6 days ago today, I gave birth to my baby boy at 20 weeks. His heart had stopped beating at 17 weeks and 1 day inside my womb.
7 days ago today, I was admitted to the hospital to induce labor.
8 days ago, I was still pregnant. Troy and I were driving to my OB’s office for our 20-week ultrasound appointment, full of anticipation.
This all still feels like a bad dream. Each day, I cycle through an exhausting variety of emotions, oscillating on a constant rollercoaster ranging from acceptance to guilt, anger to confusion, and abandonment to a heavy, hollow questioning of “what’s the point in living anymore?” And then, it swings back around again to understanding, and to brief but profound moments of soul-level peace.
Currently, I am sitting here at my computer, wearing cold, crushed cabbage leaves in my sports bra, as apparently, they help prevent and suppress breast engorgement and lactation. It’s 12:45 PM. Troy just left for the office for his first day back to work since this all happened, and I wanted to get some feelings down. I know writing is an excellent way to transmute energy and help my mind process everything. I am an extremely emotional person. Through sharing my experience and my words, it not only helps me tremendously, but my deepest hope is to be a beacon of light to others who have endured this exact pain, or who love someone who has.
Let’s start from the moment our world shifted, the moment we found out there was no heartbeat…
I’m laying in the third room at my doctor’s office. In the first room, we tried the Doppler. In the second room, we tried the basic ultrasound machine. The third was the dimly lit room with the heavy-duty ultrasound machine. I’m laying there, tears already forming in my eyes. Having gone through this situation twice before, though much earlier in pregnancy, I already knew what the frantic room-changing meant.
The silence from the doctor and the ultrasound technician was deafening. After a few agonizing moments of moving the device around my abdomen, my doctor uttered the words that still echo endlessly in my mind: “I am so sorry, there is no heartbeat.”
Troy leaped over and held me so tight. We just clung to each other in complete shock and confusion. In total disbelief, my mind kept repeating: “There is no way. We were supposed to be good. We were told everything was good. Our 16-week ultrasound was perfect. This cannot be happening.”
Troy and I sobbed in each other’s arms before we were escorted back into the original exam room to discuss the next steps. My doctor hugged me, her own eyes filled with sorrow. Still in disbelief, I looked at her and asked why this happened. She explained she couldn’t give me a definitive answer until the baby was delivered, it could have been an umbilical cord accident, a localized placenta issue, or something genetic. She told us she would call the hospital to schedule a labor induction.
*Sigh*
I asked, “So, I am going to have to give birth to a stillborn baby?” It was a question I never, ever thought would escape my lips. She placed her hand gently on my knee and replied, “Yes, I’m so sorry.”
The ride home from the doctor’s office was a total blur. We called our moms immediately when we walked through the door to break the news. For the next few hours, we just laid in bed, crying, holding each other, and trying to acclimate our minds to the fact that our plan for being parents had just been ripped from our lives.
The next morning at 7:00 AM, the call came. A nurse from the hospital told me they had a quiet room ready for me and that we could head over whenever we were ready. We got dressed, grabbed some Starbucks on the way, and rode to the hospital holding hands, mentally trying to prepare ourselves for what was to come, and continuously reminding one another that we will get through this, we will become stronger because of it, and that we will be ok.
We arrived at the hospital, and within an hour, we were being escorted to our room by our nurse, Lupita. She walked in front of us, leading us down a long hallway to a quiet corner of the unit. Before we stepped across the threshold into the room, she paused, turned around, and asked how to correctly pronounce my first name to ensure she got it right.
The weight of the moment hit me. I immediately and uncontrollably burst into tears and apologized for my sudden emotions. Without a second thought, Lupita stepped forward and pulled me into the tightest, most genuine embrace. She told me I had absolutely nothing to apologize for. She held me tightly, (she smelled like a field of flowers,) and said, “I am so sorry for the loss of your baby, and I will do everything I can to make you as comfortable as possible.” Her energy was so incredibly warm and loving that I literally melted into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably. At that exact point, I knew God had paired us with an angel.
