Tag Archives: baby loss

The White Circle: A Dad’s Perspective

by Theo’s dad, Nate

There was a magnetic white circle on the outside of our hospital room door. It wasn’t very big — just about two inches or so across — and it had no identifying features, no text or pictures on it. It was hung just at eye level, a little below the room number and slightly askew of center.

I’m not sure how long I stared at it without fully realizing it was there. The first night, I fixated on it while I stood out in the hallway speaking to my brother on the phone in a quiet, defeated voice. Again, in the early morning hours when my sister returned my call, I allowed it to be an anchor, something to focus on without thinking about, which helped keep my mind from drifting away mid-sentence. I didn’t put any thought at all into it at first, it was something that was just there, something of no real significance.

On our second day in the hospital though, it took up a permanent settlement in my mind, and it’s doubtful it will ever leave.

I had gone down the hallway to the patients’ kitchen to get…ice…soda…juice…really anything I could find that would provide me with some creature comfort. Since we had come to the hospital the night before, time had moved by sporadically. My brain would consciously accept new information for about an hour at a time, then everything would slow down while I tried to process and accept the reality, and the gravity, of our situation. As I left the kitchen and rounded the corner to our section of the wing, it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know which room was ours. Up to that point, I had barely strayed out of the room, and when I did I just let my subconscious guide me back. However, as I stared at the last few doors in the wing my subconscious happily reminded me that we were in the room with the white circle under the number.

I had seen it there probably a dozen times already, but for some reason when I looked at it that time, it sank in. It wasn’t something that got stuck on the door once and never removed. It was how the staff new which room was THE room. It was why the nurses and doctors knew to be somber when they entered, why the hospital staff didn’t smile or congratulate us on our new baby, or even look us in the eye, when they entered the room. That small white circle was how the hospital told everyone that death had come for my son.

Self-control is not a virtue I possess in great volume. When I realized why it was there I wanted to rip it off and shout at the person who put it there. I wanted to move it to a different door with the childish hope that it would take death and sadness with it, and I would enter our room and everything in our little world would be okay.

But I didn’t do it. Instead, I remembered that it didn’t work out okay, and that this was our new reality. Our new normal.

So I went back into our room, and we forced ourselves to both fit on my wife’s hospital bed, and we held our son.

And cried.

As I came to terms with our situation, I feared, at first, that Theo would be forgotten. Being a stillborn, only a very small number of people ever saw him. For most, his life was a little more abstract — he was the squirmy thing under the surface of my wife’s enormous belly, then not. However, I soon realized that wasn’t my true fear. My true fear was that he would always be remembered, but that his entire existence would be defined by how and when he died — that he would be remembered only as a tragedy that my family suffered through. Something bad that happened to us. A reason to pity us.

I spoke at my son’s funeral — it’s something, as a parent, I never thought I would have to do. But, he wasn’t given the opportunity to speak for himself through the actions of his life, so I did it.

I asked that everyone who knew him try, in time, to let their grief subside, and remember him not as a tragic thing that happened to my family, but for what he really was — our son.

I hope in time I can learn to do it myself.


Grief is the price we pay for love

It has taken me a long time to write this post. For a while, I even considered starting my blog with a different post. But I know that many of you are reading this because you have questions about what happened to Theo, and I want to answer those questions. I can’t tell his story without weaving it together with my mom’s story, so I will try to tell both stories.

We found out we were pregnant in June 2013, just over a year after my mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 urothelial cancer. We were very excited, since we had just started trying for baby #4 in May. The early weeks of my pregnancy passed quickly – no morning sickness and not even really any fatigue, which was a good thing since I was busy caring for my mom as her illness progressed.

My mom spent the better part of September 2013 (3 weeks total) in the hospital with a variety of different infections and side effects. She was finally able to come home on September 30, though she was very weak and had difficulty even getting out of bed.

On October 2, we had our ultrasound and found out that we were expecting a little boy! I was so thrilled. With two boys and two girls, our family would be perfect and complete. My mom was elated to have another grandson, and my 9-year-old son was thrilled at the idea of finally having a brother. We decided to choose a name for him so that my mom would know his name in case she died before he was born. We chose the name Theodore, “Gift of the Gods,” a Greek name to match his brother’s.

October was a difficult month. Though she was able to attend the Happiness Sprinkling organized by a friend for her 60th birthday on October 3 (see photo), and we had a wonderful birthday party for her, she continued to deteriorate at home over the next few weeks. She was often confused, and when I came over on Sunday, October 27, and found her suffering from a severe headache, my heart sank. Over the 17 months she had battled cancer, the biggest fear was that it would spread to her brain. The headache, coupled with her confusion in the preceding weeks, was a sure sign that our worst fear had happened. My dad and I took her to the doctor for an MRI on October 28. I called my brother to come so we would be together if we received bad news. After a grueling wait, the doctor confirmed that her cancer had metastasized to her brain, and the only thing left to do was to make her as comfortable as we could for the remainder of her life.


We met with the hospice nurses and decided to do hospice care at home. Over the next week, I spent the better part of every day at my parents’ house helping to take care of her. My aunt and uncle came from Texas, and we did everything we could to comfort her, relieve her pain, and just be with her during her last days. She passed away early in the morning on November 3, 2013, with my dad, my brother, and I by her side.

