Thank you all who have taken the time to read “The Story of Julia.” It was not easy at all to share the very raw and vulnerable experience of her birth, but the amount of messages I have received from so many people telling me they had “no idea,” or thanking me for sharing, has validated the need for me to continue talking about this. About her. So thanks for sticking with me and now on to part 2 of “the story of Julia.”

If you missed part 1, be sure to check it out below!

When Julia was born, the nurses took her over to the warming bed. Though not turned on, they still took her measurements for us and for their records. When they finished cleaning her up, they brought her over to us so we could meet our baby girl. They gave us space for just the 3 of us. Meeting Julia for the first time was so bittersweet. We anticipated that moment for so long. And I think one of the hardest parts was that she just looked like she was sleeping. My brain could not physically comprehend that she was not alive. I kissed every square inch of that little girl, praying in between each kiss that by some miracle she would let out a cry or twitch her hand. We spent about an hour together before calling the nurse back in. They took her to the morgue and had us gather our belongings to be moved to the maternity ward for recovery. 

As I was wheeled out of the room, I had instant flashbacks to when I delivered Joanna. I could not for the life of me tell you how to get to the maternity ward from the delivery room. I was so fixated on Joanna that I didn’t even lift my eyes from her for a second. But now I am haunted by that long journey from room to room. As soon as my door opened to the hall, I was greeted with a “congrats, mama!” shouted by one of the nurses from down the hall. Did she not see my empty arms? Did she not know why we were there or what happened? Jesse squeezed my hand tightly. I felt dead inside.

As we rolled up to our room for the evening, I noticed the “teardrop” picture on our door; a symbol (or what was meant to be a symbol) to the staff that we had a stillbirth. I guess no one paid much attention to it. The room was tucked all the way at the end of the hall; the hospitals desperate attempt to keep us from the rooms with newborn babies. The room looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. I remember the nurse couldn’t even find the light switch or locate extra pillows and blankets for Jesse. Just another thing that made us feel like such a burden. I could not wait to leave.

When we finally got settled I had to call the nurse in to use the bathroom. You see, after you give birth, the nurse has to accompany you on your first “visit” to monitor your bleeding. When the nurse came in, the first thing she asked was “everything okay??” in response to the tears stained on my face. Is that seriously what you’re going to ask me right now? I couldn’t find the energy to respond. 

After my visit I laid in the bed desperately trying to fall asleep so I could wake up from this nightmare. Then a nurse came barging in. It was the nurse from the hall that shouted “congrats, mama!” and one of the last people I wanted to see. She came in to apologize and let me know she had just started her shift when she saw me in the hall and had no idea I had a stillbirth. I understood and said it was okay. But honestly it wasn’t. Then she proceeded to tell me how she experienced a miscarriage and “knows how I feel” and that I “shouldn’t blame myself.” Is this real? Truly my heart aches for anyone who experiences pregnancy loss at any stage of the game, but in that moment I was still processing what even happened and I did not have an ounce of space in my heart to carry anyone else’s pain other than my own, yet I found myself saying “I’m so sorry for your loss.” That wasn’t fair to me. I shouldn’t be the one apologizing in that moment. But hey, anything to make other people feel comfortable right?

The night dragged on; The beds were so uncomfortable; The echoing sounds of newborn baby cries in the distance. I missed my bed. I missed Joanna. I missed Julia. I wanted more than anything to turn back time. I still do. 

By the time morning came I was so desperate to be discharged. I just needed to get out of there. I finally took off the delivery gown and put on normal clothes. But all I packed were maternity shirts— not knowing I wasn’t going to leave the hospital pregnant. Before I put the shirt on I held it and cried. I was so scared to still look pregnant. I didn’t want people to ask questions and have to explain what happened. But to my surprise, when I put on the shirt, I didn’t look pregnant at all. Then I fell to the ground in tears. I know I said I didn’t want to look pregnant, but this was the first time seeing my body in 7 months, and in that moment, it just felt like it never happened, like Julia was never there. And I wished more than anything for my belly back. For my baby back. 

The doctor finally came in to clear me and to ask how I felt/if I had any questions. I asked mainly about postpartum recovery (another topic not talked about nearly enough, but maybe that’s a post for another day). With Joanna, the recovery was awful. Sitting hurt. Walking hurt. Using the bathroom HURT. Your body is no longer your own for 9 whole months and then continues to feel foreign with all of the hormones , breastfeeding, and healing after giving birth. Anyways, I wanted to know what to expect from this recovery. When can I be active again? Can I pick up Joanna? How long can I anticipate the bleeding? Will my milk come in? She told me that since I was “so early in my pregnancy” that it would be a relatively quick and easy recovery, and no, my milk would not come in. I beg your pardon? So early in my pregnancy? I was in my third trimester. I was pregnant for 7 whole months. I felt so invalidated for my pain and suffering. And for the record, my milk did come in. Full force. And another painful (physical and mental) reminder that my baby was gone. 

