Getting Induced
There’s no way to fully prepare for a day like the one I had with Stanley, and yet, I look back on every moment from that day with a sense of bittersweet love. Sharing this is hard, but I believe it’s important—our story is his story, and every memory helps me honor him. After receiving the call that it was time to come in, I took a moment to steady myself. Packing our things felt surreal. I was walking through the motions of what should’ve been a joyful moment, and yet, I knew that this was also goodbye.
We arrived at the hospital on March 4th, 2022, where a line of strangers filtered through check-in, answering screening questions for COVID, the newest addition to an already heightened emotional landscape. Standing in that line felt unbearable—looking around, wondering if anyone could sense the heartbreak we carried with us. When it was our turn, I said the words aloud: "I’m here to be induced." Part of me almost expected the staff member to wonder why; I didn’t look as far along as a mother usually does at 22 weeks, and I knew this moment was for a purpose unlike most others. The idea of explaining our situation felt too heavy, so I held onto my grief quietly, focused on the fact that this was just one step closer to meeting Stanley.
The induction itself was a strange waiting game. We set up in our room, tucked our bags away, and the staff worked gently around us. The birthing suite felt oddly peaceful—a little oasis where I could focus on just being present with my baby. Our secondary midwife, who had shared the initial news of Stanley’s heart condition, was there to support us until our primary midwife could arrive. Even though we had never met her in person, her presence was warm, and she helped us talk through questions and find our footing. I wanted this day to feel like it was meant for Stanley, and she made sure we felt supported in that.
But in the midst of our calm, there were interruptions. Medical students came in unexpectedly, and as someone who normally advocates for students’ learning, I found myself overwhelmed and unable to speak up. I just wasn’t in a place where I could bear being a teaching moment in such a vulnerable time. Thankfully, when my primary midwife arrived, she handled it with care, ensuring that our space was preserved. I felt such relief knowing she was there, standing up for our wishes. It was an emotional anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
As the hours passed, the induction began to work, and the pains of labor started to make their way through my body. My threshold for physical pain was low that day; I was already experiencing more than enough emotionally, and I asked for an epidural, determined to face this in whatever way felt manageable. The anesthesiologist arrived quickly, and I felt the relief I so desperately needed wash over me. However, as the medication took effect, I started to feel nauseous and lightheaded. My blood pressure had dropped dangerously low. Nurses and doctors gathered around, making adjustments until they found the right placement. The sensation of coming back to myself after that brief scare reminded me of my resolve. I was here to meet my son, and no matter how overwhelming, I was going to see it through.
Taylor, my midwife, and I settled into a lull. The medications continued to work, but I was still waiting, feeling every emotion swirl together—excitement, dread, love, and fear. Taylor, trying to stay upbeat, had some snacks and a Coke, unaware that rest was just around the corner. As evening fell, our midwife encouraged us both to rest, and I drifted off in an anxious sleep, holding on to the knowledge that she was beside me. At one point, a strange, trumpet-like sound startled me awake, and I saw her smiling gently. “Are you feeling pressure?” she asked. I nodded, realizing that the moment had come.
In a flurry of emotion, we prepared to meet Stanley. Everything felt heightened. I looked to my midwife for calm reassurance as she went to get the doctor, who arrived quickly. And then, there he was—our MFM doctor, the one who had been with us through every agonizing decision. Relief flooded me. It was a small comfort to have him there, someone who had shown us such compassion, and who would now be the one to guide Stanley into the world.
The room was dark and quiet, just as I had hoped. Only the soft beeping of machines accompanied us, and with the warmth of my husband and midwife by my side, I felt cocooned in love. My MFM doctor gently encouraged me to push, his voice calm, grounding me. As I held onto every ounce of courage I had, I pushed—and then, with one final effort, Stanley was here. The doctor placed him on my stomach, and in that first moment, I was overwhelmed by how real he was. This tiny life we had been loving from afar was finally in my arms.
He was silent. My heart ached as I looked at our doctor, asking the question I dreaded most, “Is he alive?” He shook his head gently, and in that moment, I felt both heartbreak and an unexpected peace. Stanley had passed while still within me, in the safest, warmest place he knew. Somehow, I found comfort in knowing he hadn’t experienced any suffering. He was here, in my arms, and he was at peace.
The remainder of that evening was filled with love. Stanley was ours to hold, to kiss, and to cherish. I took his tiny fingers in mine, touched his little toes, memorized every part of him. Taylor held him and whispered to him softly. There were moments that felt like any other birth: the doctors and nurses gave us space to bond, clamped the cord, and wrapped him snugly in a blanket. Taylor cut the cord, a ritual we had anticipated in a different way but one that now felt sacred in its simplicity.
Once the medical steps were complete, it was just us—our little family. We spent that night with him, feeling both the weight of our loss and the love he had brought into our lives. We sang him songs, danced with him in our arms, and gave him every ounce of love we had saved for his future. I remember lying beside him, holding his tiny, perfect body close, and feeling a strange mix of joy and despair. This was our first night together and, heartbreakingly, our last.
I share this story because I know that Stanley’s life, though brief, was beautiful and filled with love. Each memory, each detail from that day is part of his story, a story I am so proud to tell. We left the hospital the next day empty-handed, but we left with hearts fuller than we could have imagined, filled with his memory, his tiny handprints on our hearts forever. Stanley taught me about love and loss in a way I never expected, and he will always be with me, wrapped in every loving memory we made that day.
