Annie’s story was written in the early spring of 2020

It was 11:07 p.m. on October 31, 2019.

After a fun evening of trick-or-treating with good friends, our family turned in early, with even me — the pregnant and restless mom who was pregnant with our 3rd son — falling fast asleep before 9:30 p.m. I awoke that night to the familiar pain of heavy menstrual cramps and what felt to be wet panties.

At that moment — as cliche as it is to say — the previous 3 1/2 months flashed before my eyes, and my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.

I shuffled to the bathroom, trying to convince myself that this was all just some weird pregnancy side-effect, as I was two days shy of being 15 weeks, still relatively young, and had already carried and delivered two other healthy babies without any complications.

Once I made it to the bathroom, my fears were confirmed. I stood at the foot of the bed and gently touched my husband Brandon’s foot.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked.

“I’m bleeding, and I need to get to the hospital.”

There was a moment of silence as I tried to come up with what to say next, and he tried to wake himself up to make sense of what he just heard.

“Bleeding? What?”

“I am okay. I don’t want to wake the boys, so I need you to stay with them while I go.”

“Annie, are you sure? I just — what do you need?”

“Prayers.”

The 15-minute car ride to the hospital is still a blur. Thankfully, I didn’t feel any significant pain (aside from cramping), so I was able to talk to the on-call doctor at our hospital and call my parents to let them know what was happening and see if they could make the 1 1/2-hour trip to be with our sleeping (soon-to-be) 6-year-old and 3-year-old.

After walking through ER security and checking in, I stood in the waiting room and consulted Google, praying I would find a reasonable explanation as to why I could be bleeding at nearly 15 weeks. For the first time in the history of using the search engine, I was assured that things were most likely okay, as your chances of miscarrying after 13 weeks are a mere 5%.

“Anabel?”

I looked up to see that the giant double doors at the end of the room were now open, revealing both obnoxiously bright neon lights and that of a younger nurse in blue scrubs.

She escorted me to Room 12, asked me for details of what was happening and an estimated timeline of events, and then left me in the dark room to change into a gown and those famous mesh panties that are — in my opinion — incredibly overrated.

I bled. I prayed. I consulted Google yet again for a list of saints who may intercede on my behalf.

Sts. Gianna Molla, Catherine of Sweden, and Zelie Martin were the top search results, so I began pleading with them for some kind of miracle, as I knew that they had endured this fear and pain as well.

During that time, a male nurse came in to check on how I was doing, which is when I informed him that I was still heavily bleeding and was getting it all over my gown.

“They didn’t give you a menstrual pad?”

He seemed annoyed.

“No. Just a gown and mesh panties.”

Without saying much more, he left the room to retrieve a pad, which is when I felt it.

It was 11:51 p.m. when I felt a familiar gush.

I had just finished asking the saints for a miracle intercession and had hoped that maybe what I felt was more blood, but as soon as I sat up, swung my legs to the side of the bed, and began to stand, I felt something to fall into my mesh underwear.

I didn’t want to look, as I knew that I had just delivered our son.

I slowly pulled down the mesh to investigate, and lying there was our lifeless yet perfectly formed son, who was nearly the size of my palm and had perfect little arms and legs, fingers and toes, and what looked to be the start of his eyes, ears, and nose.

Everything was such a blur, and I told myself I was dreaming. I pinched myself to wake up. Nothing.

“No. No. No.” I began to quietly sob as I sat there in shock.

The nurse who admitted me came in with a pad.

“I just delivered my baby,” I informed her through tears.

“What do you mean you just delivered your baby? Do you mean you think you may have?”

“No, no. I just saw him. He’s here.”

The nurse helped me gather my son and get re-situated on the bed, which is when I held him for the first time in pure disbelief.

How could this happen, I wondered over and over. I couldn’t fathom how just hours earlier, I was leading this carefree life with family and friends, and now here I was in the emergency room holding our tiny, albeit perfect son.

I called Brandon. We had been texting ever since I got to the hospital about how my parents were on their way and what we would tell the boys, and now I had to officially break the news that we both knew was coming.

