no words appear before me in the aftermath
salt streams out my eyes and into my ears
every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness
'cause it's all over now, all out to sea
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
you were bigger than the whole sky
you were more than just a short time
and I've got a lot to pine about
i've got a lot to live without
i'm never gonna meet
what could've been, would've been
what should've been you
-t.s.
I’ve sat down to write this a thousand times. I’ve envisioned myself being pregnant, preparing for Teddy, I’ve envisioned myself in the delivery room — and I just haven’t been able to put to words what happened.
It’s been 5 months, I’ve almost been without Teddy longer than I was with him.
I haven’t written because I want to do his story justice, and yet I don’t want to overshare, and yet I don’t want to miss things that happened — but, the more I think about his story, the more I realize that it’s still writing itself. This doesn’t have to be it.
There is so much I want to write about his pregnancy, so much I want to write about what Teddy has taught me to this day — but I have to first write about the reason why I’m writing at all.
This is (just a piece of) Teddy’s story.
One snowy afternoon in December 2022, Paul got down on one knee and proposed. The funny thing about getting engaged is that it’s almost more fun than your wedding day. Our engagement was a milestone, a moment when we could finally think about what came next. Starting a family, figuring out what “mom car” I’d have, and which room would be the nursery. These thoughts consumed me almost more than wedding planning did — it wasn’t just about the day; it was about what was to come after.
The next year was full of wedding preparations, but in between conversations about cocktail hours and table linens, we were talking about our future children. Sure enough, just four months after our wedding, we got a positive pregnancy test. We were shocked, excited, and felt lucky.
I will never forget those first couple of weeks when it was just Paul and I, the only ones who knew about the baby growing inside me. From the moment we saw those two lines, I knew he was a boy. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone.
My mom was the first person we told — and of course she already knew. We spent that day parading around town, making stops at a bookstore where she bought his first book and his first swaddle. It was perfect.
Pregnancy wasn’t something I particularly enjoyed. I didn’t feel sick, but the constant brain fog and exhaustion I felt was evident in every aspect of my life. Working full-time was draining, and my once-energizing workouts became just another reminder of the sacrifices my body was making to grow him. Looking back, I can’t help but feel guilty. I wish I could have enjoyed every second. But the reality of it was that I didn’t.
Fast forward to October 2024. I was nearly nine months pregnant, still working full-time, and exercising a few times a week. I was nailing pregnancy, and I was so excited to meet Teddy. I didn’t have a birth plan — and honestly, I wasn’t too concerned. As a planner by nature, I knew there wasn’t much I could control, so why waste energy planning what was out of my hands?
But then, my blood pressure started to creep up. It wasn’t anything too alarming, but it was enough to warrant a visit to triage at the hospital on Monday, October 28th. After being discharged with instructions to monitor and follow up with my doctor, we were told to “be ready” just in case baby decided to make an early appearance. I made a quick trip to Target to grab last-minute wipes, bottles, nipple cream, pajamas, and a disposable camera for us to document his birth. I was secretly happy that we had a few more days, so I could get a manicure and pedicure. Priorities.
Tuesday, October 29th, was spent cleaning the house from top to bottom. Dog treats were put in containers, snacks were stocked for late-night feedings, and the bassinet was set up beside the bed, ready for his arrival. And, of course, the infamous hospital “go” bag was packed.
Wednesday, October 30th, I met with my doctor who smiled and said “let’s have a baby!” With my blood pressure elevated, we decided that an induction at 38 weeks made the most sense. The baby was healthy, and it was time to meet him. I called my mom on the way home and told her to come to the hospital the next day — it was happening!
After taking Hugo for a walk, our last just the two of us, we loaded up our car, slapped a “baby on board” magnet on the trunk, and drove to the hospital.
My induction started that evening, my final meal being a Qdoba quesadilla with guacamole that I literally could not finish because I was just ready to meet my baby. We started with a cervix softener and a foley balloon (if you know, you know), then settled in to watch Survivor and chat with nurses. I tossed and turned through the night, dealing with minor cramps, but otherwise felt comfortable.
My mom arrived the next day, Halloween, and things were still pretty peaceful. The doctors broke my water, I was still relatively comfortable, and baby was perfect — kicking and stretching, making lots of noise on the monitor. We were all so excited.
As the evening drew near, I started to be more uncomfortable. I was around 6 centimeters dilated, and my contractions were regular. I was doing breathing exercises with my mom, and Paul was rubbing my feet — just like the movies. My epidural kept me calm, and yet still allowed me to feel the pressure of the baby.
