A letter to Chrissy Teigen

This letter is really not just to Chrissy, but to anyone who needs it, or might get something from it. Chrissy is the inspiration. I’m grateful for her courage and openness. And having a specific person to write these thoughts to, who I knew would understand, helped the words flow and helped give me the courage to put it out there.

Dear Chrissy,

I can struggle to write about or initiate conversations about grief. It’s one of the reasons I welcome others bringing it up first. Often, once I do finally get the courage to say something beyond immediate family, a feeling of regret and shame lingers with me for a time.

This is probably about a lot of things all at once: the trauma of the loss, the battle with guilt over what I did wrong or could have done to prevent her death, the internalized discomfort society has with conversations around death. But I think I just recently realized that it’s also the displaced attention that lands on me, rather than her. I feel like I’m saying “look at me, look at my pain,” but in reality I’m saying look at her, look at who is gone, don’t let her be gone ever. Look at grief, look at its gifts and its puzzle, its truly permanent place in our lives, in our existence.

I’m so sorry for the loss of your beautiful little baby. Know that he is permanent — every day and every week and every year, he needn’t fade, his importance and life doesn’t matter less with the passing of time. There is no moment, day or year or timeline in this lifetime that you are required to feel that he is less present in your family and in your life.

Bless you for the wisdom to capture footage of your loss. The presence of mind to understand the magnitude of what’s happening, and what you’ll need weeks, months and years from now is an incredible gift. And I so hope that people who have witnessed your experience will learn from it if they ever experience a similar loss in the future. I am so profoundly grateful for the few photos and videos I have (it will never be enough). They do not prolong the trauma — they comfort my soul, they feed me. Here she was. She was real, here’s what happened.

She was real. Here’s what happened.

The midwife told me that if I felt a sudden sharp pain that would be something important to tell her because it can be a sign of a uterine rupture. It was over 24 hours of labor and I had finally gotten an epidural. I couldn’t really sleep, but I tried. I felt a sudden sharp “pop,” even though I couldn’t feel pain due to the epidural. I asked my mom to go get the midwife. I knew. I knew. Somewhere in me, I knew. The midwife came, but things seemed normal, and it was time to try to push.

Amidst a long period of pushing (how long? I don’t know…minutes? hours?), it happened.

I’m not blaming my midwife. I am so grateful for her love and support, and mourn the pain this loss caused her. But I need this part of the story. I need to tell my baby I tried. I’m sorry, I felt you, I felt this. I should’ve done more, but I know the moment, and that the moment you and I separated, you were not alone.

When I woke up, my midwife was next to me. She told me that Zoe was alive but it was not good. She told me I had lost a lot of blood but that I would be ok, that I could have babies again. I remember that part.

They took Zoe to another hospital. We fought for 12 hours to get me transferred to be with her.

I remember my angels. Our family. Who sat by my bedside, who cried, prayed, listened to hymns and fought for me. Our family who stayed with Ryan to comfort and support him as he helped fight for Zoe.

I remember that my dad told me that the EMTs told him as they transferred my baby that Zoe’s name meant eternal life. At that moment we took it as a sign that she would live. Later, it offered a different kind of comfort.

I remember finally getting to meet her, to hold her, to sing to her. Ryan, Zoe and me. He took videos and photos, thank god. Thank God. I remember deciding to say goodbye, to let her go. I remember singing, and the entire NICU singing and crying quietly, held together by this beautiful soul. What did we sing? Was it Silent night? I’m not sure. For me, though, that song, on a dark December night, will always be about the quietness of those moments with her.

After we took her off life support, our whole family (there were many of us by then), were moved to a private grieving room to take all the time we needed. Everyone sat quietly while I held her. I called Ryan over and told him I would like everyone to have a moment to hold her. One by one, in the dark room, in the middle of the night, Zoe was held by those who will always love her most. Her grandparents, her aunts, uncles, and godparents said hello and goodbye to this sweet, peaceful, beautiful newborn baby.

Later, many in our family thanked us for sharing her, expressing awe that when we had so little time with her we would give them the gift of time with her. I understood what they meant, but also, it didn’t make complete sense to me, because a child is never yours. When you bring a child into the world, they are a gift for the world. And part of the joy and gift of parenthood is getting to watch them light up the world, to share their gifts and goodness and life with others. And so grief, in part, is the mourning of years and years in which you cannot watch your child share the gift of themself with others.

And I think that is why, despite the discomfort, I want to tell her brief story. It’s all we have, it’s all she has to give. To share her birth and her loss is the only way to share her, to keep her alive, to keep her giving gifts to others.

Keep sharing your stories, your baby, your babies, the beautiful gift of them, each one. Every year. Let them live.