“I’m holding him, Brandon,” I told him between tears, “he is so tiny and perfect.”

I can count on one hand the number of times I have heard my husband cry. This was one of those times.

“I think I know what we should name him,” I told him toward the end of the call.

“Michael James.”

Less than a week before losing Michael, my aunt threw us a small gender reveal that included the four of us, my parents and brother, and my aunt and my uncle. Something about this pregnancy felt so different from the other two, and I thought for sure we were having a girl, so when my husband pitched the baseball to our oldest and its contents were blue, I was utterly shocked.

We were having another boy! Jackson and Gabe would have another little buddy to play with, and none of us could have been happier.

After the reveal, we sat around my aunt’s living room, eating cake and discussing potential names.

“I like Leo James,” I announced to everyone.

Since Brandon and I had already discussed a few names, I knew his thoughts on Leo James (not a fan) and gave him a sarcastic yet playful look while he shook his head.

“What about Michael James?” asked Jackson.

For the last few years, Jackson has had such a beautiful and fun relationship with St. Michael the Archangel, so I knew where he got the name and informed him that I liked that, too.

As soon as I laid eyes on our little boy, I knew he was Michael James.

After hanging up, I met with more nurses, one of whom asked if I would like to speak to the chaplain while I waited for my husband (who was waiting for my parents). I agreed and was met by a friendly, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair.

We talked for a long time.

We talked about names, how to talk to Jackson and Gabe about the miscarriage, and our mutual belief in heaven. She told me she loved Michael’s name and was impressed by how our almost 6-year-old suggested it. When it came time for an ultrasound tech to come in and examine my now-empty womb, she asked if I wanted her to stay.

I did.

In hindsight, my ultrasound was a total comedy of errors.

The tech had immigrated to the United States from northern Africa, and in an attempt to comfort me, he said, “Now, Anabel, do not cry. You are still young and can have more kids.”

I didn’t want more kids. I wanted this one.

The tears kept coming, and in a second attempt to comfort me, he told me a story about a woman from his home country who tried to escape to Italy by boat, but the boat capsized, killing both her and the child with whom she was seven months pregnant. Their bodies were discovered months later.

“Well, when you put it that way,” I thought, but now my tears were not only for my son but for this woman and her unborn child as well.

The chaplain shook her head throughout the entire exchange and apologized profusely on his behalf before excusing herself to get some books for me and a certificate of blessing for Michael James.

Soon after, Brandon arrived, and we spent the rest of the night hugging, talking, and crying. During this time, I also continued to heavily bleed, to the point where I was passing giant clots every 10 to 20 minutes. Since it was still the middle of the night, there was only one OB on the floor, who initially suggested a D&C via phone but later thought it could be taken care of without the need for surgery.

During this time, Brandon and I also discussed what we wanted to do with Michael’s remains. We knew we wanted to bury him and knew which Catholic cemetery we would take him to, but we went back and forth on whether or not to bring him home with us (and hide him from the boys and our cat) or pick him up on our way to the cemetery.

Since the OB figured that I was bleeding from leftover tissue (though Michael was delivered completely intact, praise the Lord), the ER doctor and night nurse attempted to scrape out my uterus with no anesthesia, which is as painful and uncomfortable as it sounds.

This first attempt yielded no change in bleeding, so the OB — who was finally on her way down to the ER — wanted to try it herself.

It was close to 3:30 a.m. by the time I met with the doctor, who came in and introduced herself, looked at Michael, and announced that he was small and had stopped growing at around 12 weeks.

I was utterly baffled.

At 12 weeks, 3 days, I went in for my regular check-up, where I heard his strong heartbeat and had my blood drawn for genetic testing. He was excellent and showed no signs of distress. I just couldn’t make sense of it.

The second procedure involved cold clamps (and keeping the cold clamps in for 30 minutes while they waited for a working ultrasound machine) and lots of scraping, which — while painful — kept my mind off everything else and gave me a chance to email my editor to let her know I needed to take off a few days.

