Dash
November 21, 2024 - Baby Journal Entry - 19 weeks
”I love you so much already. I dream about you regularly. I can’t wait to see your face.”
This was the last message I wrote to our baby boy, Dash.
I’ve been keeping a baby journal since before we conceived. Before the early loss we experienced in June 2024.
I wanted Dash to know just how much love, intention, joy (and also heartache) took place on this conception journey.
24 hours after this journal entry, I was laying on my back, ultrasound jelly on my 19 week pregnant belly, and a huge smile plastered on my face. We were doing our 20 week anatomy scan one week early, working around Thanksgiving holiday, and I couldn’t have been more excited.
I was so ready to see my baby boy’s face. His features. To learn more about him. To hear his little thundering heart again. Any pregnant woman will tell you this is the best sound in the world.
Nothing could have prepared me for the hard turn our life was about to take.
The supposed-to-be 45 minute scan lasted maybe 15 minutes. I was so confused. The ultrasound tech explained that our baby was “in a bad position for measurements” and advised that we reschedule and do this again in a couple weeks. Okay, no problem.
Any worry I might have had was squashed quickly by reminding myself that everything thus far in my pregnancy has been spot on.
My vitals. Perfect.
Bloodwork. Perfect.
His heartbeat. Perfect.
Growth of my belly. Perfect.
10 week ultrasound. Perfect.
Initial genetic testing. Perfect.
Not even a, “let’s keep an eye on this” kind of thing.
We were completely blindsided.
What is it about the worst moments of life…how the details just get branded, seared, burned into your brain? The smells, the sensations, the clothes you wore. The sounds that come out that you didn’t know you could make.
I remember hearing my phone ring — my wonderful midwife Margie lighting up the screen. “She’s probably received initial results from Dash’s anatomy scan,” I tell Chase as I answer. He’s driving us to a friend'‘s house. A dinner party.
“I think you should pull over,” Margie says.
Shit. My heart is pounding in my ears. That’s never a “good news” line.
The next thing I know I’m doubled over in the passenger seat, crying hysterically, as Margie confirms with a shaky voice that my worst nightmare is coming true.
Crying isn’t accurate. These were wails. Guttural, primal wails.
I can’t speak. I can’t think. This is a mistake. My head is spinning. I feel like I’m going to vomit.
Not this. Not this. Not this.
My baby. My buddy. My Dash.
How. How. How.
Everything was perfect. I felt you kick last night.
How did they all miss THIS?!
Anencephaly (Defined by google): A severe birth defect that occurs when a baby's brain, skull, and scalp are missing or underdeveloped. Anencephaly is fatal and there is no cure or treatment. The majority of pregnancies end in miscarriage or stillbirth, and babies that do survive typically live only a few hours or days.
Anencephaly along with a laundry list of other “issues.”
Although he’s trying so hard, our Dash has 0% chance of life outside my belly.
We could lose him at any moment.
I’m in shock for days.
I don’t sleep. How could I?
Chase insists that I eat; it’s dust in my mouth.
He holds me. I hold him. There is no comfort.
I sob in the shower.
Scalding water burns my skin.
Scalding tears burn my eyes, my face.
I hold my belly wondering how long I have left with him.
I whisper to him, “I’m so sorry, baby boy. I’m so so sorry.”
I’m inside of a hellish nightmare, and all I want to do is scream myself awake.
I do scream. I scream until my throat is raw and tastes of blood.
But I don’t wake up. This is real. This is my reality.
It’s Thanksgiving. I know I’m going to lose my baby, and I struggle to find a shred of thankfulness.
I try to hide my bump. I don’t want anyone to ask about my pregnancy. I hide.
It’s too painful to explain over and over. I stop taking anyone’s calls.
From Excruciating Bliss by Rohini Elyse Mauk
The next few weeks feels like a few years.
Doctor appointments. Trips to Phoenix. Genetic testing. Lots of questions no one can answer.
Like…
What the f*ck happened to our son?
Will I ever laugh again?
Will this lump in my throat ever go away?
Why us?
Well…why not us?
We lost Dash on December 11th, and I had surgery to remove his little body.
I gave birth to death.
His tiny footprint - just an inch long - sits on our altar now. A daily reminder of this powerful little Soul that taught us so much in his 21 weeks and beyond.
If I’m honest, I’d much rather learn lessons in just about any other way, but here we are. Grief is my current guru.
She has taught me about the preciousness of life.
She has taught me about The Mother’s depth of love.
She has taught me how to fully surrender to the Unknown.
She has taught me just how alive this dream is inside of me.
She has taught me about the inseparable nature of grief and love.
It’s hard to explain grief like this. I’ve been blessed to have gone 35 years and not felt much of this specific emotion in my life. I’ve lost a few grandparents, my uncle Mike passed away from ALS way too young. I was incredibly sad, I shed tears, said my goodbyes to these family members…but this…losing a child is unexplainable.
I never got to hold Dash in my arms, but I held him in my belly.
Chase and I held the dream of him in our hearts and minds every day since before he was conceived.
Dreaming of his birth, the memories to be made, the special moments learning to be his parents, and so many other tiny dreams within the dream.
When you say goodbye to your baby, you’re also saying goodbye to all of this.
I now have so much empathy for parents who have lost a child and never recovered.
