Sarah’s Story
I’m Sarah, I am a registered nurse with a background in NICU and ER nursing. I became involved with Tiny Footprints in 2016 in Calgary, when my friend and coworker Kristina Oriold co-founded the organization with Jen Woods, in honour of Riley Oriold who passed away shortly after her birth in 2011. It has been an immense privilege to lead the expansion of Tiny Footprints to the Edmonton area, and I am incredibly honoured to serve the perinatal loss community in this way.
My involvement with baby loss began in a professional capacity. While working in the NICU at Foothills Hospital in Calgary, I journeyed with numerous families through the loss of their baby. One baby in particular, Cove, changed my life forever. I cared for her in the NICU and was devastated when she died only a few short days after her birth. I carry her with me in my heart and have roses planted in my garden to honour her. I think of her often. She would be turning 10 years old this year, and I continue to be impacted by her life. When I began teaching birth empowerment classes, I named my small business “The Birth Cove” in her memory. She has shaped me as a nurse, as an educator, as an advocate, as a mother, and a friend. You can read more about her story here.
In 2020, my partner and I experienced the loss of our daughter, Miri. Our last happy day with her, when we saw her on ultrasound and heard her heartbeat, was August 20th 2020 - Cove’s birthday, and also our wedding anniversary. The very next day, I unexpectedly went into labour and Miri was born, much too small and too early to survive, right near the end of first trimester. She was born at home, and we buried her in our backyard under the hydrangea bush. The hydrangeas have been white or green every year before and after, but in summer 2020, before Miri died, they bloomed with a beautiful light pink blush.
Somehow, despite having cared for many families in the NICU and in ER where I was often confronted with the heartbreaking reality that babies are lost at every stage of pregnancy and after birth, I wasn’t expecting this to happen, and it was blindsiding. We’d had two healthy full-term pregnancies prior, and had expected this pregnancy to be no different. I think due to the shock, I initially felt very little, other than numbness. At first it felt like maybe something was wrong with me, that I felt almost nothing at all. I went through the day-to-day motions robotically, almost never crying or feeling sad at all. I have learned that this is a normal response for some people. Meanwhile, my partner descended into a very dark and angry space, and we began to navigate grief very differently from one another. We’ve since reconnected through lots of hard work and therapy, and discovered that this is also normal - for partners to grieve very differently.
I am still making sense of what happened after that, and although at first I experienced some insecurity around (what has felt like) an ever-evolving narrative, I now understand that it is perfectly normal for it to take time to find the story that feels right. We experienced another pregnancy thereafter, and things mostly felt wrong/not real. It felt wrong for another baby to be in Miri’s space, where she was still supposed to be. I lost the pregnancy right after we discovered it, and that was when everything came crashing down for me. Almost like I finally allowed myself to accept that Miri was gone, and to truly feel the pain and raw grief of her loss.
It was a very dark time. I spent many days lying on the couch crying silent tears while my sons played nearby, then crying not-so-silent tears in the shower. I felt pressured (by myself?) to choose a name for that subsequent pregnancy too, and live it as a separate loss experience, but I’m no longer certain about that. When I look back on that period of time, it all feels like one loss to me - Miri. I still don’t know with full certainty what “my story” is, but I am learning to live with this ambiguity and approach it with curiosity instead of judgment. It feels vulnerable to share this, as I know there will be people who disagree, despite it being my lived experience. But I share it to normalize that if you are reading this and have experienced something similar, you’re not alone.
After Miri died, I had a follow-up ultrasound to ensure that I had not retained any placenta. The ultrasound technician, maybe trying to be light-hearted, said “Yup, it's completely empty in there!” while doing the exam. It was hard to hear. Those words played in my mind over and over in the coming months like a taunt: “empty, empty, empty, your womb is empty, Miri is gone and you are empty”.
At the same time, my sister was expecting twins, her first pregnancy, and I was delighted for her. Having been pregnant together for a few weeks was a wonderful gift, and although our midwife gently warned me that I might struggle to see her growing belly over the coming weeks, I can honestly say that I never experienced any difficult feelings about her pregnancy until after the twins were born. She gifted me the honour of being present for her birthing experience, and that precious time together in the hospital, as she laboured to bring her baby boys into the world, was one of the most memorable and treasured gifts I have ever been given. In the days and weeks that followed, I initially struggled to connect with my nephews. Not because I didn’t love them, or because I didn’t want them to be here with us, but because I wanted to be entering third trimester with my own baby. And it acutely reminded me of what I didn’t have, and currently had no promise of. As time went on, especially as I passed Miri’s due date, and after I became pregnant again myself, it became less and less painful to hold them and easier to celebrate the joy they brought to our whole extended family. Being an auntie is truly one of the most incredible things I have ever experienced and I am so grateful for all of my nieces and nephews, and for the privilege of being in their lives.
