Imagine sitting in a room of 100 people. A spokesperson walks onto the stage at the front of the room and announces that twenty five of you will be selected. You have no idea what is awaiting you, though know that one in four means your chances are not too bad.
At random, you get selected and are directed to move into the room next door. Part of you is excited, while part of you is nervous. As you make your way through a doorway and into the next room, you wonder to yourself, “Do I get a prize? What is this about?”
The spokesperson walks into the room and stands before you and the other twenty-four candidates. He looks very formal and has a flat affect. It’s hard to tell if the information he is going to share is good or bad. You find yourself holding your breath in anticipation of what you hope to be some kind of reward.
Without hesitation or remorse, he tells you that you will experience the death of your baby.
Your throat tightens. A heaviness creeps into your chest and you feel like you’re going to be sick. What kind of cruel joke is this?
It’s not a joke. These are the actual numbers faced for women experiencing pregnancy. I share this not to scare you, only to reinforce a reality faced by so many women.
Statistics reveal that approximately 25% of all pregnancies, will end before the second trimester. Some studies have calculated this number to be as high as 50%. Additionally , the CDC calculates that approximately 1 in 100 pregnancies will result in stillbirth.
Do these numbers shock you? I was certainly shocked when I came to discover the facts.
The truth is, the conversation I had with my healthcare providers about pregnancy loss was brief. So brief, it could be captured in four words, “it’s a small percentage.” I wish I had known more and felt better prepared.
Because in my case, I am not even considered 1 in 4.
I am not even considered 1 in 100.
In the scenario above, I didn’t get selected.
I thought I was safe. I made it into my second trimester. Then into my third.
It was a challenging pregnancy, though at each of my ultrasounds, my daughter was content. She was stubborn; she refused to allow any photos of her face to be captured, though she was what we all thought to be healthy and strong.
It wasn’t until a few days before my daughter’s birth that we were told she wouldn’t live independently outside of my womb. The only reason we found out when we did, was because my membranes ruptured early at 31 weeks gestation. As a result, I was flown out of the province and to a larger centre with advanced equipment. It was this equipment that revealed a long list of complications that would make our baby’s survival unlikely.
Her diagnosis? We don’t know.
We may never know.
July 2023 will mark three years since her passing. Immediately following her death, we began collaborating with a team of researchers within the scientific community to try and find a cause. To date, the team is not aware of any other known cases or what would have caused our daughter’s complications and symptoms.
Not having answers has weighed on my mind over the years.
Just as others who experience pregnancy and infant loss, we are left with “why?”
“Why me?”
“Why my baby?”
“What could I have done differently?”
“What if I did things differently?”
So many questions, most without answers. Questions that loss moms carry with us, alongside our grief.
Pregnancy and infant death is something we carry with us each and every day.
It’s heavy. It can be loud. It can be all consuming and messy.
Our babies were small, though the experience of baby loss is not.
Finding the path forward
The current culture and societal views on pregnancy and infant death command that women suppress, hide, and isolate the pain, grief, and experiences that accompany baby loss. It’s important to highlight that within this silence, shame, resentment, anger, and stigma breeds.
I am here to advocate and demonstrate that by doing the opposite, each of us can contribute to changing this culture.
When I began sharing my story, almost immediately following I had family, friends, coworkers, and acquaintances step forward and open up about their own experiences of baby loss. Some of which had never spoken about or processed the death of their babies previously.
The death of my daughter Kailani not only opened my eyes to the realities faced by others, though it also guided me to create safe spaces for my fellow loss parents. It’s through our stories of pain that we can connect and support one another in being seen, heard, and valued.
Based on the statistics alone, someone you know or someone you love, has experienced pregnancy or infant loss. What’s needed is a safe and supportive space to be able to openly share and grieve the death of our babies. I invite you to create these spaces for others by offering a listening, compassionate and non-judgemental ear for those in your life.
Grief is not meant to be done in isolation or in hiding. No parent should have to navigate the life long pain and grief that accompanies baby loss.
Each of these babies has left an impact and an everlasting change in our world. They will always be carried in the hearts of those they left behind.
Together we remember. Together we keep their memory alive. Together we carry the weight of our grief.
Forever Loved
Kailani Mary Randall
July 25, 2020
