Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month
Where do you begin when attempting to write about unexpected loss? I’ll start with his name: Owen Ellis Ketchum.
Owen was a chubby little baby when he was growing inside me. He “danced” when I played him music and he got a lot of hiccups. He was my first pregnancy. He loved to kick when his dad talked to him. His half-brother, Oliver, was overjoyed to be getting a baby brother. It was scary, but it was exciting.
Owen had a Single Umbilical Artery. We were told that it would be something we would keep an eye on with a few extra ultrasounds. The team wanted to ensure his growth was on track. My big boy proved that it wasn’t holding him back. At 34 weeks we graduated from “high risk” because his weight percentage was in the 90th percentile.
I went into labor on Friday, November 4, 2022. I wanted and planned for a natural birth, so I kept strong through the early contractions knowing this would likely be the most painful, yet most rewarding experience of my life. When we figured the time was right, Owen’s dad drove me the 40 minutes to the birthing center to get checked. The midwife placed a doppler on my belly for a few seconds to check Owen’s heart and then checked my cervix to see how soon we would meet him. The midwife asked if my water had broken. I wasn’t sure. She noted aloud about seeing something that looked like Meconium on my pad. Owen’s dad asked her to explain, and she said, “It is baby’s first poop. You shouldn’t see that until he’s born.” The midwife then continued her other checks and seemed to forget about the Meconium. In retrospect, that was the first sign that something was not right.
She told us that I was not yet dilated, so although “something” was happening, I wasn’t in active labor quite yet. My contractions were sporadic, coming one minute apart sometimes, then five minutes apart others. I was told to go home and labor until things were more consistent.
The drive home was physical torture, and the following night was much worse. No matter how many times we called to update the birthing center, we were told that this is what labor is: a waiting game. They suggested that I take a bath or some Tylenol PM to try to rest. Saturday came and daylight lifted the contractions. My family came by to check in on me. Saturday night the contractions came back with a vengeance, but they were not consistent. Around 1:45am, Sunday morning, we called the midwives to tell them we were going to drive to the hospital and ask to be admitted so I could have some relief.
Looking back, this is the moment that everything changed. When we hung up, I second-guessed myself and thought, “This is what labor is supposed to feel like. You are supposed to be in the most pain you’ve ever been in. YOU ARE A WOMAN; YOU CAN DO THIS! BE STRONGER.” We called back and told the midwives we would hold off until the contractions were consistent. I remember feeling Owen move a few minutes after that, like he was gently reminding me that the pain was worth it. Less than four hours later, I could no longer take the pain and we made the journey back to the birth center. At the time, I perceived it as “giving up.” Reflecting now, I wish I had trusted my gut instinct earlier in the night.
After checking in and getting registered, I was placed in a bed on the Labor and Delivery floor. A midwife different than the one I had seen Friday came in to get us hooked up to the monitors.
“Robbi honey, I can’t find a heartbeat.”
Your imagination can fill in the moments after that. Words wouldn’t do it justice.
Seventeen hours later, my sleeping angel was in my arms for the first and last time. I remember leaving my 8lb 4oz baby boy at the hospital alone, watching other families walk out with car seats and holding hands. I felt anger towards them. I felt anger towards everyone except Owen. More than anyone, I was furious with myself. Nearly two years later, I still find myself falling into the never-ending cycle of guilt that I didn’t do enough. I don’t wish the nagging feelings of, “If only I had done this” or “I should have asked that” on anyone.
I do not share Owen’s story to scare anyone. My last wish is to put unnecessary fear in the hearts and minds of expecting families. However, I want my experience to be a reminder of how important it is to trust your instincts and advocate for oneself and one’s baby.
I do not have a birth certificate for Owen, because he did not take a breath. I do not have a death certificate for Owen as he did not “live.” But he was here. He mattered. His presence wasn’t physically permanent, but his impact has been. He is loved by me, his family, our friends, and all those who have heard his story.
I have shared Owen’s story openly on social media accounts, and love to keep him present in that way. An acquaintance messaged me a few months after he passed, to let me know that she was almost sent away by her care team when she went into labor with her daughter. She recalled my story and she refused to leave the hospital. She knew something felt off and forced her team to listen to her and admit her for further monitoring. She was correct - something was wrong. To this day, she claims that Owen helped save her daughter.
If Owen’s story can encourage a mom (or birth partner) to speak up to their provider when something feels off and insist that the medical professionals respond appropriately to the concerns, whether it be during routine prenatal visits or during the chaos of labor, then Owen and I will have made a positive impact. Through grief and pain, I will continue to look for glimmers of Owen’s positive impact on this world.
A closing note from BenefitBump: We are honored that Robbi has trusted us to share Owen’s story with other growing families. If, in reading their story, you have concerns about your own providers or journey, please reach out to your Care Navigator. We are here to support, educate, and advocate for you during every step of your journey.