October Will Always Belong to Her: A Story of Pregnancy Loss, Grief, and Faith
At EveryLife, we believe every life matters, no matter how brief. On this Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, we’re honored to share a story from our friend Kendall about the babies she carried but never got to hold, and the faith that has carried her through. If you are carrying this grief too, we hope her words remind you that you are not alone.
by Kendall Bailey
October was once supposed to be the month we met our fourth baby. Instead, it became the month that would forever remind me of the second child we loved, planned for, and never got to bring home.
We welcomed our son Jack after being married for two years. A year after that, I became pregnant again, and we lost our baby at eight weeks. I asked myself all the questions so many women ask after miscarriage:
“What could I have done differently?”
“Why did my body fail this child?”
I wrestled with that grief, and shortly afterward, I was diagnosed with cancer and progressive hearing loss.
The night before my surgery to remove my thyroid as part of my cancer treatment, we discovered I was pregnant again. This time, I found myself asking God, “Why now?” But I know HE works all things for good for those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose, so…
Nine months later, we welcomed our daughter, Presley, and our family of three became a family of four. Then, after finishing radiation, surgery on my ears, and a few years carrying a clean bill of health, we were ready to try again.
Sure enough, those two lines appeared on the pregnancy test.
After already experiencing a miscarriage, I tried to hold the idea of another baby lightly— to protect my heart just a little. But almost immediately, my heart started dreaming again. My husband, Kevin and I imagined another high chair at the dinner table. We thought about vacations, late-night feedings, holidays, birthdays, and Jack & Presley having another sibling.
At 12 weeks, I had a dream that we had lost the baby
I woke up in a cold sweat with mild cramping and called my doctor. She tried to reassure me, saying that because I wasn’t experiencing heavy cramping and there wasn’t any blood, it was likely just normal pregnancy changes.
We would later learn that our baby had already passed away. It was what they call a “missed miscarriage,” when a baby’s heart stops but there are no obvious warnings because my body hasn’t yet recognized the loss yet.
Days after I spoke with my doctor, the cramping became unbearable.
I got into the car as Kevin prepared to drive me to the hospital, but the moment I sat down, I felt an overwhelming urge to push. I rushed back inside and sat down in the bathroom.
There was so much blood.
I remember becoming pale and lightheaded. Everything happened so quickly that I didn’t immediately comprehend what I was seeing.
Then came the realization that what I had just delivered wasn’t simply tissue. It wasn’t merely a medical event.
It was our baby.
Our 12-week baby whose heart was no longer beating, but whose tiny body already had arms, legs, elbows, fingers and toes. This was the baby whose future we had already begun planning.
Weeks passed, and I was still grieving. Except this time, there wasn’t another diagnosis or crisis to distract us from the loss.
Our pastor encouraged us to name our baby and to go through the ceremony and steps of a burial—to acknowledge that this was a life, our child, and that grieving that life was part of healing. We named her October.
One of the loneliest things about pregnancy loss is how quickly the rest of the world can move on while you are still trying to comprehend what happened.
People say things like, “At least you already have another child,” or, “I’m sure you’re thankful it happened early.” As if that somehow makes losing your baby hurt less.
I don’t believe those words are spoken with ill intentions. People simply don’t know what to say. But oftentimes, silence is far more comforting than trying to find the perfect words—and the truth is, there are no words. Nothing can remove the pain, and I almost didn’t want it to go away. I wanted to move through it to find healing.
There may not be photographs covering the walls or years of memories to share, but there were plans for a future and there was love, so much love.
So many women and families experience miscarriage, yet we’re often made to feel like it’s private—something we shouldn’t talk about.
Too many women bleed in bathrooms, cry behind closed doors, take care of their other children, return to work and somehow continue living while grieving a baby much of the world never even knew existed.
I believe that’s part of why God has called me to share our story.
It’s a testimony that grief and faith can exist in the same place. That trusting God doesn’t mean we won’t have moments when we ask Him “why.” And that a life does not have to be long to have meaning, purpose, or leave a lasting mark.
Maybe another woman is sitting in silence right now believing she is the only one who still hurts.
She isn’t.
October will always remind me of the baby I got to carry in my womb but never got to carry in my arms, and I believe Jesus is holding our babies until we can—when we walk through Heaven’s gates and hear a familiar little voice say, “Mommy?”
In my eyes, October will always belong to her, and she will always be our child even though we never got to watch her grow.
