We step out of the elevator onto that fateful floor. To the right, pediatrics. To the left, the mother-child unit. We turn left and walk in silence, knowing we’re about to experience one of the worst days of our lives. When we reached the reception desk, we didn’t know what to say—as if saying it out loud would make reality worse than it already was. Fortunately, the doctor was there. We were taken care of immediately. We were led to our room—the last one on the right at the end of the hall, so we’d be kept out of the way given our situation.
I hadn’t expected to see a delivery room so soon. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect it to be that big—or maybe it was just me feeling so small. Surrounded by the bright colors of the yellow and blue room, I burst into tears once again. My world had stopped turning just a few minutes earlier.
At my last routine appointment, my doctor had told me that the results of the Down syndrome screening tests were abnormal. That was a shock in itself, but the worst was yet to come. We couldn’t hear the heartbeat. Well, it wasn’t the first time we hadn’t heard it, so just like before, my doctor went to get the little ultrasound machine and we checked to make sure everything was okay. But the baby wasn’t positioned so we could see the heart, and it wasn’t moving. I left the family medicine unit that Tuesday afternoon carrying a load of fear, anxiety, and nervousness—but also a glimmer of hope. The next day, I took the DNA test; they gave me my appointment for genetic testing, followed by my appointment for the ultrasound to check the heart.
Friday, 1:40 p.m., ultrasound to check the heart. As soon as I arrived, they asked me about my pregnancy history. I realized, despite myself, that my past was eroding my optimism about the situation: a history of blighted ovum and miscarriage. Three other couples are in the waiting room. We see them come out one after another, smiling as they hold their ultrasound photos. Then it’s our turn. We’re the last ones. I explain the situation again. Every time I say it out loud, a bit of hope fades away.
Our baby is there, in the gestational sac. But there’s no movement. No matter how hard I wish with all my might for even the slightest movement, the tiniest sign of life, there isn’t even a tiny line moving to show a beating heart. The doctor shows us the heart on the screen and confirms what I’d already realized. The heart isn’t beating. All my hopes, my optimism, my life shattered into a thousand pieces. I couldn’t hold back my tears. My life dissolved in that moment. My plans, my dreams, my routines, my ambitions—everything. Everything poured out in hot tears. My life was turned upside down forever.
They explained my options to me, performed an amniocentesis, and then told us where to go. My tears never stopped flowing. I was well aware that I was making everyone else feel uncomfortable as I stepped into the elevator, but I couldn’t control this pain. I felt alone—even though my partner was with me and he was just as heartbroken, I felt alone. I feel like I’m the only person who truly loved this little being. Like I’m the only one who was constantly smiling when I thought about him. Like I’m the only one whose soul aches, who feels empty, who acts on autopilot just to get myself where I need to go. My partner continues to be my rock; he tries to meet my every need even though I don’t know what I might want, even though he’s grieving too.
Around 4:30 p.m., I’m given the first dose to induce labor. Then the doses follow every 4–5 hours. The nurses come to say “goodbye” and introduce themselves at the start of each round. They’re all full of compassion, but we know they’d all rather not be going through this. We, too, would have preferred not to be going through this. We would have preferred to meet this wonderful team under different circumstances—the usual circumstances on this floor: the joy of bringing a new life into the world.
During the night, I started having contractions. I seriously wondered why I was going through all this, why I had to endure such an ordeal, why I had to suffer physically on top of all the suffering I was already experiencing. They gave me a shot to ease the pain. I finally fell asleep. Early in the morning, it was the doctors’ turn to adjust the numbers. A little later, some good news: I was dilated, so labor should start soon.
What followed happened without any physical pain at all, much to everyone’s bewilderment. But all my strength left me when I saw his lifeless head and arms. It was as if someone had just hit me while I was already down. The doctor and the nurse did what they had to do, and then they asked me the inevitable question: did I want to see my baby? They presented my child to me—this tiny purple bundle with all its limbs intact, one hand resting on its heart—but lifeless, without a cry, without a flicker of movement. They explained that he was probably older than what we’d been told during the ultrasound. Then they explained that, unfortunately, our journey wasn’t over yet because the placenta hadn’t come out.
After a medical procedure, the day finally came to an end. Twenty-four hours after entering the delivery room, we were leaving for good. But as we walked down the hallway, I felt crushed by the happiness of others. The cries of the newborn, the couple arriving to give birth to their child, the father proudly holding his baby—all while we walked, empty-armed, toward the elevator to return to the cozy nest we’d been preparing for this child we love so dearly.
A huge thank you to the entire team at the Hôtel-Dieu de Lévis Hospital. Thank you for remaining human, for showing empathy and compassion. We very much hope to see you again under happier circumstances.