Last week, I had a checkup with my OBGYN, an event I anticipated to be emotional but didn’t expect to hit me as hard as it did. The waiting room adorned with pictures of newborns and a noticeable absence of stillbirth-related resources made the wait excruciatingly uncomfortable. It felt like a stark reminder of what I had lost and the lack of education by medical professionals on the possibility of stillbirth.
As they called my name and led me back to the room, it was a déjà vu of two years prior when I was pregnant, filled with anticipation and hope. However, this time, the room felt hauntingly familiar, a place that held memories of joy but was now tinged with sorrow. The medical staff here wasn’t aware of my stillbirth experience; I had transferred my care midway during pregnancy.
The first nurse who came in for vitals and questions: how many pregnancies have I had, how many births I shared about losing my daughter to stillbirth, expecting at least a moment of acknowledgment or empathy, but she continued typing into the computer without missing a beat. Her lack of response felt like a cold breeze in an already chilling environment. The absence of a simple “What was her name?” or “How are you coping?” made the moment even more disheartening.
Alone in the sterile room, I prepared myself for the consultation, taking deep breaths to calm my nervous system. The OBGYN entered, delving into the routine questions, unaware of the emotional storm she was stepping into. I had to explain again about my previous pregnancy ending in stillbirth, reliving the pain with each word.
“Are you still breastfeeding?” she asked. The question cut to the core. No, I replied, with tears swelling in my eyes. It was a cruel reminder of the experiences I longed for but never got to have with my daughter.
After a wave of tears and a tissue from the OBGYN, the conversation took a more empathetic turn. She offered condolences, asked about my daughter’s name, and inquired about my support system. I mentioned counseling but expressed the lack of local support for stillbirth mothers, a void I aim to fill with our online sanctuary.
Leaving the appointment, I was emotionally drained, finding solace in the privacy of my car, I sobbed. It’s moments like these that remind me of the importance of creating a safe space for stillbirth moms—a place to share, heal, and find understanding in the midst of an often lonely journey.
I look forward to connecting with you, and reading your story in the sisterhood.
Aloha, Mamaste.