Freya’s Birth Story
March 27, 2019
Family picture before heading to the hospital to deliver Freya, little did we know...
I woke up early, excited, and nervous for the day ahead. Big Sister and I took the last chain off our Induction Day Countdown paperchain. I made her pancakes for breakfast to celebrate that today her baby sister, Freya, will finally be born! I rushed around getting the last of the toiletries packed in all our bags- Big Sister’s grandparent bag and our hospital bag. Sis picked out her favorite stuffed friends to take with her, and we took one last picture as a family of three. I hugged and kissed my oldest daughter and told her the next time we see her; she’ll get to hold her baby. Then, into the car we went, headed for the hospital. I was full of nerves and emotion already and just wanted to meet my baby girl.
The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever. It felt like we hit every red light, and I was sure we’d be late for our 9:30 induction. I hustled my husband along with our labor bag and raced to the elevator. Once at the Labor and Delivery desk, I signed in. One of the forms had a question about contacting our church if anything should happen. I remember thinking, “They won’t need that. This is a happy day!”
We settled into our room and met our nurse, Tasha. At 9:35’ish, she began to hook up the fetal heartbeat monitor. She was taking a long time trying to figure out where to put it. I was upbeat. I knew my baby girl; I told her, “Oh, she likes to snuggle down here. This is where her heartbeat is.” It wasn’t there. My heart began to race. Tasha said not to worry yet, that she was going to get a different machine. “Sometimes this happens.” I looked at my husband, who hadn’t begun to comprehend what could be happening. I started to realize that I hadn’t felt my baby move all morning. I quickly stole a piece of chocolate from the gift basket we gave to our nursing staff. Freya would go crazy wiggling over chocolate and green apples. Nothing. I started poking her feet and her butt and pleading for her to move. I yelled, “Freya, fight back! Kick mommy!” The tears were welling up. My doctor came in with an ultrasound machine. The tears started falling. She tried to reassure me, but I could feel that a mother’s worst nightmare was coming true. I squealed through the panic for my husband to hold my hand. I still don’t think the realization had hit him yet. The ultrasound showed no heartbeat and no movement. They brought in a high-risk doctor with a fancier ultrasound machine. Confirmed. No blood flow, either. Shock, confusion, denial, and heartache followed. For us and for our doctors.
Our doctor planned to induce at 39 weeks because Freya’s growth percentile was slowly falling. Due to Intrauterine Growth Restriction with Freya’s big sister, we had been monitored for growth every month during pregnancy, and her percentiles looked good. Our last growth scan was at 36 weeks. Her growth was declining, but according to her mathematical growth scan trends, she was not in danger and would remain above the 10th percentile, which is the point when professionals start to worry about complications like stillbirth. Freya was in the 9th percentile when she was born.
The doctors hugged me, whispered tear-filled apologies, and gave my husband and I a minute alone. The rest of the day was a blur. I remember calling my mom, who was watching our oldest daughter. Mom cried, too, and prayed as I bawled, barely holding onto the phone. I texted close friends and sent a mass email to our pastors and close church friends. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to them. They were all so excited and waiting for the happy text introducing her with a cute picture. Instead, they got pleas for prayers. My mind was all over the place. One second, hope, the other, desperation. I thought maybe the doctors could still be wrong; she can still be born alive. I refused to read my labor scriptures and affirmations. I accepted medication, because “I had no baby to worry about it affecting.” I cried the hardest when I let them do the epidural. I had wanted as close to a natural birth as I could get, considering I was being induced.
Questions and pamphlets and blood tests and contractions and tears filled the afternoon and evening. A white flower was taped to our door. At 6:41 pm, we met one of the most beautiful babies on the planet. Freya Grace was perfect in every way. Except, that she was dead. I watched her head emerge, longing for a cry or for her to open her eyes. I asked for her to be placed on my chest. I held her and sobbed. Numbly, I examined every centimeter of her body. I wanted to remember every tiny detail, all 5 lbs 14 oz and 20 inches of her. She had Mommy’s dark hair, Daddy’s eyebrows, Big Sister’s lips, and the family chin. Freya’s eyes were the most beautiful shade of deep ocean blue. Her eyelashes, little ears, tiny fingers and toes, strong legs, even the peach fuzz on her back and shoulders, were perfect. I wish I could stroke her chubby cheeks forever.
Freya Grace
I saw my strong husband wiping away tears and stroking our baby’s head. I saw the pain in the faces of our nurse and doctor. They wished they could bring her back to life and questioned what had gone wrong. Their protocols and guidelines said she was doing well! Those trends, their current, yet inaccurate, method of monitoring, failed her.
Later that night, we asked for our families to come up to the hospital. We wanted Big Sister to meet her little sister first. We wanted to be the ones to tell her that her baby sister won't be coming home. It was hard, so hard. The sadness in our daughter’s little face was indescribable. At 3 years old, how can one understand? At 34, I didn’t understand! But she, along with other family members, were able to talk to Freya and say hello and goodbye. To this day, I think that was one of the most difficult things we have ever had to do- saying hello and goodbye at the same time.
Big Sister meeting and saying goodbye to Freya
It's been four years now, and I’m not sure how I am surviving the death of my daughter. Most days, I feel like I am not. Every day, we struggle to live full lives while feeling an emptiness that only Freya can fill. Losing Freya is devastating. It is only through the hope of Heaven and the comfort of Jesus that I can face each day. He fills me with hope that one day, we’ll all be together. We’ll make up for lost moments, and I’ll never have to let Freya go. My family will finally be complete.
In the meantime, our family has a gaping hole in our hearts and in our lives where Freya should be. Today, 7 years old, Freya’s big sister says that she would give anything to play Barbies with her sister. I would give anything for that, too. If there had been better screening, surveillance, and stillbirth prevention, Freya would be here, growing up with her family.
I shine for Freya because she is my beautiful, precious daughter, and I love her and miss her something fierce. I am honored to have been chosen to be Freya’s Mommy and to carry her into God’s Kingdom. I will cherish the 39 weeks we spent together. This emptiness, this grief, this heartache will never go away. Her life and her story matter. She is changing the world.
Our family in DC in May advocating for stillbirth legislation
As a mom and stillbirth survivor, I don’t want another family to leave the hospital without their baby due to a preventable stillbirth. Visit www.shineforautumnact.org and healthybirthday.org to learn more about how you can join our efforts to make stillbirth a tragedy of the past.
Written by Freya’s mom, Jessi Michel