I knew Jacob was his name from the beginning, what I did not know was that he would be
stillborn. He died in utero, but there was no signs of miscarriage happening. At fifteen weeks
he was alive, at seventeen weeks I went in for a routine ultrasound and he was dead. I was
induced for a vaginal delivery, which was followed by a D&C because the placenta would not
detach. My doctor confirmed that it was indeed a boy. He was perfectly formed, and a closer
examination showed no medical reason for his death.
The hospital staff took pictures of his body for me to have later on, they made a small
memory box and placed everything inside it. That was what I took home. Not exactly what I
expected. His body was so small it fit in my hand, from the heel to fingertips. There was no
funeral because there was not enough body to bury. Hospital policy was to dispose of the
body of anything born dead that was prior to the age when a fetus could survive. Jacob was
before that point.
Eighteen months earlier my son Joseph had been born and passed away. I was fully
expecting to have a baby in my arms this time. I was expecting to nurse, nurture, and
generally enjoy having another baby. I needed to have this after having empty arms when I
left the hospital last time. My arms had been empty a long time and I had high hopes and
expectations of having them filled this time. It was not to be.
I said that a piece of me died when Joseph died, this time my hopes and dreams were
crushed also. I knew that I would never hold another baby in my arms and that it was
pointless to try. This time I went into a solid depression. I became angry and stayed that way.
This time people noticed that I was not doing well.
My dilemma was that I was angry that this son was taken away, my hopes and dreams were
crushed, and I had received loving guidance from my Father in Heaven that was as powerful
as the pain of this loss was. I was hurting and angry about it, but felt guilty because of the
spiritual gift I had received. How could I have these negative feelings when I had been so
richly blessed? I could not reconcile my pain with my blessings.
I was beaten. I had already had a miscarriage, my mom had died, Joseph was born with a
genetic defect and died, and now I had lost another son. This was all on top of the ugly
childhood I had survived. What was the point in trying anymore? Why should I care anymore?
No one else seemed to care about my feelings, hopes and dreams, or how I was doing - why
should I? Consequently I gave up.
Thankfully someone noticed and insisted that I get help. I was gently forced into counseling.
Four months after Jacob's delivery I began seeing a therapist, but found him to be
incompatible and changed to another one that was very compatible. This was the best thing I
have ever done for myself. But that is another story. One that is told in Breaking Free, a
Journey of Healing from Childhood Abuses.