolas and Zachary.
Crying for you. Crying for me. I’ll be lighting a candle with you on Saturday.
It never gets easier to read your story. I’m so sorry.
It’s been 7 years for me too. The same heart-breaking ending. I hate PE. Your courage to share your experience does make a difference. Every woman should be educated about PE. Too many lives…too much heartache. I am so sorry for your loss. Wishing you peace and healing.
thinking of you, your boys, and your family. many hugs.
Thanks, Cecily. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for all you wrote about losing your boys. It’s so rare that women are brave enough to talk about wanted pregnancies that end in termination. Your story gave me the strength to survive my own loss at 21 weeks. Without your story and a couple of more like it I would have felt so much more alone than I did. I hope your Zachary and Nicholas are playing with my Aiden somewhere. I’ll be thinking of them and you this weekend.
Cecily, every year I read your experience and each year I am amazed at your strength in sharing the boys’ story. Thank you. You honor those boys daily.
Can it really have been 7 years? I am so sorry..
Will be lighting a candle for your boys and the babies my mom lost so many years ago..
Ah, Cecily – I can’t believe it’s been seven years.
*tears* Love you, Cec.
My daughter died at 23 1/2 weeks gestation during my battle with preeclampsia. Her 6th birthday is Monday, 10/ 17. I felt that pain, I feel it every October, it sucks. But we manage, we have a new normal. Thank you for putting into words what I have always struggled to do.
I have been reading your blog for years. I coulden’t imagine the pain you went through losing Nicholas and Zachary until I could. I lost my daughter at 21 weeks last January. It was not the same circumstances. At our 18 week us we were told it looked like skeletal dysphasia. 3 days later another us showed no markers and we had an amnio that said we were having a healthy baby girl. At 21 weeks we went for another us to make sure she was continuing to grow. Instead we were told she had died. The next day we started the d and e process. At that time I could not bear giving birth to a dead baby now I wish I had. So I could have held her just once. The past 9 months have been horrific. I had no idea you could feel this much pain and not die. So Saturday I will light a candle for my little girl and your boys. Today I want to thank you for being so brave and sharing your grief.
Some things never get easier. Your story of Nicholas and Zachary will always stay with me. I am so sorry…
So sad for your and Charlie’s and Tori’s pain and losses, and also undone imagining all of the suffering you’ve eased by telling your story. Take it easy, friend. Hugs soon.
Thanks for sharing your story! I am SO INCREDIBLY SORRY for your loss. This is the first time I have read your story. It was posted on Facebook by a fellow volunteer. Please keep telling your story….it’s stories like this that make people aware. I suffered from Postpartum Preeclampsia (who knew that could happen). Admitted to the ER less than 24 hours after being dismissed from the hospital with a Blood Pressure of 202/110. Spent the next 3 days fighting for my life. Fortunately for us, our daughter was fine and I recovered. She is 2.5 now and the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to my husband and I. When I read stories like this, I feel guilty. Guilty because we were lucky, she was healthy and I cheated death. I am a volunteer now for the Preeclampsia Foundation. This is how I heal. Keep writing! Women need to hear your story. Hugs!
I have no words…. just know you aren’t alone.
Oh honey. I cry for you every year. I thought of you first thing today after reading the house passed the ridiculous, horrible, mis-named, so called “Protect Life Act.” Everyone who voted for that bill hates women, nothing can convince me otherwise at this point. I will certainly light a candle for you tomorrow.
<3.
Tearing up at work. So, so very sorry for your loss.
I am so sorry for the loss of your boys. I have lost a baby too. It doesn’t get much easier but I have poured my soul into the only solace that women in our condition can have. Respect, easy access to medical care. I see how every day we are being de-valued and having our dignity taken away by people who think that they are protecting new life and are doing the right thing. I don’t think that they realize that women like us need access to procedures too and it is so painful, why would you want to make it harder?
I am thinking about you and lighting a candle for us.
I was already reading your blog back then. I think of your boys often, and their sister, who never got to meet them.
I’m grateful that since I’ve gotten to meet you in person, that we’ve become friends.
Hugs to you my friend. Nicholas and Zachary live on in my heart too.
My daughter, who died due to an incompetent L&D team (she survived four days) would have been seven too. I know we don’t know each other at all but I feel like our kids are in the same FUCKING SUCKFUL FOR US grade somewhere.
Much internet love.
I was horrified when I first heard your story. What an awful thing to have to go through. Thinking of all of you today and wishing you peace.
:(
I’m so sorry you lost your boys. I don’t know what to say but just wanted to say I read your story and I’m thinking about you.
You story is such a heartbreaking one, but I’m so grateful you have the courage to share it. Thank you.
Thank you for sharing your story – I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for you.
Cecily, because you’ve shared your story, I knew enough to tell a woman on my birth club message board who is worried about pre-ecclampsia to not let her dr blow her off. She had it with her first pregnancy, is showing signs of it again (rising bp, protein in her urine, blurry vision), and he told her 22 weeks was too early and she’s worrying over nothing. Now she’s going to push back and for all we know it could save her life and her baby’s.
I cannot fathom. I wish a year would come that you could change the story.
I’m so very sorry.
23 wks, so far along…
I developed PIH with my first, after waiting a lifetime to finally have a baby. They had to induce me at 31 1/2 wks…He was in NICU for awhile, but we were able to bring him home with an apnea monitor.
He’s now 16…and without the excellent medical care I was so fortunate enough to have, he’d be gone.
I’d be gone.
So many stories, that are us..that we forget about in our day to day.
I am so sorry you did not have my ending. So very sorry.
I am so sorry you went through this. I cannot even begin to imagine this kind of painful loss. My whole heart goes out to you.
My heart just broke. I can’t even get as far as to watch the video at this time because my heart is too broken for you, Nicholas & Zachary, as well as your husband.
It has been a long time since I commented here.
I started reading your blog in the aftermath of your devastating loss. I don’t know if it helps swab up the grief seeping through your heart in the years since you lost your boys, but the strength you displayed through your writing then and now is a beacon I’ve followed to guide me through the shadowed lands of trauma and grief.
They say that time heals all wounds. Bullshit.
Since my mom’s suicide last year, I’ve learned that grief is a stalker. Just when you think you’ve evaded it, finally escaped it, grief locates you again. It moves in mysterious ways (Gods, why am I making allusions to U2 lyrics?) and never seems to end.
I wish you the deepest healing possible, today and all other days. May She hold you in the palm of her hand.
Cecily,
I’ve rewritten this comment three times. Nothing can really be written.
I am desperately sorry for your loss. I have twins. I had pre-eclampsia. I don’t know — cannot imagine — your loss.
I wish you healing, with time. Or if not healing, some small peace.
Samantha
I know what you’re feeling. I lost one baby violently and two babies because my body just wouldn’t accept them after a certain amount of weeks (the first was twenty one, the second was twenty seven) and there was nothing to be done about it. My life was empty after each of them. They’d had names and then they didn’t. They’d had life, and then they didn’t. It never gets easy, for me it’s been ten years since my last and even though I have four other children, it sometimes drives me to distraction wondering how they would have gotten along with their siblings that never were.
Cried this year, just like I cried last year. Sending so much love for you, you brave, amazing woman.
I think of them this time of year, always. I love you and I am so so sorry.
So sad. Here’s one more man who’s on your side. Good that you keep remembering and feeling, because the cause is important.