He's arrived. And he has passed.

This is the story of the loss of my baby. It begins at 22 weeks and 2 days into my first pregnancy.

So throughout my pregnancy, I’d been to my OB multiple times complaining of brown spotting. My doctors told me repeatedly that I just had a “really bad yeast infection”. This time I was prescribed a 7-night internal treatment for yeast. 

In my gut, I knew this wasn’t a yeast infection. But I didn't trust myself. After all, she was the doctor. She knew best. 

So I went home and inserted the suppository she had prescribed.

I woke up the following day, January 31, 2008, and put on a panty liner in preparation for the leaking I’d be experiencing throughout the day. As expected, all day long I dealt with the leaking while teaching about Ancient Rome to a bunch of sixth graders. Fun times.

I was leaking more than I had in the past when I’d used these suppositories, but instead of possibly overreacting and calling the doctor only to be told it was normal, I just kept changing the panty liners.

I’ll never forget the moment it happened. 

The bell rang to end the 6th period -- it was 1:26 PM. I felt a huge gush of fluid. I looked down to see that my pants were soaked and ran to the restroom. It was clear fluid so I stupidly went home to change on my free period and went back to teach my 8th-period class. 

Do you hear what I am saying? I went home. I changed my clothes. I threw the pants in the laundry. I went back to school to teach my last class. I was out of touch with my body and out of touch with my instincts. And I was so conditioned to trust my doctor and ignore my gut that I went back to teach my last class.

I did try to call the doctor in the meantime, but the line just kept ringing with no answer, which was pretty normal for that practice of 16 doctors, so I just figured I would call after school. 

It’s been 15 years and I still have a hard time accepting that I was so out of touch with what was happening to me and my baby. 

I went down to the cafeteria at the end of the day to see my then-husband, who was also a teacher at the same school. He was getting ready to leave on a school bus with his team for a wrestling match in east-bumble-fuck. I cried when I told him what happened, but assured him that I was fine and that our baby was fine.

And I actually think I believed that.

I went home and went to the bathroom. I saw that there was blood on the toilet paper and called the doctor again. Finally, someone answered. And when they said to come in right away, I knew I had to face the fact that this was not normal and that my baby might not be okay.

I called my mom and asked her to come with me to the doctor. I remember the traffic being insane that day and I was trying to hide my fear from my mom, and she was doing the same for me. 

When we finally got to the office, they took me back immediately. Now I was sure that I was in real trouble.

The doctor came in immediately and performed an internal exam. She said she’d be right back, and when she returned she brought in the ultrasound machine. She looked and I saw my little Cooper in there moving around. To me, he looked okay, which gave me momentary relief. 

But when she was done, she sat me up and said, "Okay, this has nothing to do with the medication you took yesterday. Your water broke." 

I said, "What does that mean?" I mean, I knew what it meant, but I just wanted to know if my baby would be okay. 

And she said, "Sometimes we can keep you pregnant for a long time. You need to go right to the hospital."

That moment is seared in my brain forever.

I ran out of the room with my shoes half on and yelled to my mom that we had to go to the hospital. I was crying in fear. 

She asked "Why? Why?" and I yelled at her to just come on. The woman yelled for me to check out and I basically told her to fuck off. I forgot my jacket.

We got into the car and I called my then-husband and told him through my hysteria what had happened. Remember, he was at a wrestling meet a half hour away and had taken a bus to get there. Later I found out that he had one of the fathers drive him. He said that on their way out of the school, the man offered him congratulations and Josh said, "No. this isn't good. She’s only 22 weeks pregnant." Apparently, they both broke into a sprint.

At the hospital, I was checked again internally by another doctor who said that first, we had to hope that I would make it 24 hours without going into labor. Then we would hope for a week. Then every day after that would get him closer to viability. 

I remember telling him that the baby was head down at my last check and he said that was a good thing. Still, I was clueless and asked him why. he said, "In case we have to deliver." OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.

Sometime early the next morning, I began to feel a tightening. I wasn't sure if I had to poop or if I was contracting. They hooked me up to a monitor. 

They kept saying I wasn't contracting. But I knew I was.

Eventually, contractions registered on the monitor slightly. Another doctor came in to stick his hand inside of me. I wasn’t dilated and my cervix was still closed. They gave me something, morphine, I think, with the hopes that my uterus would relax and that contractions would stop. 

They didn't. And they moved me to L&D.

At this point, post-membrane rupture, I had been given five vaginal exams. And then, around 11 AM, I spiked a fever. 

Another doctor came in and said, with hands over her mouth, "I'm so sorry. We are going to have to induce." I just said, "Okay." My ex lost it at that point and ran out of the room in hysteria. My mom went after him and told him not to cry and that he had to hold it together for me. But I wanted him to cry. I didn't want people to hold it together. I wanted everyone in that hospital to be sad and enraged for me. I wanted everyone in that hospital to feel what I was feeling.

At some point, the pediatricians came in to talk to us about 22-weekers. The news was all bad. Basically, we could try to be as aggressive as possible, and if he survived, he’d probably have multiple handicaps. I knew immediately that I couldn't do that to this baby. I knew his spirit. And somehow I just knew that wasn’t his purpose here. He was ready to go. He had lessons to teach us.

But let me tell you, there is nothing in the world like having to decide in a moment whether or not to let your baby die. I remember saying, "Is he really asking me this? Do I have to decide this now?" 

Yes. Yes, I did.

Around 5:15, I felt like I had to poop. The doctor came in to check my cervix, and I remember her saying, "She can push." 

All I can remember at that moment was seeing my dad's face. My dad who never cried. My dad, who spent his entire life protecting me from all of the bad in the world, had to watch as I experienced the greatest pain that anyone can imagine. 

They cleared the room. I pushed three times and my tiny baby was born. 

I asked, "Is he alive?" I wanted to hold him while he was alive. The nurse said that he was and that she would clean him up and bring him back to me.

Hell no -- I wanted him covered in blood and vernix. I wanted to hold him before he was gone.

She placed him on my chest and we stared at him and loved him through our tears for his whole life.

These were simultaneously the best and worst minutes of my life. He made some noises. He gasped for breath a few times, which made me fear that he was in pain. His eyes were closed. 

He was a tiny bundle of love and peace. 

I kept apologizing to him over and over telling him how sorry I was.

And then, he was gone. 

I wanted to keep holding him forever, but my ex became uncomfortable as the baby turned cold. They took him and cleaned him up and dressed him. They brought him back and we held some more. 

His grandparents came in to see him and to hold him. My dad wouldn't hold him. He couldn't.

Eventually, they took him away to some room in the basement where all the dead bodies were. They put a leaf on our door with a teardrop so that everyone would know that our baby had died.

I cried throughout the night and every time I woke, I had to remember all over again what had happened. That went on for weeks. The pain of infant loss is indescribable, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone, not even my worst enemy. I was empty, both literally and figuratively. 

Sharing the story of my micro-preemie helps me feel better, knowing that he was once here with us. Every time I share his story, I feel a little bit more healed. 

I also share his story because I want you to understand the importance of trusting your instincts and speaking up when you feel that something isn't right. It's essential to be informed about common interventions and to make wise choices when selecting a care provider. If my doctors had listened to me, and if I had asked more questions, perhaps my baby would still be here today, a 15-year-old kid driving me bananas with his teenage nonsense.