Around 10pm, I was becoming more and more dilated and uncomfortable. Despite the epidural, I was having back labor that was nearing unbearable, to the point of having to throw up during the height of my contractions. Texts started flooding in from friends and family expressing their love for us, encouraging me to breathe, and lots of jokes thrown in about how I’ll be a badass when this is done.
“I can’t do this,” I’d say, only to be met with “you’re so close, keep breathing, he’ll be in your arms so soon.”
I was very aware the moment I reached 10 centimeters, I could feel it. I was ready to push. As I was yelling at the nurse, our team came in, turned the massive overhead lights on, dropped the table, and gloved up.
“Let’s have a baby!” they said.
My first push was perfect. The doctor said she had never seen such a great pusher, and that if I kept it up, he’d be here in no time. At this point, it was close to midnight, and our Halloween baby felt like a reality.
The second push was also perfect. It was almost comical how well I was pushing, and I could sense we were minutes away from meeting our son.
But then, on the third push, everything changed. The doctor told me to stop. The baby’s heart rate had dropped. Sometimes this happens during pushing, she explained — babies can get stressed, and we need to wait for it to come back up.
But the silence that followed was deafening. I could hear his heart rate slowing on the monitor, not coming back up. One of the residents tried to place a scalp monitor to get a more accurate reading, but she was trembling and couldn’t get it on.
My doctor walked in, placed the monitor, and after listening to his slow heart rate, she called an emergency c-section.
Everything happened so fast. In that moment, I didn’t have time to mourn the birth I had wanted. Instead, my first thoughts were, Am I dying? Is he dying?
Then suddenly, Paul had scrubs on, and they were wheeling me out of the room. I remember reaching for my mom, giving her a hug and kiss, terrified that would be the last time I would see her.
I was unusually calm in the operating room. I remember thinking, if I panic, that will increase my heart rate, and surely I’ll bleed out. They poked my tummy a few times, asked me if I felt anything, and started to cut.
Baby was out within minutes, but the room was quiet. No crying, no screaming. No doctors exclaiming, “he’s here!” Instead I heard them say, “911,” followed by the sounds of CPR and a ventilator.
I remember thinking that I should ask them to stop — that no baby should have to go through what they are putting him through.
Paul sat next to me, staring at the floor, giving me strength through his gaze every time I looked his way.
I just stared at the ceiling. I knew. I was wheeled into the recovery room without my baby. My mom came in shortly after, I could tell that she, too, knew.
Teddy was born on November 1st, 2024. He died on November 1st, 2024.
I remember the doors of the recovery room opening slowly, the sterile lights of the operating room glaring behind the team with their caps off, sweaty and defeated, with tears in their eyes. Standing at the edge of my bed, they said “we are so sorry, but he didn’t make it.”
What I said was, “thank you for trying.”
What I wanted to say was, “what are you doing in here? Go try again! Where is he? Alone in that room? Go get him!”
I have never seen my husband cry the way he cried after they told us. I knew he was excited to meet our son, to be a dad, but I had no idea how deeply this loss would affect him. We are both practical people, grounded in reality. But this — this broke him. And that broke me even more.
The in-between moments are blurry. I remember Paul’s parents, my in-laws, arriving to the hospital, his dad in a state I have never seen him in — heartbroken for his son and grandson. They live over an hour away, and yet I felt like they were there moments after I gave birth. My sister Sydney showed up, leaving her car in the valet line without the keys.
My mom didn’t want to leave me, but also wanted to drive over an hour to get my youngest sister Somer. I didn’t know how to tell people how much physical pain I was in, how badly I just wanted silence — especially after hearing beeping monitors over the course of 3 days — but how necessary it was for them to be with us.
In the midst of all the chaos, I told the doctors I didn’t want to see my baby. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing my son, dead. I wanted the living, breathing baby that I had carried for nine months. The one who hiccuped and kicked, and who had been alive just moments ago.
My doctor looked at me with a tear-stained face, and pleaded with me. She said he was beautiful, one of the most beautiful babies she had ever seen. That he was at peace, and was perfect.
My mom, putting on a brave face, said that she wanted to see him and love him.
And so, they brought him to me.
She was right. He was perfect.
He had wide-set eyes like Paul’s — in fact, he looked just like him. He had my cupid’s bow of an upper lip and a full head of dark hair. He was ours, and I could finally see him, feel him, and hold him.
I wanted everyone to hold him, too. I felt privileged to have held him for nine months, I wanted everyone else to know him like I did. I wanted them to hold him, to kiss him, to see how perfect he was.