I see how easy it would be to let the depression take me completely. When you lose a child, a piece of YOU dies, and nothing else seems to matter.
Of course, that’s not true— there is so much in my life that matters.
My marriage
My family
My health
My work in the world
But that takes time to remember. When you are in the “grief fog,” you can’t see anything in front of you.
And it would be spiritually bypassing if I pretended I wasn’t in the fog.
I had to let myself be taken over.
To cry when I felt it. Every day, multiple times per day.
To not protect others from my pain.
To step back from work abruptly.
To hermit myself.
Grief demands it.
From Excruciating Bliss by Rohini Elyse Mauk
As I sit at my kitchen table writing this, it’s been 43 days since we lost him.
I still cry when I say his name. Or look at his tiny foot print. Or tell the story to someone new.
My heart still hurts. I don’t know if it will ever stop hurting completely.
As I’ve moved through it all and shared this tragic story with our family and close friends, people inevitably try to find the words to comfort, soothe and provide hope. It’s all out of love—I know this—but nothing lands. Nothing sticks. Nothing helps. Some people sense this and even say, “There are no words.” They’re right.
Frankly, there are no sounds you can make with your mouth that will soothe a grieving mother who has just lost her child.
Except one thing, for me…
An acquaintance tells me, “…Ten years ago I lost a baby girl at 16 weeks pregnant and it remains the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. She stays with me, still. I grieve her, still. I think I always will.”
When I read her vulnerable share I realize something: this is the only thing that has remotely helped in weeks. A salve for my open, raw wounds.
Hearing from a mother who knows how I feel.
Being seen and felt.
Reminded that we are not alone.
She’s not the only mother in my life who gets it. A very close friend’s sister had this EXACT same thing happen to her just a few months before us. Very similar fatal issues with her baby boy, found at the anatomy scan, and then lost him just a week or so later.
We’ve spent hours on the phone and countless texts sharing our pain.
I told her this is my strangest and most morbid friendship, but I’m so grateful for it.
We both agree, hearing from other mothers is helpful — simultaneously heartbreaking and consoling.
As common as these types of losses are, they are not shared enough. For multiple reasons, I am sure.
It’s brutally painful to discuss for the parents.
Our society generally avoids the topic of death.
People struggle to know how to respond.
Or maybe the parents just want privacy.
And probably a hundred other reasons.
If you are reading this as a parent who has lost a child of any age, in utero or otherwise, I see your pain. You are not alone.
I see your pain, and I see your strength. Your resiliency. Your unending love.
For the last few weeks I’ve been contemplating how to share my story. If I’m honest, I didn’t really want to share. It’s very, very painful reliving it all. But I knew there would be a catharsis to my sharing, and someone out there I probably don’t even know will be helped in some way as well.
“I’ll write a blog post,” I thought, “and I’ll open it up for other women to share too so we can all give and receive a virtual hug.”
From strangers, yes, but strangers who GET IT.
If it feels right to you, I invite you to share your story with us here.
In the comments.
There is no pressure to share, of course. You can simply read other women’s words and soak up the sameness if that feels right.
If you DO share, I would love to hear:
What happened?
How did you move through your grief?
What helped? What didn’t help?
What did the experience teach or reveal to you?
Thank you in advance for having the courage to share and be seen by others.
It’s no small thing.
As I close this out…
Chase and I have loved the name Dash for a son since we were in college. It stuck with us through marriage, divorce, then getting remarried. When we chose it, I had no idea that he would actually be dashing in and out of our lives like this.
Of course, he will never truly leave us. His future sibling(s) will know they had a brother. He has taught our family so much.
A recent text from my sister, Serena:
“Dash is special in many ways and one of those is that he will never be forgotten. His time with you is still teaching us all, but you two most of all, new facets of how precious life is and new capacities inside us for depth of emotions and loss.
All many of us can ask for is to leave a lasting impression and change people in meaningful ways. Dash did that before learning to breathe on his own. That’s one powerful little soul.
The ferocity with which you and Chase loved that little boy is mostly what made him really real to me. He is this permanent member of the family in a way that’s difficult to feel with a miscarriage. He made his presence known, you and Chase honored that by putting words to every part of his life. Great parents.”
Where are we at now?
Every day is different. Some days I’m distracted from pain, hopeful, and laughter comes easily.
Other days I feel like I’m about to weep at any moment. I feel the full weight of his void in my body. Saying his name feels like a dagger to my heart.
I allow all of it.
It’s a journey, and we’re taking one step at a time.
I’m doing my best to care for a post-loss, post-partum body that wants to get pregnant again soon. Something hardly anyone talks about…
I’m forever grateful to my love, my baby daddy, my Soul’s mate, Chase for taking care of me, holding me up when I couldn’t hold myself. He is my hero.
I’m taking baby steps getting back into work and our business.
I’m letting my emotions flow out into art.
The Mother, painted at Paul Chek’s mandala workshop.
I don’t know what the future holds for us. I believe with every fiber of my heart and Soul that some day we will have a healthy forever baby. I feel it.
As we step into 2025, we are stepping into possibility. We are here, open to the gifts of God and the Universe. Not forcing anything. Just…open to possibility.
One thing is for sure: Dash is the one who made me a mommy. He’ll always be a part of me as I carry his cells in my body for the rest of my life.
And thinking of that brings an easy smile to my face.
Life is wild, beautiful and brutal.
