My name is Jennifer and my daughter, Sarah Goins-Silvas, was stillborn. If anyone had told me that I would be writing these words two years ago, I would not have believed them. The death of a child is such an unbelievable event that I know you, too, are in shock that it has happened to you. This book is written for you with the hope of easing some of your pain and informing you of what lies ahead.

In my ninth month of pregnancy, my friends from college threw a baby shower for me. About two hours before the shower, Sarah kicked over a hundred times. This was unusual. I had never done fetal movement counts but this one time, I stopped to count because I knew the baby was kicking more than ever before. Daniel felt the kicks as well. Throughout the shower, we commented to our friends on how strong this baby was. Those were the last kicks I ever felt.

During the first twenty-four hours without movement, I figured "Well, he/she is just worn out from earlier". But by the second day, I was getting worried. I dug out a stethoscope to listen for a heartbeat. I had always been able to find it before but, this time, I could only hear the echo of my own heart. I said nothing to Daniel. We went shopping and made plans. The same night I pulled out the stethoscope once again with no result. The following morning I told Daniel that I believed the baby had died. He then got out the stethoscope and "found" a heartbeat. I wanted so badly for him to be right that I allowed myself to be comforted for the time being.

The baby appeared to have dropped so I told myself he/she is too crowded to move. When I mentioned a lack of movement to others, they supplied the same hope. Finally, I went to the doctor. He had difficulty locating a heartbeat, but he did eventually "find" one. He then sent me to the main hospital. The nurses searched for a heartbeat and did not find one. My panic was rising and when the doctor arrived with a portable ultrasound, he confirmed my worst fear. The baby had been dead for several days.

I chose to induce labor but requested to wait until Daniel could arrive. I had to call him from the hospital to utter those horrible words "The baby died but I still have to go through labor and delivery". Sitting in the hospital room waiting to get this over with was the worst experience of my life. The hospital was, at least, a four hour drive for Daniel.

When he finally arrived, we cried together and prepared for the long night ahead. I was given painkillers on request and spent much of the time "out of it". Sarah was delivered after twenty-one hours of labor. I chose to see the baby before consenting to drugs. I will never regret this decision. I was able to hold her, but Daniel only got to see her, kiss her forehead and say "I love you, Sarah". He then left the room. I partially unwrapped the blanket to look at her but I felt as if I was being watched and that this was inappropriate. I never thought to ask to be alone with her or for Daniel to return before sending her away. She was perfect looking, lots of black hair, a round face and long, beautiful fingernails. She weighed 7 pounds, 1 ounce and looked normal.

The funeral was planned by my parents and the nursery was dismantled while I was away. Sarah was buried in my hometown with a graveside service. Friends from college attended or sent flowers. I was numb, amazed that any of this was taking place. I felt I just wanted to be strong and get on with my life. I felt that this was what was expected of me.

It was not until the day Daniel had to return to work, as well as my mother and twin sister that I was alone to think. Then it hit me how much I loved her and how much I had lost. I cried uncontrollably all day. I could not understand "Why?" "What did I do to deserve this?" "What is wrong with me?" and "Why didn't she love me enough to stay?".

Two weeks later, I returned to classes and was treated like a glass doll. I felt as if everyone was looking at me and saying "She's the one with the dead baby". I faced people who tried to help, but whose comments were hurtful things, as if they had not even spoken. I tried to turn off my pain, appear strong and "get over it", but, deep inside, I was hurting more and more each day. I eventually realized that denying my grief was only going to prolong it.

This book is the story of the greatest loss anyone can suffer and how I traveled through grief to find peace. I hope these words can help you through your own personal journey back into the world of the living.

With Love and Understanding,
Jennifer Goins-Caufman

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