Holly Ann, Spreading HOPE for Magnolia and Poppy
Holly Ann Abel, sharing her story in memory of Magnolia and Poppy
“I was 8 months pregnant and it was a quiet drive to the hospital after hours of not feeling Magnolia move.
When we arrived, a nurse prompted me to change into a gown. I wonder now if behind her kind eyes she had an inkling my world was about to collapse. Babies shouldn’t stop moving. She knew that, but I didn’t.
She placed the doppler gently onto my belly and the room fell silent. A second nurse entered the room and then a third followed as they exchanged concerned gazes while desperately searching for a sign of life.
Quiet tears streamed down my face as I fixated on the ugly wallpaper that lined the ceiling. We waited on an ultrasound to confirm the results we had been desperately waiting for. The screen was tilted just enough for me to see a flat line where zigzags of life once appeared, and in that instant, I knew she was gone. That moment was followed by the words that I can still hear to this day:
“I’m so sorry. There’s no heartbeat.”
I felt as if I had left my own body, my mind too numb to feel; almost as if my heart had stopped alongside hers.
Soon after receiving this devastating news, we were presented with two topics that should never be discussed together: giving birth and funeral arrangements.
My mind couldn’t wrap around the idea that my womb now knew both life and death.
And after the worst phone calls of my life, telling the people we loved most that the baby we had all been anxiously waiting for was gone, I couldn’t escape the reality that despite wanting to crawl into a hole, I had to prepare my body for delivery.
As I laid in the hospital bed preparing my body to deliver my baby whose heartbeat had unexpectedly stopped, the overwhelming emotions of fear, sadness, and confusion washed over me. I had never given birth before, let alone to a baby who would never take her first breath.
Yet, even in the midst of unimaginable pain both emotionally and physically, there was still a part of me that was eager to meet her.
It’s almost as if I had memorized every inch of her little body as she kicked away inside me all these months; the way her hand would caress the inside of my womb or how her tiny feet were strong enough to make my belly protrude in certain areas.
I felt like I knew her so deeply even though I’d only seen her in black and white pictures through scans on a screen. Our souls felt so interwoven, so connected.
Though nothing could have prepared me for what was to come, I began the journey leading up to the heart-wrenching moment where I’d get to hold her in my arms for the very first time.
After laboring for over 36 hours, Magnolia’s body entered the world, but her soul did not.
As she was placed on my chest, I had never felt more love than in that moment and yet simultaneously felt the crushing weight of grief, coming to the realization that she would never open her eyes, that I would never get to hear her cry, and that the chance to watch her grow up was ripped away from me so suddenly.
But through the tears, through the devastation, through the darkness, I still felt so fortunate that she chose me to be her mom. As I caressed her cheek, and wrapped her tiny fingers around my own, the world I had known before came to a halt and changed forever.
I soaked in every detail from the taste buds on her tongue to the smallest fingerprints I’d ever seen, in awe that my body could create such a perfect angel, and confounded that it couldn’t bring her safely into the world.
Though hardly weighing anything, holding a baby in my arms that I’d never get to take home felt astoundingly heavy.
And as much as it hurts to relive the pain of walking out of the hospital empty-handed, I’d do it all over again just to get that time with her.
Since that day, I gave birth to my healthy and happy rainbow baby, Marigold, who brings joy and color to my life. I try to find as many moments as I can to tell her about her big sister that came before her.
When trying to expand our family for a third time, I experienced a miscarriage. Grappling with the complicated emotions that came with grieving a baby I never got to meet or hold, I still found it healing to name her. Poppy was named after the August birth flower which is the month I found out she did not have a heartbeat.
My heart constantly dances between fear and hope, darkness and light, and grief and joy. I continue learning how to hold space for all of these things and feels it’s a privilege to get to share my story. I am so grateful that Return to Zero: Hope allows a safe space to do this.”
October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month.
Our HOPEtober annual event honors all losses on the journey to parenthood.
Even though so many of us have experienced pregnancy or infant loss, or know someone who has, it is a loss that exists in the shadows. As bereaved parents, we feel isolated and alone. But together, we can shine a light on pregnancy and infant loss, helping others to live a life that holds both grief and joy.
HOPEtober Luminaries partner with us during the month of October to be an advocate and ambassador in spreading awareness and shining a light on pregnancy and infant loss. By sharing our stories we’re bringing awareness to pregnancy and infant loss, as well as the resources and support that exist through Return to Zero: Hope. As a nonprofit, raising awareness and funds are essential to our cause and support programs.
We'd be grateful if you you would consider making a contribution to RTZ HOPE. Your gift ensures that other parents who endure loss on their journey to parenthood have the support, resources, and community they need in order to navigate life after loss.
This year our goal is to raise $75,000 during the month of October so that we can continue spread hope and healing by providing resources and support to grieving families and their care providers.
Thank you for helping to shatter the silence around pregnancy & infant loss.