Carter’s Story

All I have ever wanted since as early as I can remember, is to be a mom. To cherish and love this tiny human that God has given you, to pour every ounce of yourself into raising them. But nothing, not any experience outside of it, ever prepares you for what happens if in the same moment that you are given this tiny, precious miracle, they are taken away in just the blink of an eye. This is Carter’s story.

In early 2016, following a miscarriage at 7 weeks in 2014, my husband and I found out we were pregnant with our miracle baby, and just weeks before we were both scheduled to undergo fertility testing. Our excitement couldn’t be contained. What a blessing! We decided to hold out on finding baby’s gender until birth, something we thought would be a true joy and surprise to find out as he/she entered the world. But as I have learned, in the most bitter way imaginable, things don’t always go as planned.

On July 5th, my water broke at 19 weeks pregnant, long before baby was due, a condition called preterm premature rupture of membranes (PPROM). I had no warning, no obvious signs or complications leading up to this moment. In most cases, a pregnant woman’s body will naturally go into labor within 48 hours of membranes rupturing. Mine did not. I spent the next 5 weeks on strict hospital bed rest, laying in the bed with my feet elevated and my head lower than my belly to try to keep as much amniotic fluid surrounding my baby as possible. I could only get up to potty and take a very brief shower. I was on IV antibiotics and baby underwent multiple ultrasounds and frequent monitoring. Baby checked out absolutely perfect on every, single scan. I held on to hope.

On August 5th, when baby reached 507 grams and a gestational age of 24 weeks, I was transferred to a very well-known, top-rated facility that specializes in high-risk pregnancies and critically ill premature babies. Again, baby was passing all tests with flying colors. The high-risk doctor was optimistic that we had come so far already, and there was no reason for me not to be able to carry him/her another 8-10 weeks. My baby was strong.

The night I arrived at the new hospital, during a routine assessment and fetal heart monitoring, my nurse noted that my baby’s heart rate was dangerously low and was in distress. I was rushed to the operating room, placed under general anesthesia (completely asleep) and at 9:49 pm, our baby boy, Carter, was born. The doctors did everything they could to try to bring his heart rate up but were unsuccessful in their attempts. After over 45 minutes of life-saving measures, my husband made the impossible decision to ask them to stop and let our baby go in peace. An hour and 59 minutes later, and shortly after I woke from anesthesia, he was pronounced dead in my arms. The greatest night of my life, the birth of by son, was also my worst.

James ‘Carter’ Keith was born 1 pound 4 ounces and 11 inches long. He was tiny, but perfect in every way. All the way down to his thin, long feet and toes that looked just like his daddy’s. I held him and cried over him with my husband. I undressed him to study and memorize every detail about him. We took pictures, and I loved on him as much as I possibly could for those few short hours. I don’t remember when, but in the early morning hours of August 6th, I handed him to my nurse for the last time. As she took him away, I felt like my insides were being ripped from me and I had no breath left in my lungs. All I could do was sob and scream out over, and over.

I later found out that the umbilical cord had wrapped under his chin and neck, compressing it and causing his heart rate to slow. The doctors also found that my uterus had a septum, or line of thick tissue down the middle of it, which was most likely the cause of the PPROM; something I was able to get surgically corrected several months later. I had answers to help explain what happened, but it didn’t really help. I felt I needed something more.

The agonizing pain of losing a baby is insurmountable, and at times, unbearable. Until Carter and I are reunited again, a piece of me will always be missing. Over and over again, I have been blessed with an unending outpouring of love from my family and friends. Outside of my faith in God, they have brought me so much healing, especially in my darkest times. Everyone deserves to feel that kind of love and support after the loss of a baby. Through all the anguish and tears, I have managed to find meaning in Carter’s death, and a true passion to comfort others in their time of grief. I spend my time spreading awareness, honoring Carter’s legacy, and sharing his story with anyone willing to listen, praying it will help just one mom, or just one bereaved family member. My hope is to continue to do that, and more, with MOHA. Thank you for allowing me to share Carter’s story with you.