The bleeding finally began to subside, and we were sent home with Michael (who I couldn’t bear to leave) just after 5 a.m., where we were greeted by my mom (my dad had already left because he needed to get home to tie up some loose ends at their office) and two restless kids who kept waking up in the night wondering where I went.

Friday and Saturday were spent resting, crying, shopping with my mom, and making funeral arrangements for our son. On Friday night, we received our Christmas cards in the mail — the ones I had ordered less than a week prior and arrived in record time — and were greeted by a happy and carefree family of 4 who were all looking into the camera, smiling and holding a cake that said “Boo! It’s a Boy!”

The tears began to pour. I asked Brandon what we should do and if we needed to get new cards.

“He’s still our son,” Brandon gently reminded me.

We kept the cards, and I sat up late on Saturday night, pouring my heart and soul into our Christmas letter.

On Sunday morning, we told the boys. Thankfully, my 3-year-old was way too young to understand what was happening, but Jackson took it hard and ran to our room, where he and I lay together and talked for nearly 30 minutes.

The pain of telling the boys, combined with the pain of losing Michael James, was so severe that I canceled plans with a friend (we had made plans the week prior, but I told her I wanted to keep them and get out of the house) and laid in bed crying for two straight hours. I had never felt so hurt and helpless in my life and did not know how to proceed over the coming hours, days, weeks, and months.

After listening to a podcast about miscarriage that was produced by the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, I managed to pull myself together, reminding myself that I still had a husband and two boys who I needed to show up for. It was one of the hardest days of my life, but I managed to get dressed, go to church with my family, and then meet my friend at the Christmas market.

Aside from not feeling great all day Monday, I do not recall what we did. That evening, however, I began saying my goodbyes to little Michael, who was sent home with us in a plastic vile and biohazard bag, but now rested in a makeshift bed that I created out of an Altoid tin and paper towels.

I kissed his perfect little face more times than I could count.

I held him and talked to him.

I sat him against my heart and gently rocked him.

I took pictures so that I would never forget how tiny yet stunning he was.

On Tuesday morning, we dropped Jackson off at school and headed to the cemetery, where Michael James would be buried with other babies who were either stillborn or miscarried.

The lady in charge of the Precious Lives burial was an angel and was so kind to us, gently explaining the process to us and giving us all the time we needed to say our goodbyes. As with the previous day, I still felt a little achy and off, and after giving my final kiss to Michael, I could tell something was wrong.

When we left the hospital early Friday morning, I was given several prescriptions, including one that would help stop the bleeding and avoid further infection. By Saturday evening, I was hardly bleeding anymore and noticed it had virtually ended by Sunday night. As we left the cemetery on Tuesday morning, I felt a gush, which threw me as I hadn’t bled for nearly 48 hours and didn’t think I would anymore with the medication.

After going back into the cemetery to check things out and clean up, we ran a few errands and started walking around Michaels, which is when I felt like I was coming down with the flu. I made several calls to my doctor asking why this was happening, but I was assured time and again that the bleeding was normal and that I was okay.

We still had more errands to run, but Brandon dropped me off at the house so I could rest while he and Gabe finished them.

Over the next hour, I continued to check my temperature, which ranged anywhere from the upper 99s to the mid 103s. I packed a bag and waited for Brandon and Gabe to return.

After speaking with the nurse yet again and telling her about my fever, I was directed to the ER for monitoring, which is when I had all of the fun blood draws, internal ultrasounds, and IVs. Less than an hour later, we had the results: there was a small piece of tissue left over from my miscarriage, and it more than likely became infected, hence the fever and newfound cramps.

Since I had eaten a small handful of trail mix before leaving for the hospital, my D&C was scheduled for late that night, as they could not perform the anesthesia any sooner.

The next few hours were extremely uncomfortable, as I could not even drink, and the nurse — who was very crass to begin with — kept forgetting to bring me anything to manage my fever. Thankfully, her shift ended a few hours before my surgery, and the sweet ER nurse from a few nights earlier came in next.

