My husband and I experienced an unimaginable loss when our son, Lucas, was stillborn seven years ago.
On May 14, 2018, just a day after Mother’s Day, my husband and I went to the hospital. I was 39 weeks pregnant with our first child. With joy and anticipation, we were looking forward to meeting our son, Lucas. His name means “light,” because his arrival would light up our world.
Shortly after arriving at the hospital, I experienced a placental abruption — a serious condition where the placenta separates from the uterus, cutting off oxygen and nutrients to the baby. I nearly died and heartbreakingly, Lucas was stillborn.
Words cannot begin to convey the shock and anguish of losing a child in the final moments after a seemingly normal pregnancy. The light that once illuminated my world was suddenly extinguished, leaving me in the darkness of grief and depression.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) defines stillbirth as the loss of a fetus after 20 weeks of pregnancy. Despite being well-educated, I mistakenly believed stillbirth was a thing of the past — something that only happened in places without proper nutrition or health care. No one warned me, and I naively assumed modern medicine had eliminated the risk, like that of malaria.
My personal loss was a harsh awakening, forcing me to confront the shocking reality of stillbirths in 21st-century America. The statistics are staggering: approximately 21,000 babies are stillborn in the U.S. each year, and around 2 million worldwide. Even more shocking is that nearly a quarter of them in the U.S. and about half of them worldwide are preventable.
Behind these staggering statistics are real people, some of whom I met at my local support group for grieving parents who had lost babies to stillbirth or shortly after birth. Like me, many mothers have experienced late-term stillbirths between 35 and 41 weeks. Some were never given explainations, only vague platitudes like “It happens sometimes” or “There was nothing we could do.”
Like me, some of these mothers were pregnant at an advanced maternal age (35 or older). Though research clearly links advanced maternal age to higher risks of stillbirth and placental abruption, many providers avoid discussing stillbirth to spare mothers’ anxiety, but this well-meaning silence has left many of us blindsided by the stillbirth of our babies.
Like me, some of these mothers were told it’s normal that babies move less as they “run out of room” late in pregnancy. Though research shows that a baby’s movement pattern may change late in pregnancy, it shouldn’t decrease. In the UK, where stillbirth rates have dropped, mothers are urged to contact their providers if they notice any change, especially decreased movement in fetal activity.
Despite being one of the most advanced countries in the world, the U.S. still has a higher stillbirth rate than many other developed nations. We must learn from countries that have made strides in reducing stillbirths. Some of their best practices include public awareness campaigns, and enhanced data collection.
Raising awareness is the first step to reducing stillbirths and saving lives. Health care providers must discuss stillbirth and prevention with expectant mothers, who in turn should advocate for themselves and their babies by asking questions and understanding the risks.
As grieving families, we can make a difference. By sharing our experiences through media, we can reach and inform more families. American families shouldn’t have to fight this alone. The U.S. Congress must prioritize stillbirth prevention by passing the SHINE for Autumn Act, which aims to improve data collection on stillbirths.
The legacy of our stillborn children should not be reduced to heart-rending statistics. Instead, it should inspire profound change to save lives so more babies will be born alive. Let Lucas’ light, and the light of all stillborn children, guide us toward that change.
Helen Raleigh is a Colorado-based entrepernuer, writer, and speaker. She’s the mother of Lucas (stillborn) and Allie (miscarriage).
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