For me, one of the hardest parts of losing my baby was the guilt I had for not feeling deeply bonded to
him after he was born. Even typing the words brings an internal sting. Looking back, I can now
appreciate the fact that my brain at that time was much too stressed to process what I was feeling,
especially given the traumatic, chaotic circumstances surrounding the birth. Perhaps I was too afraid to
bond with him, and subconsciously I wanted to be numb to all feeling so that it wouldn’t hurt as badly.
I went into pre-term labor on a small Japanese island called Iriomote. It looks like a pin dot in the East
China Sea. My husband and I had flown there for the 4th of July weekend while I was stationed in
Okinawa. I was in the 20th week of a very healthy, uncomplicated pregnancy. As we walked around the
island, I felt some intermittent abdominal pain and cramping throughout the day. I hoped it was
nothing, as we were unfamiliar with any clinics on the island. As the pain became more and more
intense that evening, my anxiety grew. I naively thought I could just deliver the baby in the hostel,
knowing that he was too premature to be viable.
I weathered through the contractions as I laid helplessly on the Japanese tatami mat. Around 1 am, I
started vomiting and trembling as the contractions came every 2 minutes. I didn’t know pain like that
could exist. An ambulance was called, and I was taken to a small little clinic where an on-call doctor and
nurse were waiting for me. Thankfully, (and, might I add, miraculously), a translator was waiting for us at
the clinic as well.
Based on the bleeding and contractions, I assumed they would not find a heartbeat. But, to my surprise,
his heartbeat was strong. I was in too much physical pain to feel any emotional connection to him when
I saw his heartbeat on the monitor – (another great source of guilt as I replay the events in my mind). All
I felt was surprise and confusion that the baby was still alive. At that moment, all I could focus on was
breathing through the next contraction and hoping the doctor would know how to stop the labor.
The doctor was able to call the nearest hospital on a different island (Ishigaki island), and they arranged
for the Japanese Coast Guard to take me to Ishigaki via helicopter. An IV medication was started in an
effort to stop the contractions, but unfortunately it had no effect.
After the helicopter landed and I was in the ambulance to go to the hospital, everything within me
wanted to push and bear down with every contraction. I felt shameful and heartless for contemplating
whether or not I should push, though his delivery was clearly inevitable at that point. Just minutes
before the ambulance arrived to the hospital, I felt a small little body pass between my thighs as I laid on
the stretcher.
In the delivery room, the quiet Japanese nurses cleaned me up while the OB/GYN removed the placenta
and cut the umbilical cord. They placed the baby on a sterile medical tray. I felt numb and didn’t know
what to say or think. The room was silent, not that anyone spoke English anyway. When I looked at my
son for the first time, all I could think about was how much he looked like my husband. That made it
harder for me to look at him, because it felt like I was looking at a miniature version of my husband if he
were dead. In that moment, it was surreal that it was my baby. It was surreal that I had just given birth
and now had an empty uterus.
It was just my husband and me as we looked at the baby on the sterile metal tray. We sat quietly in our
whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. Confusion, relief, sadness, and shock. I asked my husband things
like “Are we supposed to take pictures? Would that be weird?” and “Should we name him?” Like a
zombie, I pulled out my phone and starting snapping photos of him, thinking I would probably delete
them if it felt weird later. A few minutes later, the nurse used an i-pad to ask if I was done looking at the
baby, and I nodded yes. I hadn’t touched him or held him.
I assumed I wouldn’t see the baby again. I saw one of the nurses standing in the hallway with a metal
tray in a plastic bag, and I thought maybe his body was in it. I assumed they were going to throw his
body away in the biohazard. Thoughts of guilt swarmed in my head as I questioned what kind of a
mother would just throw away her stillborn. Then again, I wasn’t sure how things worked, especially in a
different country. Thankfully, the nurses had only taken him to dress him and get his footprints and
handprints. They put his body in the refrigerator and told me I could hold him whenever I was ready.
They started wheeling me away to another room, and that was when I felt a pang of heartache as I
realized that I was no longer carrying him inside me -and that our bodies were physically separated.
I held him for the first time that night. I stroked his feet and kissed his head. I told him I was sorry that
my body had pushed him out. I was too numb to cry or feel very much. It hadn’t really sunk in that I was
holding my son.
We took a taxi the next day to a crematory. I clung to the white box as I told him I loved him. That was
the hardest moment of all. I knew that his spirit was on the other side, and that his little body was
moments away from turning to ash. The reality of his separation from my world was heart shattering.
That was the first moment when I felt like his mother.
The experience of losing a pregnancy is complex. There can be so many emotions that coexist at the
same time – love, joy, sadness, loss. And yet, I feel numb and emotionless sometimes, which is also
hard. All I know is that in the complexity of it all, there is so much grace and understanding from those
who dwell on the other side of the veil. As my husband and I searched for an urn on the island, I had a
distinct, undeniable feeling that our little boy was tagging right along with us. He was very much aware
that we were his parents. He exists in our lives, even though he is not with us physically.
On the morning that Maximus was born, I remember when the gurney was being wheeled from the
ambulance to the hospital, and I could see the sun rising in the east. It was fitting that he was born at
sunrise, the most beautiful and peaceful part of the day. The Savior will come from the east, and it will
remind me of that very sunrise on that small island. On the morning of the second coming of our Savior,
I will hold my newborn baby Maximus in my arms. The joy in that moment will be as exquisite as the
pain of his passing. I desperately hold on to this hope and have no other option but to believe with my
soul that it will happen. I will spend my life anxiously waiting to see him again.