The last weeks of her life, there were many times that I forgot I was even pregnant. I was so focused on her that I could barely think of anything else. But after her memorial service was over, Theodore’s birth became a highly anticipated event for all of our family. The days and weeks could not pass quickly enough. We looked forward to Theo’s birth as a ray of hope that would bring joy back into our lives after losing my mom.

Time did pass, though it seemed slow, and soon it was Super Bowl Sunday, February 2, 2014. We are from Denver, so this Super Bowl was a big deal for my family. We planned a party (Mom always threw a Super Bowl party), so I got up that morning and started running errands to get ready for the party. At about 1:30 pm, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t felt Theo move very much that day. I sat down in my chair and focused on him, but still felt nothing. I drank some orange juice and laid on my left side to do a kick count. An hour passed. I felt nothing.

We headed over to my dad’s house with the kids, and I called First Nurse on the way. They told me to come in to the hospital for fetal monitoring. We dropped the kids off and headed to the hospital, joking on the way that I was probably in labor and this was the reason for the decrease in Theo’s movements. We hadn’t put the car seat in the car or set up the co-sleeper yet, so we joked about how unprepared we were for Theo’s birth.

We arrived at the birthing unit and were quickly shown to a room to be hooked up to the fetal monitor. The nurse hooked up the monitor and ran it across my belly, listening for Theo’s heartbeat. There was only silence. She called in another nurse, and they tried for several minutes with no success. The on-call doctor was called in to do an ultrasound. I was already crying by the time he arrived, though my hubby kept trying to reassure me that everything would be okay. The doctor placed the wand on my belly and turned on the monitor. When the picture clicked on, the screen was centered right on Theo’s chest. There was no movement and no noise. Silence. Stillness. After what felt like an eternity, the doctor finally said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this…” He did not need to complete the sentence. All I remember at that point is just saying, “No, no, no,” over and over again. The next thing I remember saying is, “My mom just died in November.” I kept repeating this to every nurse and doctor I saw. I could not comprehend that God, or the Universe, or even just luck would deal me two terrible blows like this in such a short time.

We called my in-laws, and my hubby went to my dad’s house to tell him, my brother, and our other three children what had happened. Soon we were all gathered at the hospital, grieving Theo’s death together. I asked the doctor if they would induce me right away or if they would wait. He said it was up to us, so I chose to be induced that night. We kissed our kiddos and sent them with loved ones for the night, then they transferred us to a delivery room at the farthest corner of the birthing unit.

Our amazing nurse, Sarah, asked about my preferences for pain management. My plan had been to labor naturally if possible, but, given the circumstances, I asked for an epidural before the induction was started. The anesthesiologist came, the epidural was started, the Pitocin was started, and we settled in for a long night of labor. The doctor had also prescribed Valium for me so that I could sleep through most of the labor. I remember texting with my brother at about 11:30 pm when he wrote, “You should take the meds and get some sleep.” I replied, “I’m afraid if I take a sleeping pill, I will never wake up. Stupid, I know.” He told me it wasn’t stupid, said he loved me, and we signed off.

About fifteen minutes later, I was dozing off when I felt a pop and a sensation of wetness. I woke my hubby and asked him to check if my water had broken. He lifted the blankets, and his face turned white. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “Really bad.” We called the nurse and she arrived quickly. My blood pressure had dropped to 55/30, so she quickly started another IV. I was slipping towards unconsciousness when I looked over and saw the terrified expression on my husband’s face. He reached for my hand, and I whispered, “I’m scared.” The doctor did another quick ultrasound and told us that I had experienced a placental abruption and he needed to do an emergency C-section immediately to stop the bleeding. (The doctor told me later that if I had taken the Valium and slept through the bleeding, I might not have survived.)

The next fifteen minutes were a blur. I remember shaking uncontrollably, and I remember someone stroking my forehead. I discovered later that it was my husband, but at the time I could have sworn it was my mom. She always stroked my forehead when I was sick or sad. I remember my hubby telling me that Theo was here, and my heart just aching to hear him cry or see his little feet or hands move. My husband went with the nurse to wrap him up. I laid there, tears streaming down my face, waiting for the doctor to close my incision. Sarah, the nurse, came over and told me that he was absolutely beautiful and perfect. After what felt like an eternity, Nate brought him over and I saw my beautiful baby boy for the first time. He was perfect.

Our other three children and our parents all came to meet him, to say hello and goodbye. Our son told him, “You are the best little brother I ever could have asked for.” A photographer from the wonderful organization Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep came and took photos of our family, of Theo. We had sixteen precious hours with him before we kissed him goodbye for the last time and the hard work of grieving really began.

Theo was born at 12:19 am on February 3, 2014, three months to the day after my mom died. He weighed 6 lbs. 9 oz. and had a very little bit of curly black hair. He looked just like his big brother. At his memorial service, my hubby talked about how we wanted Theo to be remembered not as a sad thing that happened to our family, but as our beautiful son. His life was short, but he lived. And he will live on in our hearts forever.

i carry your heart
(i carry it in my heart)
— e.e. cummings


— Theodore, February 3, 2014