Jane Rollins’ Story

I laid on my back and stared at the tiled ceiling–the cheap kind they put in schools and apparently midwifery office buildings–but I didn’t register what I was seeing. My attention was instead focused on my ears, listening to the empty static sounds of the Doppler wand as it rolled across my swollen abdomen. I was waiting for the whooshing sound of my baby’s heartbeat, pulsing around 150 beats per minute as it had for the past 39 weeks. Where was it?

My midwife, Teryl, grew more and more concerned, but tried to keep a professional demeanor. I had just told her everything was normal and my baby was moving fine. He had been moving fine, hadn’t he? When was the last time I had felt him kick? I hadn’t been paying attention. With two other young kids at home keeping me busy, and the hyperemesis gravidarum that plagued me my entire pregnancy, all I had felt was miserable. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically ready to deliver any day now, with my due date only a week away. This was supposed to be a routine checkup, yet here I was, listening to silence, dread seeping in with every empty second.

The midwife brought in her assistant, Amber, and an old ultrasound machine they rarely used. They began checking me with it and I looked at the screen with them. Nothing on the screen moved. It’s not conclusive, they said, quickly turning the machine off. They needed to call in their professional ultrasound technician to confirm, and it would take him about an hour to get there. I tried to breathe slowly, to calm myself, but my mind raced towards dozens of conclusions, most of which weren’t happy endings.

“I need my husband,” I told my midwives. Stephen was at home with our two children, working while he supervised them during the COVID lockdown. It was May of 2020, and the world was inside–remote school and work being the new normal. We were a one-car family, and I had driven myself to the appointment. I needed Stephen, which meant I needed to drive home to get him. Teryl and Amber were hesitant to let me out of their sights in my stunned emotional state, but I was insistent. He needed to be here with me. I called him before I left the parking lot, and it was as the phone rang and he answered that the tears finally came. “They can’t find the heartbeat,” was all I said in greeting. I briefly explained what was happening and informed him I was coming to get him. He remained calm–his level-headed self when I needed it most–and hung up to make arrangements with the neighbors to watch the kids.

An hour or so later, with Stephen now next to me, I was back at the midwives’ office. The ultrasound technician, Phillip, had set up next to an exam chair, with his screen tilted towards me. Again I lay down, and his wand moved to my middle, swirling the cold jelly across my skin. It took only seconds before he tilted the screen away from my view. The moment he did, I knew the outcome I had been mentally pushing away was indeed conclusive. Phillip said something apologetically, but I didn’t hear him. I didn’t have to in order to know what he meant.

“No,” I thought, or maybe said out loud. “No! No! No!” I wailed. Tears and moans. Agony. I clutched Stephen’s hand in mine as I rolled around in heartbreak. Our baby was gone. After all this time. Right at the finish line. And he was gone. Dead.

My midwives cried with me. Stephen did too. Phillip spoke to Teryl and Amber and then excused himself to give me space. My midwives stepped out, letting me and my husband cry together. It was then that we decided on the name Garrett. We had read a book together a few years prior where a character named Garrett was a strong warrior who fought for goodness and defended what was right. I knew our baby was strong, and we both felt at that moment that the name suited him. We gave him the middle name Jack after my late grandfather and found a sliver of peace in having that decision made.

Stephen and I spoke with Amber and Teryl about how to move forward. A new level of fear hit me when they explained I would still need to give birth just the same as if he had been alive. I almost ditched my plans for an unmedicated birth in exchange for an epidural, wanting to just be given as many drugs as possible to numb myself out of feeling anything, whether physical or emotional. But, I had done water births at birthing centers for my previous two pregnancies and had loved the experience. After the moment of panic washed away, I wanted to proceed with my original plan. They talked about natural methods of induction, but I asked if I could have some time before beginning that process.

We went home, oscillating between every emotion known to humankind within the next 36 hours. Telling my five-year-old daughter that her baby brother had died and watching her face crumple tore my heart all over again. My three-year-old son was clueless but clingy when he saw everyone crying. My mom drove four hours to be with me as soon as she heard the news, knowing I would need her, which I very much did. She and my mother-in-law helped me make arrangements for both delivery and death. I called a birth photographer and a mortuary, one after the other. We received flowers and sympathy messages as friends and family heard about the news, whether from the Facebook post I made or through the texting trees others had set up so I wouldn’t have to keep everyone in the loop.

