It was December 2022. My husband Jackson and I, along with our one-year-old son James, were living in Cleveland, Ohio. I was 20 weeks pregnant expecting our second son. I was busy wrapping last-minute gifts and preparing for an impending blizzard that promised a cozy, white Christmas. Taking a break from the happy chaos, I went to my 20-week ultrasound eager to see my baby boy. He appeared healthy, and even gave us a little “thumbs up” with his tiny hand. Little did I know that these would be the last few moments of innocent delight in pregnancy that I would ever feel again.

The ultrasound technician conducting the scan calmly turned to me and said she would like to have the doctor come in to take more images of my cervix. Although my son was thriving, my cervix was already dilated one centimeter. 

The doctors were hoping to perform a “rescue cerclage” in which my cervix would be stitched shut to postpone birth, but I needed to wait overnight to ensure I wasn’t in active labor. Unfortunately, when I arrived for my procedure the following morning, I had dilated further. A cerclage was no longer an option, as my silently laboring body would rip right through it. I was losing my son. I delivered him the following evening, on December 23rd. His due date wasn’t until May 14th, Mother’s Day.