My daughter, Libby Maeve, was born on September 19, 2019. Sadly she was stillborn and passed away at 38 weeks – only two weeks before she was due.

The first day I met her was the day I had to say goodbye.

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Table of Contents

It’s a sucky story

September 18 started with an early morning trip to the hospital as my wife had not felt Libby move in several hours.

This was our second trip to the hospital in the past two weeks. The first trip was for the same reason but she started moving as we pulled into the hospital.

During the first trip, the nurses placed my wife on the monitor and Libby seemed to be doing great. No need for concern.

We were relieved and happy. My wife even stayed at the hospital to work her shift as a Labor and Delivery nurse.

Sadly, September 18 was different.

Our drive to the hospital felt different than our trip two weeks before. We were both quiet – minus our one-in-a-half-year-old babbling in the back of the car clueless to why he was awake at 4 am. Since it was a weekday, we were unable to find a babysitter, unlike the first time.

Regardless, it was the worst day of our lives.

Sadly, my wife’s colleagues had to tell us that Libby had no heartbeat.

Hearing those words, seeing my wife’s pain, and hearing my son whimper because both of his parents were crying made it worse.

My mind immediately began to plead “why” and “how could this of happened”. Of course, with my wife’s occupation, we were aware that these things can happen. And we’re also aware of how rare they are. But who cares about statistics when you are one.

My daughter, Libby

She was an absolutely beautiful baby girl. She was the opposite of our son in many ways. For one, she had thick, dark hair. Our son had thin, light blonde hair.

Libby died from a knot in her umbilical cord.

Libby was always moving in her mom’s stomach. She seemed hyper and we’d joke that hopefully she’d chill out once she’s born because our son is a hyper toddler. I’d give anything to have her here in all of her “hyperness”.

I normally go to bed much later than my wife. As I’d lay down and cuddle my wife, I’d feel Libby moving all around in my wife;s belly. Her movements were never enough to wake my wife. Those few minutes before I’d fall asleep were our alone time.

Little did I know that would be the closest we’d ever be. I wish I had known as I would have been slower to fall asleep.

I would trade anything to have that little girl. These statements are not helpful as nothing can be traded to bring her back from the dead but it is testament to how much I love and miss her.

Her Birth

After we found out Libby had passed away, I immediately started dreading the next several hours as I knew from my wife’s work stories that my wife would have to deliver our baby girl.

We were incredibly fortunate to have family so close. They were able to step in to care for our son.

My wife had made arrangements with a friend who was a Doula in preparation for Libby’s birth. Thankfully she was available and able to help my wife deliver our daughter under the new circumstances. My wife’s sister who is also a labor and delivery nurse helped my wife a lot – beyond the normal family stuff.

It was bittersweet for my wife to deliver Libby at the hospital she worked at. It was in the rooms and halls where she spends her days. It was with her colleagues who shared in the pain with us. They took tremendous care of my wife and my daughter.

Leaving her at the hospital alone was incredibly hard and heartbreaking. It was not supposed to be this way.

Grieving

I’ve never gone through grief like this. I’ve lost close friends and family members. Losing a child hurts differently – it’s hard to explain and I continuously fail to put it into words.

We’d occasionally receive comments on Facebook posts and cards with:

“God needed her more”
“She was too beautiful for Earth”
“You’ll have another one”
“You’ll get over it”

I understand people were trying to help but these statements do not help. They made it hurt worse. They infuriated my wife and me.

They devalued Libby’s life. It’s possible I’m being dramatic and emotional but I don’t think so after talking with others that have lost their children.

You get over a break-up with a girlfriend, a lost job, and a stubbed toe. You don’t get over the death of someone you love especially not your child’s.

The death of a loved one is a burden that you carry for the rest of your life. It’s an experience that changes you forever. Granted you will get better at carrying it. You’ll likely get more comfortable talking about it and better at articulating your feelings but you’ll never get over it.

I have no problem talking about her or our experience.

Bearing the Unbearable by Joanne Cacciatore was helpful.

The Future

Libby will forever be a part of our family. Brock will know about her once he is older. We will include her when others ask how many children we have regardless of how uncomfortable it may make someone.

Losing Libby has allowed others to be vulnerable about their losses or issues getting pregnant. These are also burdened that they were carrying alone and they leaped at an opportunity to empathize and connect. I love this about people and welcome it with open arms.Â

If you’ve gone through something similar and need someone to talk to, I’m game. Send me an email and I’m happy to schedule a call (see below) or chat over email.