The next step in getting discharged was to meet with the social worker again. Looking back on it, I can fully understand everything she said and recommended, but in that moment I truly felt like I was watching it all happen from a distance but unable to respond or react or think for that matter. She talked to us about what to expect in the next few days and weeks. We talked through funeral arrangements and how that process works. We talked about support groups with other parents who have experienced pregnancy loss and stillbirth. But mainly she focused on how we could still be “Julia’s parents” (as she kept referring to it) in that moment. She asked if we wanted to give her a bath, take photos with her, get her dressed, “be her parents” she kept repeating over and over. And in that moment every bit of that felt too painful. I didn’t want to give her a bath because she was dead and didn’t need one. I didn’t want to get her dressed because we didn’t have clothes for her teeny tiny body. And I most certainly didn’t want pictures with her. Why would I ever want to document me like this? She kept telling us that she knows how overwhelming it all is, but how every single one of the families in her support group regrets not doing these things with their child. But I told myself, I’ll never regret this. This is not how I want to remember Julia. But as I write this the tears are flooding down my face. Because the reality is, I would do anything to do any of those things with her. I understand now what she meant when she said to “be her parent,” “be her mom,” because I would never get the opportunity to do those things again. I’ll never have a picture with my daughter. I’ll never get to give her a bath or get her dressed. And gosh that hurts. That literally kills me. 

We did agree to see her one last time before we left the hospital. She still looked like she was sleeping, only this time she was ice cold. That was hard. We held her and cried with her. We apologized to her that we couldn’t bring her home. And before we said goodbye for good, we sang to her “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be” from the book “I’ll love you forever.” We used to read this book to Joanna every night before bed and we continue to sing it every night to her. And in that moment, it just came so naturally to sing it to Julia. We could barely get the words out through our tears. I kissed her a million times before we said our final goodbyes but my heart physically aches for just one more. 

At that point we finally got the “OK” to be discharged. Hospital policy is that I would need to be wheeled out. I desperately didn’t want to be but didn’t have the energy to fight it. Though as desperate as I was to not be wheeled out, the two nurses in my room were equally as desperate to not have to be the ones to wheel me out. The two argued right in front of me of who would have to do it. And lucky me, neither of them did. Instead, I was dumped on another nurse who had no idea who I was or what I just experienced. She then proceeded to complain the whole time about having to wheel me out. She got lost and didn’t know which way to the elevator. It was truly the cherry on top of the worst experience of my life. 

When I left the hospital I told myself I would never go back. This place that was once so magical to me: where I was born, where I gave birth to my first daughter, quickly became one of the most traumatic places I’ve ever been. A hospital that prides itself on having the best neonatal care didn’t even know how to train its employees to engage with a family who lost their child. It goes to show that every hospital can be great when everything goes to plan, but when it doesn’t, that’s when the true colors show. 

When I got home all I wanted to do was lay in bed. Every inch of my house reminded me of Julia. The room that was going to be her nursery, the closet downstairs with all of the baby items, the pregnancy pillow on my bed. All were painful reminders that just 2 days before, everything was perfect, and now it never will be again. 

The days to follow consisted of lots of take-out and home cooked meals from friends and family, lots of sleep, and lots of crying. We were simultaneously still trying to care for ourselves, take care of Joanna, and plan a funeral for Julia. There were many visits to the funeral home. Searches for the right cemetery and plot to have her buried in. Tough conversations. Not at all something I thought I’d be doing at 27 years old. We ultimately decided to have her buried in a children’s cemetery about 10 minutes from us. It was so triggering to see all of the babies taken too soon, but there was something so comforting about Julia being surrounded by other babies who were so wanted. On October 12, 2021, nearly two weeks after her death, we said our final goodbye to our baby girl and laid her to eternal rest. It was a tough day. A very tough day. But it was a stepping stone to our lifelong journey of grieving and healing. We decided to keep the ceremony very intimate, only immediate family. The funeral director read a few prayers, and my sister-in-law read a beautiful poem. I’ll put it below:

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Mother to an Angel

A tiny little angel
bid a silent sweet goodbye
to a sad and weeping mother,
then flew off to heaven’s sky.

When a spirit child is perfect
there’s no need for them to stay.
They come and choose a family
then go quickly on their way.

The trials and pain of earth life
are not theirs to endure.
God knows these precious little ones
are much too good and pure.

But while here, a bond is made.
Closer than any other.
One of true and lasting love
between the child and mother.

I am a mother to an angel.
who is watching over me.
How I wish you could have stayed,
but it’s not meant to be.

For a time, my little angel,
you and I will be apart,
but until I hold you in my arms,
you’re in your mother’s heart.


Ron Tranmer©

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To my Jules,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry that mommy didn’t know you were struggling. I’m sorry you never got to meet your incredible sister. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold you in my arms forever, because I promise letting you go was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I could have stared at your beautiful face forever. I held your hand and never wanted to let go. I looked at your teeny tiny feet and wept over the life I dreamt for you. I memorized every inch of your body until I can hold you again. I love you so much, my sweet angel. You’re in the best of hands until we meet again.