I thought I’d share this since this is the kind of thing I had wanted to read after losing my son. Cullen Paul was due 9/26/19 and we found out at our 20 week scan that he had anencephaly. It devastated my husband and I. We both spiraled into a deep, deep depression. After we lost him, the world was nothing but darkness for us. We stopped communicating. My husband had started smoking again. There was little joy in our home. Last year, the Sunday before thanksgiving I felt “sick”. Now I’ve felt this “sick” only one other time. I took a test in my bathroom that morning, and there it was. Two little pink lines that appeared almost instantly. I felt my heart slam to the pit of my stomach. I got dizzy. I read the pamphlet for the test over and over and over again because I felt sure this couldn’t be real. I searched online “what does two lines on a pregnancy test mean”. After I had finally convinced myself that what I was seeing was true, I walked out of the bathroom into the living room where my husband was. I laid the test down in front of him and started to cry. What if this baby doesn’t make it? What if the same thing happens again? How could I go through such a tremendous loss again? Am I even mentally strong enough to handle doing it again? I won’t know for sure if this baby is okay until at least 15 weeks from now. If I had such low chances of having one child with anencephaly, what’s to say the baby won’t have some other incredibly rare anomaly that I’m so unfortunate to have to suffer through? I walked on eggshells for the first 20 weeks. Took a tour of the birth center and cried the whole way through. Was a nervous wreck at every doctor’s appointment, terrified they’d find something wrong. Found out I was having a girl, and the realization I would not be having a son hit me hard. This was truly goodbye to my sweet boy. Maybe I felt like if I had another son, Cullen could be replaced in a way even though I never consciously thought that. 20 week scan rolls around and I’m a nervous wreck. The sonography knew my history, so the very first thing she checked was her head. As the probe rolled across my belly, there it was. The most beautiful, round, perfect little head I’ve ever seen in my life. And a little beating heart, kicking legs, bouncing around, the works. She was perfect not only to me, but the sonographer. I breathed a slight bit of relief, but still worried something else could happen or they had missed something. As the weeks went on, I decompressed slowly. 22 weeks, if she’s born now, they can try to keep her alive. 25 weeks, she has a fair chance of survival. 30 weeks, she has a high chance of survival. 36 weeks, she’s full term. 40 weeks, any day now. 41 weeks, come on baby girl, time to come out...at 41+3, I went in for a checkup. They monitored her for a bit and determined she was a happy baby and wasn’t stressed. The midwife asked when my last ultrasound had been and I told her that it was 3 days ago and everything was fine. The midwife said she was going to have me do another just to make sure. We walked into the sonographer’s office. I could plainly see there was no amniotic fluid. The sonographer asked if I had been leaking, and I hadn’t. The midwife quickly said “okay, change of plans. We need to expedite this a little so you’re going to the hospital for an induction. Tonight.” The blood drained from my face. “Not again. This can’t be happening again. I can’t be losing my baby now after we’ve made it all this way.” I called my husband and he started to cry. He was worried too about both me and our little girl. I reassured him they said she was fine now but they have to get her out now. We went to the hospital that night and I was induced. 14 hours later, with heavy contractions I still hadn’t dilated. Zero. Zip. Nada. I finally couldn’t take the pain anymore and opted for an epidural. At least I could finally get some sleep, and my husband too. A few hours later, I was 4cm. A few hours after that, 8cm. And finally an hour or two later, we were ready to go. As soon as I started pushing, the epidural wore off. It was still 10x more bearable than contractions, and was really instinctual. After an hour of pushing, the contractions were spaced 5 min apart and the midwife said we need to speed things along otherwise we are headed for a c-section or complications. They gave me pitocin and I was right on track. An hour after that, I was screaming “I can’t do this!”, sweating, and grunting loudly. I’m sure I terrified the entire maternity ward. My daughter was wiggling her head and using her feet to push herself out. It was an alien experience. Finally, I gathered the courage, and pushed with every ounce of strength left in me. Finally, I felt her head come out and breathed a sigh of relief. They allowed my husband to catch her, and the next thing I know, my husband is pulling the rest of my daughter out of me like it’s calving season on the farm. She was green due to the meconium she produced while she was in there, so now there was a risk of her having aspirated it. I remember the NICU team suctioning out her mouth and nose, and I’m starting to lose consciousness. The docs are calling out blood pressure numbers I know aren’t good and my pulse is plummeting. I’m bleeding out and I know it. They start pumping me with saline while they wait for blood. In my stupor, I’m telling them my blood type somehow hoping it will help and also telling my daughter to please cry. Please let me know you’re alive before I die...and finally after the longest 30 seconds of my life, she cried. My husband came to me with tears in his eyes saying she was perfectly healthy and happy despite everything she’d been through. He’s a veteran who has seen war and what blood loss looks like. I asked him if I was going to die. He looked at the pool of blood on the bed and floor and told me I was going to make it. I just needed blood. It finally arrived and as it dripped into my IV, I felt my consciousness coming back. I finally got to see her face. And she was perfect. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen...

Today marks three months since that day. She was born 8/7/2020 in the middle of a pandemic at 41+5 with no amniotic fluid, covered in poop, born to emotionally damaged parents. But man, she is the happiest, most joyful person I’ve ever met. The only time she’s upset is when she’s hungry, dirty, sleepy, or has gas. Other than that, all she does is smile and laugh. She was exactly what I needed. I will always wish her brother were here, but her existence has given me a reason to live again. To have joy again. To be connected in my marriage again. In her first few seconds of life, she made all the emotional anguish tolerable. She made the anger in me disappear and I was again tender, and probably even more so than I have ever been.

If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry it was so long. I don’t know if it will help anyone, but I hope it does. I hope you keep in your heart that there is still light in this world waiting for you. And that light is so, so, fulfilling.

Happy three months, my beautiful little girl. ♥️