I pushed forward, working through my to-do list, reaching out for support. I had been referred by multiple sources to an organization called Share Parents of Utah, a group that offered pregnancy loss support. I called the hotline and a woman named Julie answered. I held my emotions together as I briefly explained my situation, but her kind sympathy on the phone seemed to give me permission to cry to her. Julie spoke gently about ideas of things to pack, like bringing multiple clothes I wanted him to wear, since this would be my only chance, or to grab a book I wanted to read to him. It’s because of that suggestion that I slipped Love You Forever by Robert Munsch into my bag, which ended up being a sentimental item in the years to come.

In a numb whirlwind, I worked through my task list into the late evening. It was just as I hung up the phone with the final arrangement that my cramping began–not a moment too soon. It was as if my body knew I was as prepared as I was going to be. After an hour of progressive cramping, I took a shower–my litmus test to know if this was real labor or Braxton Hicks. I prayed in the shower for strength to face what was coming, scared not for the pain, but for what would come after.

My cramps turned into contractions after my shower, and called my brother over to watch my kids overnight. I then called my midwives and told them it was time. My husband, my mom, and I left my home just before midnight and drove to the birthing center. Teryl, Amber, and a bereavement doula named Katrina waited solemnly, the lights dimmed, the mood somber, sensitive to all the emotions I might be feeling. What they did not anticipate was for me to stride in, clap my hands together, and exclaim, “Let’s get this party started!”

What had every right to be a sad process turned into one of the funniest labors any of us had experienced. We turned up the lights, chatted away, cracked jokes, and laughed. I turned on my playlist of birthing music: a collection of punk pop songs that were popular when I was in middle school. I got comfy in the birthing tub, just like I had done with my previous two births, and let the warm water and gentle jets soothe my contractions. My midwives also set up a self-administered nitrous oxide machine which let me breathe laughing gas to my heart’s content. The laughing gas helped me through each deep contraction, separating me from the intensity of the pain, while wearing off in seconds.

Maybe it was the laughing gas, or maybe I just coped with humor, but I loved my labor. The only tears that were shed during that time were from laughing too hard. We were unabashedly irreverent. I was the one joking the most, and at one point, I even pulled out my random party trick and recited the Gettysburg Address, not even stopping through a contraction.

It was just after 1:00 in the morning, about an hour after arriving at the birthing center, that I knew I was close to pushing. I requested the song Black Parade by My Chemical Romance be put on repeat. Teryl confirmed I was fully dilated and sat on the edge of the tub, letting me know I could push whenever I was ready. All the humor and nitrous oxide couldn’t protect me from the fear of the unknown. “I’m scared,” I admitted.

“I know,” Teryl responded. But did she know? Did she know that I wasn’t scared to push? That was the easy part compared to not knowing what I would see come out of me. I bore down, slow but strong, not wanting to tear, but needing to get through the physical pain quickly. It took four pushes for Garrett to be born. Immediately, Teryl grasped his limp body and placed him on my chest.

I looked down at my son and saw perfection. Absolute perfection. He was beautiful. My motherly instincts took over, and I knew that this baby was mine. He looked like my other children, his body showing off every facial feature exactly as it should.

I reached down to touch him, my thumb rested on his chin, but as I applied a bit of pressure as if to open the mouth of my quiet baby, skin peeled down, tearing away a small piece from his deceased body. I panicked, realizing how fragile he truly was, and felt awful for hurting him. He had passed several days ago inside of me, and the body had begun its natural decomposing process before he had even been born. Covered in vernix with small patches of decayed skin, my baby was both birth and death incarnate.

We moved from the tub to a soft bed, drying off together, and I never let Garrett out of my arms. I held my baby close to me while my midwives examined me, making sure all was well, which it was. Then they stood back, not exactly sure what to do, since this would be the time they would be examining the baby. I snuggled my son’s lifeless body. My husband laid behind me and held us both, the three of us together, soaking in the moment. There maybe should have been more tears, but I was consumed with love and awe, overlooking all drawbacks and seeing through the macabre.