Due to our loss happening during the pandemic, we also faced the unique challenge of navigating our grief in an era of “social distancing”. I vacillated between wanting space (had plenty) and wanting togetherness (outdoor visits quickly lost their novelty, and hugs were unheard of). Our living children, our sons aged 2 and 4, became our most cherished companions. They were heartbroken with us. They chose a special rock to mark Miri’s burial spot under the hydrangea. They asked questions and we were honest with them. They asked to open her box and read the grief books often. “The Invisible String” by Patrice Karst was their favourite for a long time. They occasionally mention Miri in passing, to this day, and it always warms my heart so much to know that they still think of their baby sister sometimes.
We were cared for by our very compassionate midwife, Tara, who was a gift to us in the darkest days of our early grief. Miri should have been born in early March, 2021. In early April 2021, we discovered that we were expecting again. Navigating pregnancy after loss was a completely different ballgame, compared to the ignorance of before loss. Every twinge was the possibility of preterm labour. Every trip to the bathroom was marked with silent wondering whether there would be blood on the toilet paper when wiping. Every ultrasound I expected to hear bad news. Every Monday I held my breath waiting to find the familiar whoosh of the fetal heart rate on my home Doppler. Every midwife appointment, I cried in Tara's office.
I was working casually in the ER at that time, and the 12 hour shifts in the stifling full-body pandemic PPE combined with my overbearing anxiety about the delta variant of covid and its demonstrated significance for pregnant people, led to me needing to go off work early at 28 weeks. I embraced the early start to maternity leave and tried to settle into an extended nesting period. Medical complications required my care to be shared between my beloved midwife and an amazing obstetrician, Dr. Jorge Mayo, who quickly won my heart too.
We desperately wanted to birth at home with our midwife, because at the time, partners were being disallowed into the delivery room with no notice. I couldn't possibly imagine giving birth alone without my partner, even the thought filled me with anxiety (like almost everything else that pregnancy). With close monitoring and in consultation with Dr. Mayo, I reluctantly agreed to plan an induction if I didn't go into labour on my own at 39 weeks. I went to bed on Sunday night at 38+6 feeling defeated, knowing that Monday likely held all the unknowns of an induction.
But then, in the middle of the night, I woke up with furious contractions and suddenly my hopes for a home birth with my trusted circle reignited. One by one our team arrived - Vannessa, the photographer, Tara, the midwife, Rachel, my youngest sister, to support our sons who wanted to be present for their new sibling's birth. And a few short hours later, in the darkness of the early morning, in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, our third healthy baby boy, Shad, joined us. I wasn't sure if I'd get to hear a newborn cry again on my chest, and with his first powerful shriek, I found myself feeling abundantly grateful. Although I consider his birth a very healing experience, it didn't erase the previous year and a half of grief. He didn't replace Miri and I don't miss her any less because he's here.
I have found healing in other practices too. Talking with others who had experienced baby loss. Particular music playlists and specific candles. Walking in the forest. My massage therapist patiently helping me reconnect with and regain trust in my body. Seeing her name written in chalk by volunteers at the H.E.A.R.T.S. Baby Steps Walk to Remember (which, ironically, was on August 20th last year). Lighting a candle while our living kids played at the park on October 15th as the high level bridge was lit pink and blue for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Donating a teddy bear at the December Candlelight Memorial service felt like gifting my baby a teddy bear for Christmas.
A few months before Shad was born, we took the kids to the west coast for a few days. I have never felt so connected to Miri as I did in the old-growth forests of Tofino. The mist, the rain, the trees, the ocean. The unseen mycelium mat below. Everything seemed so intensely interconnected and I felt her presence (and absence) keenly.
There are countless other things that could be said about this journey. How it affected our marriage. How it impacted our parenting of our living children. What it was like to try to conceive again after loss. The symbols we chose as reminders of her. The rituals I developed, the grief playlist, the sensations of labour after loss so deeply reminding me of how it felt physically to lose Miri. Things that people said and did that helped, things that people said and did that didn’t help. The unexpected triggers. The significant shifts in perspective. But most often I try to focus on the good things she brought me. The three main goals I carry forward as I try to mother her from a distance are as follows:
To hold space for the wide array of feelings and experiences that accompany pregnancy and infant loss.
To facilitate community and the sharing of stories.
To advocate for critical supports in the hospital and in the community to help people navigate the loss of their baby.
Your experience matters and is valid. You are not alone. There is help.
The Tiny Footprints community endeavours to achieve all of these goals, and I cannot overstate how important and meaningful that is to me. I am so grateful for the wonderful people whose paths I have crossed since becoming involved in this work in 2016. To all of the babes whose tiny footprints have left their mark on our hearts - you are carried, you are missed, you are loved. We do this for you.