When we finally got settled in our room, I changed into the hospital gown and Troy covered me with blankets, ensuring I was warm and comfortable. Within the hour, I had an IV started in my right hand, several vials of blood drawn for testing, and the team offered me anti-anxiety medication to help soothe my hyper-vigilant nervous system. Initially, I declined it. But Troy gently encouraged me to accept it, knowing the heart-wrenching physical and emotional pain ahead, and reminding me that it could help offset some of the trauma. I accepted. Within a few minutes of it entering my system, a wave of calm started to wash over me.
Then, I received my first dose of Cytotec to help my cervix soften and my uterus begin to contract. The Cytotec was the catalyst, a tiny pill meant to signal my body to do what it hadn’t yet realized it needed to do. Because my placenta was still working so perfectly and fiercely holding onto the pregnancy, my body wasn’t releasing the natural chemicals needed to begin labor. The Cytotec had to step in and begin working to gently soften my cervix and signal my uterus to begin the physical contractions of birth. Medical professionals call what I experienced a “missed” or “silent” stillbirth. For three whole weeks, my baby boy had been resting quietly inside me without a heartbeat, and I had absolutely no idea. It is a terrifying, surreal kind of confusion to realize your body didn’t get the biological memo.
While my mind was busy planning our future, my physical vessel was acting on pure, loyal momentum. Because the placenta is its own independent organ, it kept right on working, pumping out pregnancy hormones, expanding, and keeping my body completely convinced that everything was moving forward perfectly. My belly was still growing, my joints were still softening, and all the while, my sweet boy was just floating peacefully, suspended in a warm, protective cushion of amniotic fluid.
I still could not quite understand, though.. How could my intuition, my maternal instincts, and my own physical form be so completely out of sync? Why did my body keep building the sanctuary when the soul had already departed? But as I sat in that hospital bed waiting for the medicine to take effect, a sliver of understanding began to break through the anger: my body didn’t fail me. It loved my baby so fiercely that it refused to let go, keeping his earthly temple safe and undisturbed until the moment we were strong enough to hold him.
Troy and I turned on the hospital room TV, thumbing through the channels in an attempt to distract ourselves. We stopped on the movie Beetlejuice. If I can step out of the sadness of the day for just a moment, it was an excellent choice; it was our first time watching it as adults, and it brought a strange, necessary flicker of joy into the room.
As the day dissolved into evening, Lupita suggested a gentle walk around the hospital and getting some fresh air on the patio, as movement can help get things moving along. Troy and I eagerly agreed; we enjoyed ourselves and soaked up a bit of the sunset. Afterward, I received my fourth dose of Cytotec. Each dose had to be placed near the cervix, which was becoming incredibly uncomfortable. The medication left me feeling so raw and tender. But Troy brought us a feast for dinner, along with an ice-cold Diet Dr. Pepper. There was something about the crisp sweetness of that soda that gave me a tiny bit of pleasure, acting as a momentary escape from the heavy reality pressing down on us.
Speaking of Troy, he stayed right by my side the entire first day. He slept beside me at night, held me close when I cried, and prayed with me throughout the entire experience. I am typing these words behind huge tears of gratitude for that man. He is my whole world, and I thank God every day that I have him.
Later that evening, after enjoying another lovely walk outside and the soothing moonlight, I was wanting desperately to freshen up after laying in bed all day, I took a quick shower in the room. The water temperature kept fluctuating from hot to scalding, leaving me constantly struggling to find the sweet spot, dodging the hot stream just to wash my body. The nurse had warned me the shower wasn’t great, but I chose to tough it out anyway, knowing I would sleep so much better feeling clean. After the shower, my nurse checked my cervix. I was barely dilated, though it was beginning to open. They strapped a monitor around my belly to track contractions, gave me another dose of anti-anxiety medication along with some morphine to offset the painful cramping, and I finally went to sleep. (I also want to mention that earlier, my OB came in to check on me between her patients; she wrapped me in a warm embrace and reassured me, which meant the world.)
Surprisingly, I slept well, despite being checked on a couple times throughout the night. In the morning, the nurse checked me again. My cervix was slightly wider, but still not even dilated to a single centimeter. Troy, who had slept right beside me all night, asked if it would be okay if he ran home quickly to shower, change, and check on our sweet cat, Henry, who was experiencing his first night alone, ever. Feeling fine and seeing that nothing major was happening, I encouraged him, saying, “Absolutely! Go ahead, baby!”