After a while, the physical exhaustion of what had occurred overtook me, and I decided I should sleep. My mother held Garrett while I rested for a few hours. I remember laying in bed as I was dozing off, wondering how I could ever explain the emotion I was feeling to others. How, in this darkest moment of my life, I was overcome with light. How joy was the overwhelming emotion coursing through me, and undeniable peace despite an intense grief, which I also held close. How both emotions could be so strong at the same time.

I knew I could never accurately put it into words. No poem or song could capture the depth of emotions that early morning carried. But maybe there was beauty in that. That this special experience was mine and mine alone. The gift that came with the loss that no one else could understand. Not without the level of sacrifice it takes to give your body for that of another, only to cross the finish line empty-handed, yet somehow be grateful you had the opportunity to do so all the same. If Garrett had needed this from me–this sacrifice of growing his body for this world, even though he was never meant to live in it–then it was my honor and privilege to do so. How blessed was I to be his mother!

After a few hours of sleep, I woke to a quiet that shouldn’t have come with a newborn. But my mom had held my son all night, rocking him in a chair close by, bundled up in blankets with ice packs tucked in between to keep his body cold. I spent time with him that morning, admiring all ten toes and fingers, the slightly upturned nose like mine, and the decent amount of dark hair he had.

There were moments that caught me off guard, though, like when his skull shifted in my hands since the lack of pulsing blood did not put enough pressure on it to hold the back of his head firm. Or when a closer inspection showed clearer signs of trisomy 13, like his ribcage being shorter than it should be, with his nipples higher and farther apart than normal. His facial features were also slightly smaller proportioned compared to the size of his head, though it was hard for me to notice that detail.

Once it was a reasonable hour for the rest of the world to be awake, I sent for my two other children to come to the birthing center to meet their brother. It was something I had initially held fear about doing, but after talking with a friend about it, she had advised me to let them see him for their sake. He was their brother, and they had a right to meet him, flaws and all. This situation was going to be traumatic for them no matter what I did, so hiding Garrett from my other children wasn’t going to shield them from grief and pain. They were both curious but hesitant when they saw the unusual looking baby. Neither wanted to look long before asking to play with toys, as was typical for a five- and three-year-old. But they came in and out of my room during the morning, spending time there and in an adjacent room for some space.

I also made a call to Julie from Share Parents of Utah. She showed up into the room with an assessing look on her face, and then saw me and smiled gently, and I immediately knew I would be in good hands. I gave her my son to look after, and she bathed him so gently, somehow not damaging his skin that I was so afraid of hurting more. She also made molds of his hands and feet, again in a process so gentle, I was impressed. As she was wrapping up with that, a photographer from a charity called Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep came. She and my doula took beautiful pictures of Garrett. Julie helped pose him with different mementos and trinkets, all of which she left as gifts for me and my family. She gave us bears and blankets for my kids, things which became comfort items for them in the weeks to come.

One of my favorite photos was a shot set up with Garrett wrapped in a crochet blanket my grandmother had made–the last one she had finished before she passed away–lying beside the book Love You Forever, the one I grabbed on a whim. It’s turned to the first page, where the mother is rocking her baby and says, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.” That line resonated with my soul, knowing that, as long as I’m living, Garrett will be my baby, and I will love him forever and always.

When their work was done, the women who were helping me left, and I spent a few more hours with my baby–both in the company of my family, and by myself, in personal moments between just me and my son. I prayed over him, cried over him, laughed over him, longed over him. He was strength and peace, and I felt his spirit close all morning, as if he was standing guard over his tiny body.

Eventually, it felt like it was time to call the mortuary to come pick up this tiny body. I wasn’t sure how I would be able to hand over my son to a stranger and watch him be taken away. The mortician showed up in a mask as per COVID protocols, and maybe it made it easier to not see the full face of the man who embodied my dread. But he carried a small Moses basket, lined with a soft green blanket. His eyes conveyed compassion as he placed the carrier near Stephen and me. We changed the blanket Garrett was wrapped in so he would be swaddled in the new green blanket, but we held him for just a minute longer. The mortician didn’t rush us as we said goodbye for now, promising to see him in a few days at the mortuary. It made it easier knowing this wasn’t the final goodbye.

I kissed my son on his forehead and placed him in the basket, then handed him over to the masked stranger, who nodded and walked out with my newborn baby. Stephen held me as I clutched the empty blanket to my chest, cold from the ice packs that had been used to chill my son’s body, and rocked back and forth, soothing the baby that wasn’t there.