Denver Martin Jewell (Denny)

Some people assume that because we didn’t get to bring our baby home, the grief should somehow be smaller. That we should just move on. But grief doesn’t measure time. It measures love. And our son was loved long before he ever entered this world.

Our son, Denver Martin Jewell (Denny), was wanted from the very beginning. The moment I
found out I was pregnant, everything changed. I was shocked, excited, terrified and already deeply attached. I started imagining him immediately. Names, futures, tiny details of a life I had already begun building around him. Before I had even fully processed it, I was already his mother in every way that mattered.

By the time we learned he was a boy, it became even more real. His name, Denver, was something we said out loud like a promise. He wasn’t “the baby” anymore. He was a person. He was ours. He had sisters who already loved him. At the time, we hadn’t told them yet that baby brother wouldn’t be coming home. We made the difficult decision not to let them see him until the day of the funeral. It was a hard choice, but we felt it was for the best. We wanted them to meet their brother and say goodbye, but not get attached in a way that would deepen their confusion and pain too soon. They were both upset when they saw him at the funeral, trying to understand something no child should have to understand. He had a family that was already rearranging itself around his arrival. A future that felt so close we could almost touch it.

And from the very beginning, he showed us who he was in his own quiet way. On ultrasounds, he always kept his hands by his face. So often that technicians struggled to get clear images. Later, he began blowing bubbles during scans. Those small things became everything we knew of him. The only glimpses of personality we would ever get. My pregnancy wasn’t easy. I dealt with severe morning sickness that became so intense I had to leave my job. I had surgery to remove my gallbladder. I had repeated hospital visits, high blood pressure, and eventually preeclampsia. My body struggled in ways I didn’t expect, but through all of it, Denver stayed strong.

Every appointment, every scan, every heartbeat told us the same thing: he was still there. Still strong. Still fighting. 

At 24 weeks, we reached what many call viability week. It felt like a turning point, like maybe we were finally moving toward safety, toward bringing him home. I clung to that hope more than I realized at the time.

As the months went on, I was monitored closely, sometimes multiple times a week. Even with complications, every ultrasound seemed to reassure us that he was okay. I left appointment after appointment believing we would make it. And then there was the last one.

We didn’t know it would be the last time I would see my son alive. There were concerns, his heart rate had two decelerations during monitoring, and my blood pressure was the highest it had ever been in clinic. But the ultrasound afterward looked reassuring. I was told he was likely grabbing his umbilical cord, something babies commonly do. He was moving. Everything appeared okay.
So I left believing I still had time.

I went home, and the next day I didn’t feel right. I slept most of it away, telling myself I just needed rest. But something in me knew something was wrong. By that night, I woke up thinking my water had broken. I rushed to the bathroom only to pass two huge blood clots. I was bleeding down both legs, crying, shaking, and having an anxiety attack while on the phone with 911. I knew something was wrong, even before anyone could tell me. At the hospital, multiple medical staff searched for his heartbeat. Then came the ultrasound. The silence that followed is something I will never forget.

At 12:55 a.m., I heard the words no parent should ever hear. My baby was gone. Even when you already know, hearing it spoken out loud breaks something inside you in a way you can’t prepare for. A few hours later, at 3:14 a.m., I gave birth to my son.

He weighed 3 pounds, 14 ounces. He was 17.5 inches long. And he was absolutely perfect. When I finally held him, everything else fell away. The machines. The hospital. The future that had just disappeared. For those moments, it was just me and my baby.

The baby I had carried for eight months. The baby I had prayed for. The baby I had planned a life for. The baby I had just been planning a shower for and was now planning a funeral for.

After he was born, the nurses brought in a cold cot for my baby, whereas most mother are
brought bassinets. It is a reality I never imagined I would face. But I was grateful for it. Because those moments were all we had.

We held him. We dressed him. We changed his diaper. We took pictures. We studied every
detail of his face because we knew it would be the only time we ever could. His hands were still positioned by his face, the same way they always were during ultrasounds.

He had curly hair. So much of it. He had long feet. My toes. My nose. His daddy’s ears. His daddy’s hands. His daddy’s height. Every detail mattered.

Because there would be no more firsts. No first steps. No first words. No birthdays. No running through the yard with his sisters. Just this time. Just him.

The aftermath of giving birth was its own kind of shock. My body was recovering while my
mind was trying to understand loss on a level I didn’t know existed. I needed medical
intervention for my blood pressure and blood levels. Everything hurt in different ways at once.

And still, all I wanted was to take my baby home. Instead, I left the hospital carrying a teddy bear with one of his outfits worn on it. The funeral home carried my son. I remember getting into the car and begging for him back. Begging to go back. Wanting anything, anything at all, just five more minutes.
The days that followed were filled with things no parent should ever have to do.

Instead of preparing a nursery, we made funeral arrangements. Instead of buying diapers, wipes, and formula, we chose a casket and a burial plot.

We met with the funeral home. We saw a tiny casket meant for our son. There should never be a casket that small. And yet there it was. We picked out his burial outfit. I remember standing in the store crying, thinking I should be shopping for clothes he would come home in, not clothes he would be buried in.

Through the deepest grief, we were met with unexpected kindness. A stranger refused to let us pay for his outfit. Another woman helped us choose socks and shoes and told us she would pray
for us. Those moments stayed with me more than they will ever know. We visited the place where he would be buried, a small piece of earth that would belong to him forever.

We saw him one last time before his funeral to dress him. Holding him again was both comforting and devastating, a reminder that this was real. And then we laid our son to rest. That is what stillbirth is.

It is more than losing a pregnancy. It is more than losing a baby you never brought home. It is saying hello and goodbye at the same time. It is planning a funeral when you should be planning a future. It is leaving the hospital with empty arms. It is carrying love that has nowhere to go.

It is losing not only a child, but every future you imagined for them. Stillbirth is not something you “get over.” You learn to carry it. You learn to carry the love. The grief. The memories. The dreams that never got to grow.

Denver was here. He was loved.
He mattered. And he will always be my son.

Written in memory of Denver Jewell