Soon after he left, the doctor decided to give me a double dose of Cytotec. My nurse gently reminded me that this process is different for everyone; it could be completely quiet and still one moment, and the next, everything happens at once. She was right.
My breakfast arrived from hospital room service, and just as I was about to eat, the doctor who would be delivering my baby came in to introduce himself and chat briefly. After he left, I started noticing much sharper cramping as I ate. I called my nurse, and she told me to let her know as soon as I wanted the epidural. I told her I was okay for now, but within a single hour, the real pain set in.
I frantically called her back in and told her I needed it. She said, “Okay, I just have to run saline for 20 minutes, and then we can get it placed.” But within what felt like mere minutes, I was hit with extreme, overwhelming contraction pain. I tried to time them, it was one minute of intense, blinding contractions, followed by just one minute of rest. Then, suddenly, I felt an immense, unmistakable pressure. The baby was coming.
I called the nurses’ station, panic rising in my voice: “I think the baby is coming out!”
Within seconds, my quiet room exploded with motion. It filled with nurses, medical equipment, and the doctor. The pain was so unbearable that I didn’t even want to open my legs for the nurse to check me. I was on my knees, leaning over the top of the bed, because sitting down applied too much agonizing pressure. They asked me to lay back. The doctor broke my water, and seconds later, the pressure was instantly relieved. My baby boy was born.
In that moment, I was making sounds I never knew a human being could make, shifting from wild crying to a deep, primal moaning that was entirely uncontrollable. Troy hadn’t made it back yet. I felt a flash of anger that he wasn’t there, mixed with complete, breathless shock that it had all happened so incredibly fast.
I asked where my baby was. The nurses were gently preparing him for me to hold. When they finally handed him to me, he was resting inside a tiny, crocheted yellow pouch, wearing a miniature blue and white striped hat on his tiny head.
He was absolutely perfect.
I looked down and saw all of his facial features. I counted his ten perfect toes and ten perfect fingers on his tiny, flawless body. I was sobbing uncontrollably. Just then, Troy walked into the room, completely stunned and in shock. When I looked up at him and asked if he’d like to meet his son, the weight of it hit him. He collapsed right next to me, holding his baby boy for the very first time.
We named our son Troy Thomas Dinbokowitz III. He was born on May 28, 2026 at 12:14PM, into the arms of angels, weighing 5.15 ounces and measuring 9 inches long. We held him close, marveling at how beautiful and perfect he appeared. Though he was so tiny, he was flawless.
The doctor and nurses didn’t have an immediate answer for his sudden passing, explaining that they would know more after testing the placenta. The delivery of the placenta was its own painful, uncomfortable process, and I am so profoundly grateful Troy was there to hold my hand through it. But I did it. It was over.
Afterward, Lupita gave us hours of quiet, sacred time to just be a family. She even took some beautiful photos of him surrounded by flowers. That evening, we were discharged from the hospital. We were able to bring our sweet baby boy home with us, so we could finally lay him to rest.
The next day, we bought a beautiful baby Mandarin tree. We dug into the earth, and we laid him to rest beneath its roots.
As I sit here now, looking out at that little tree, I realize that grief and love are eternally intertwined, two sides of the exact same coin. The immense, hollow ache we carry in our chest today is simply the physical form of the boundless love we will always have for our son.
Being that I have spent years studying the afterlife and metaphysics, and have even facilitated sessions where my clients, under deep quantum hypnosis, have reunited with their passed loved ones or the babies they lost, I have a profound understanding of what lies beyond. Because of this, I know with absolute certainty that our son is safe with Source, safe with God, and that there was a divine plan for this entire experience. I refuse to look at this tragedy as a punishment. Instead, this situation has only deepened my intense yearning to be a mother, the connection to our Creator, and the bond I have with Troy. I hold complete trust that this beautiful, high-vibrational soul will come back to be incarnated here on earth when the time is exactly right.
Troy Thomas Dinbokowitz III was here. He was real. He made me a mother to a son, and he showed Troy and me the absolute highest, most profound depth of human love. Our plan for parenting him in the physical realm may have been ripped away temporarily, but our journey as his parents is lifelong.
Every time the desert wind rustles through the leaves of that Mandarin tree, I will know he is there, grounded in the earth, wrapped in the arms of angels, and forever woven into the fabric of our souls.
Rest in peace, our perfect little boy. You are so deeply loved.
