I Gave Birth in A Silent Hospital Room… (TW: miscarriage/baby loss story)

When we think of birth stories, many of us picture the beauty, joy, and celebration of welcoming a new life into the world. But not all birth stories follow that narrative. Some are filled with heartache, tough choices, and a journey through grief. Today, I want to share a deeply personal story, one that is not easy to tell but has shaped me as a mother and as a person. This is the story of my third pregnancy, where I learned that even in the darkest of times, we can find autonomy and strength.

The Excitement of My Third Pregnancy

After giving birth to my first child in a hospital setting, followed by a beautiful water birth at a birth center for my second, I was excited to plan my dream home birth for my third. My two children, ages four and six, were thrilled to find out they were going to have a baby sister. We were all looking forward to welcoming her into our lives.

Early in my pregnancy, everything seemed to be going smoothly. I was seeing my home birth midwives, and every checkup showed that my baby was right on track. I even found out through a sneak peek test that we were having a girl! Our family was over the moon with excitement. I kept my pregnancy relatively private, not announcing it on social media, which was unusual for me, as I typically share most aspects of my life online. I wanted to surprise everyone with a beautiful home birth story.

The 22-Week Anatomy Scan

At 22 weeks, I went for my anatomy scan. My husband wasn’t able to come with me due to work, but I reassured myself that it would be a routine appointment. After all, we already knew it was a girl, and I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. However, during the ultrasound, something didn’t feel right. I’ve seen enough ultrasounds, both as a mother and a childbirth educator, to know that something was off.

The ultrasound technician didn’t say much, but I could sense the tension. When she told me the doctor would need to speak with me, my heart sank. I knew something was wrong. The doctor eventually informed me that my baby had a condition called cystic hygroma, where fluid-filled sacs were forming around her heart and brain. Her chances of survival were less than 1%.

Heartbreaking Decisions

The doctor gave me the option to terminate the pregnancy, but I wasn’t ready to make that decision. There was no risk to me at the time, and despite the odds, I wanted to continue the pregnancy and see how long we could hold on. I wasn’t willing to give up without a fight, so I went home, researched every possible option, and contacted specialists all over the country, hoping to find someone who could help.

Unfortunately, the news didn’t get better. By Friday of that same week, I woke up crying and fell to the floor. I knew deep in my heart that she was gone. I had my follow-up appointment with the high-risk doctor that Monday, and although I knew what the outcome would be, I asked them to confirm it. They did. There was no heartbeat.

The Labor and Delivery

What followed was a painful but necessary process. I had to deliver my daughter. Even though it was a small and silent birth, I made choices to honor her. I declined pain medication, opting for a natural delivery, just as I had with my other children. I wanted to give her the same experience I had planned, even in the midst of this tragedy.

The silence in the delivery room was deafening. There were no cries, no joyful celebration, just the weight of loss. But there was also love. My husband and I held her, a tiny one-pound, four-ounce baby, and we were able to spend time with her, cherishing those quiet moments.

Finding Autonomy in Grief

Despite the devastation, one thing remained clear to me—I still had autonomy over my choices. I made informed decisions about how to deliver my daughter and how to treat her, even in death. It wasn’t easy, but it was important to me that I had the power to make those decisions in an environment where many women feel they have none.

We took pictures of our daughter, something I am incredibly grateful for now. A nurse, whose kindness changed everything for me, spoke to my daughter as if she were any other baby. She said, “Isn’t she beautiful?” and congratulated me on being her mother. Those words meant the world to me at a time when it felt like no one else wanted to acknowledge that my daughter was real and that I was still her mother.

Honoring Payton’s Memory

After her birth, we named her Payton Marie. We created a special place for her in our home—a shelf in our living room where we keep her blanket, a bear that weighs the same as her, and little notes and mementos from our children. Every year on her birthday, we buy a gift that corresponds with the age she would have been and donate it to a local shelter. This has become a cherished tradition in our family and a way to honor her life.

Moving Forward

Grief is not a linear process, and it’s something I carry with me every day. My next pregnancy was filled with anxiety and questions from my children—“Is this baby going to die too?”—which was heartbreaking to hear. But through it all, I’ve learned that loss doesn’t define us. The way we choose to move forward, to honor our lost loved ones, and to find strength in the face of unimaginable pain—that is what defines us.

If you are reading this and have experienced loss, know that you are not alone. The pain can feel overwhelming, but there is support, and there is hope. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here, and I would love to support you.

Thank you for allowing me to share my story. Payton may not be with us physically, but she will always be a part of our family, a part of our hearts, and a part of our lives.

If you would like to connect or need support, feel free to reach out to me on Instagram @wildflower_birthservices. You can also connect with Deb at @douladeb.

Sending you love, light, and positive birthing vibes. 🌼 Lindsee