Just before 9 p.m., I was checked into my hospital room and then wheeled down to surgery, where I laid and prayed during the pre-op and while being wheeled into the operating room. Less than an hour later, it was over, and I woke up to my doctor talking to my husband (who was home with the boys) on the phone, telling him that everything had gone well.

After another groggy hour, I was back in my room, reunited with my phone, wedding ring, mother’s necklace, and a copy of Grieving Together, which I had started reading the day before. Like every stay in the history of hospitals, the night dragged along, and I thought long and hard about my empty womb and all of the other things that had unfolded within one week.

It was also then that I had one of the most profound moments in my adult life: I realized that Saints Zelie, Gianna, and Catherine of Sweden had interceded on my behalf and that I did, in fact, get my miracle.

In the hours and days following our miscarriage, I read everything I could get my hands on, whether it be medical reports and statistics, other women’s experiences, or just what to expect now that our lives had been turned upside. What I learned in my studies is that I had experienced a missed miscarriage, which is when the baby dies, but the mother’s body has yet to realize it, as the placenta continues to release hormones that appear to be pregnancy-related. (In my case, we had lost Michael James nearly 2 1/2 weeks before, and I had absolutely no idea.)

With many missed miscarriages, the parents do not realize that anything is wrong until a routine doctor’s appointment, resulting in both an incredibly difficult conversation with the doctor and a series of tough decisions in terms of what to do next (i.e., waiting to deliver the baby on your own or have a D&C). While Michael’s sudden birth was extraordinarily shocking and traumatic, I didn’t have enough time beforehand to process what was happening, nor did I have to go home, wait, and be alone in my thoughts.

As I was in my 2nd trimester (though he had passed late in the 1st), I should have also experienced unbearable physical pain from his delivery, but I never felt a thing. While I would have much rather delivered a full-term baby who I could hold in my arms, nurse, and love on this earth, I was alone in a quiet room, being prayed over by three saints who helped make a horrible situation a bit more peaceful.

Did my miracle look the way I wanted it to look? Not even close.

However, I later realized that he was gone before I could even beg and plead and that I was given the miracle of life and the miracle that I — a perfectly imperfect human — was now the mother of a saint.

The next afternoon, I was home.

A dear friend watched the boys for us while I was discharged, and then Brandon met my parents halfway between Denver and their house to drop off our 3-year-old for a few days while I recovered and our kindergartener went to school. As someone who hates asking for help, the next few weeks were unbelievably humbling, as we were gifted with meal trains, playdates (sans mom), masses said for our family, and a countless amount of cards, calls, texts, and — most importantly — prayers.

As I write this, I should be 35 weeks pregnant. There isn’t an hour that goes by where I don’t think of Michael and everything our family has been through these last 4 1/2 months, and while I would give anything to have him back, our family has experienced the most amazing graces from Michael’s short, yet beautiful life.

My husband’s and my marriage is stronger than ever. (Aside: During my D&C discharge, the surgeon came in and gave us the best piece of advice we have ever received: We needed to be looking out for each other, checking in, and hugging as much as possible, as grief is ugly and can easily destroy a marriage. I cannot tell you what this did for our situation and relationship, and I now repeat it to anyone else going through this trial.)

As crazy as it is, my relationship with Christ has been strengthened, and my faith has immensely grown.

Our family has forged an even stronger bond with our friends, and we have even made new friends because of the situation.

While I would give anything to be nesting right now instead of writing down our story, I am reminded of what the hospital chaplain told me shortly after losing Michael: Your baby’s life meant something and means something.

Michael’s life meant something and still means something.

If you are reading this and have experienced a miscarriage, know that your baby’s life meant something and still means something, too.

Miscarriage is atrocious.

It is life-changing and arguably one of the hardest things a person will ever have to endure.

If you are going through a miscarriage, I pray that you will not be too hard on yourself. While we will never know the answer as to why we have to endure this pain on this side of heaven, there will one day be a great reward for our suffering, as we will be reunited with our children for all of eternity.