I asked the nurses to keep him carefully wrapped, handing him off to my mom and to Paul. They spoke to him as though he were still alive, with such tenderness and care, as if they were holding a newborn. I will never forget that.
I asked them to dress him in his going-home outfit — a perfect Kissy Kissy prima cotton blue-and-white pinstripe onesie with a little hat embroidered with his name: “Teddy.” They took pictures, weighed him, and documented the small details of his life — 8lbs, 4oz, 20 inches.
Around 3:30 am, we were wheeled back to my postpartum room. Teddy was placed in the bereavement room next to us, swaddled in his clothes, looking as though he were peacefully sleeping.
I hadn’t cried yet. How could I? How do you process such a monumental loss? I still had no idea what had just happened to my body, to my baby, or how I would face the hours, days, months, and years that lay ahead.
When our family had left, and the nurse turned the lights off and shut the door, I played Bigger Than The Whole Sky by Taylor Swift, and I wept.
I wanted to be with my son — to be anywhere but here, without him. I wanted to die.
We woke up around 7:30 the next morning, November 2nd, to my doctor sitting at my bedside. She seemed exhausted, sad, drained. For two hours, we talked about what had happened. She explained why she had called for an emergency c-section, and the life-saving measures they took to try to save Teddy. But we still had no answers about why it had happened.
She said that in her 25 years of delivering babies, she had never seen anything like this. Usually, babies have more reserve and can tolerate a deceleration in their heart rate. There was no reason. I didn’t need a reason. Nothing helped. It’s not like a reason could bring him back.
When my mom, dad, and sisters arrived, I did my best to hold it together. I wanted to walk around, to “host” them in my hospital room, but I wasn’t allowed to take my first steps yet. I tried to joke, encouraged them to sit on my bed, and asked them how their drive was.
I didn’t want to ask if they wanted to see Teddy. I was too afraid they would say no. I didn’t want to pressure them, but each of them asked if they could see him, hold him, kiss him. They wanted to hold my son, too. And to this day, that means the world to me. They saw him. They held him. He was here.
That morning, Paul and I spent some time with Teddy in the bereavement room. My first steps, as I walked to his room, were met with blood dripping down my legs, pooling at my feet. My sweet nurse helped me clean up next to my son, allowing us to be with him.
I don’t know how much I can share about this moment, as it was the most intimate, sacred, and traumatic experience of my life. But I can tell you this: We talked to our son. We cried. We made promises to him.
Saying goodbye to his body was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
November 3rd came, and I was cleared to go home. We packed up my hospital room, said our thank-yous and goodbyes to the nurses, and they wheeled me out to the car.
As we walked through the parking lot, we heard the lullaby playing over the speakers — a signal that a baby had been born. I wondered, did this play when Teddy was born?
As we drove away from the hospital, we were faced with the real world. The traffic still moves, people still honk. You don’t really think about what to talk about or listen to on your drive from the hospital without your baby. For some reason, we listened to River of Dreams by Billy Joel. Maybe one day I’ll understand why.
We pull into the driveway of our house. My mom and sister had come a day earlier to put the bassinet in the basement, my breast pump in a closet, and make things accessible so I’m comfortable in my physical recovery.
I asked my good friend and next door neighbor to go door to door to the other neighbors and tell them what happened, aka, don’t ask Savannah where her baby is.
The weeks that followed were dark, but Paul and I showed up for each other. We brought Teddy’s ashes to Thanksgiving and Christmas. We pulled out his “first” outfits: his baby Uggs, his Christmas pajamas, his books. We kept him present.
We were never alone. Family, friends, and even strangers have helped carry us through this unimaginable grief, and they continue to do so. There is no manual for this kind of loss — even though I’ve considered writing one. But I find strength and guidance in sharing our story — in talking about Teddy, in letting others into our healing.
We never got to bring Teddy home in the way we had dreamed and planned — but we’ve still brought him home. We’ve kept him close to us. His story, his memory, and his love will shape who we are. His fleeting, yet unforgettable moments, his first kick, his swaddle, his hair, his perfect face — will always stay with us.
With every day, year, moments big and small, we will honor him.
Just like we promised.
Xoxo,
Teddy’s Mom
I am so, so sorry for the loss of beautiful Teddy. Your story has deeply resonated with me - my daughter, Robin, was born still at 39 weeks last June. It is the worst thing a person can go through. The most pain I’ve ever felt and continue to manage. I hope you know you’re not alone. Thank you for sharing Teddy’s story so beautifully.
To answer the question you used to ask when you were little, yes, honey, I am impressed with you. Oh, Sav, I am so impressed with you. You are the best mom.