Living amidst the brokenness we find ourselves in this side of heaven inspired this year’s Ronald McDonald House Fundraiser design, but the concept of surviving personal wildfires turned out to be far more poignant than I ever anticipated; our wildfire season wasn’t over yet.

On Father’s Day, 4 months after miscarrying Ava, we found out another little Z was on their way.

Unlike our previous pregnancies, we chose to keep this joyful surprise close to our chest. Our losses over the past 5 years have left us weary and bruised. Irreplaceable connection has come from sharing our story and has certainly helped us process and grieve, but honestly, always being the one with sad news is exhausting.

Having lost Ava so recently, making space for this new life while still honoring our fresh grief took a lot of intention (and therapy) to navigate. This wonderful news arrived on our doorstep with a mountain of fear attached to it – a deeply rooted fear grown out of lived experiences planted firmly in memories, memories both of our own story and of the stories of others.

After each milestone – 6 weeks (Ava’s gestation), 9 weeks (August’s gestation), 12 weeks – I’d take a little breath. At 16 weeks, the drumming of a perfect tiny heartbeat helped settle my own heart even further.

We shared the news with Lora and others but decided to wait on a bigger announcement until after our 20-week anatomy scan so that we’d have a name to share as well.

The anatomy scan was the last heavy milestone for us to pass; this was the point with Norah where we first found out about her potential Trisomy 13 diagnosis.

We had been to Minnesota Perinatal Physicians countless times during my pregnancy with Norah, and although we usually just ended up with different flavors of bad news during those appointments, there’s no team we’d trust more. Walking back into that clinic on Tuesday with a healthy pregnancy felt incredibly redemptive.

Except, it wasn’t.

On Tuesday afternoon, in the same clinic where we received novels of bad news for Norah, we found out that at 20 weeks and 4 days pregnant, just over 5 months, our sweet miracle baby no longer had a heartbeat.

And there were signs of a chromosomal disorder.

I was admitted to the Mother Baby Center at Abbott at 7am the next morning.

We’ve walked those same halls and have been in the same rooms twice before – with Norah and with Lora. Once we brought home our baby and once we did not, but both times I had c-sections and both times our babies were born alive. This time, however, I was being prepped to labor and deliver naturally for the first time (outside of miscarrying at home), and would be giving birth to death.

At 8am I was induced. Lane and I watched a marathon of Friends, ate, laughed and cried during the worst waiting game ever.
By 5:45pm I had taken nothing but regular Tylenol for some light cramps and hydroxyzine to help me rest. At 5:50pm my water broke, so we called our doula, but we were in no rush; I still felt the same.
At 6:30pm our daughter, Zoe Cae Zuidema was born.

Yes, she arrived in as much of fast and furious whirlwind as that timeline would lead you to believe – our little wildfire girl.

And yes, that timeline did not allow for any additional pain medication.

I like to think that Zoe gave me her version of the (nearly) unmedicated, natural birth that I had been dreaming of since finding out I was pregnant with Norah, and in a way, I’m very proud of that.

It was a long, heartbreakingly beautiful night. Our team was incredibly compassionate, and I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. From bringing in integrative medicine for massages and aromatherapy, to memorial crafts, gifts for Lora, connecting us with support organizations, photography and prayers, they did everything possible to make our experience as gentle and precious as it could be.

We were grateful to have Zoe with us all night in a cooling bassinet. We had her baptized the next morning and then returned home.

It all still feels like a bad dream; as if at some point I’ll just wake up, still 5 months pregnant. Not planning on picking up our baby girl from a funeral home in a little glass urn . Not figuring out how to tell Lora that ‘her baby’ that she loves with all the fullness of her 3.5-year-old heart has died.

Zoe in Greek means ‘life’ – not only physical/scientific life, but the holistic spiritual and emotional experience of being. Zoe’s body failed by earthly, physical standards, but we know that her soul, her life, was cherished from the moment she was created and that now she is in a perfect body, playing with her siblings and keeping Grandma Lori extra busy.

Right now we’re weary and heartbroken, holding tightly to each other and the hope of heaven.

For those asking how to help, here are 2 quick thoughts:
1. Say her name. We love talking about Zoe and our experience, please don’t hesitate to bring it up. Ask questions if you’re curious. Conversations that can get past the ‘I’m so sorry’ stage are the best.
2. Don’t ask – offer or do. Instead of saying “let me know how I can help” offer an idea that we can respond to. We don’t have the energy/mental capacity right now to create a list of tasks that might be helpful. It’s much simpler to respond if you say “I’d like to xyz, would that be alright?”. Honestly, anything you do that honors Zoe and our experience in any way is more meaningful than you’ll ever know.

(Reminder, these are specific to us and to this loss of Zoe. Every loss experience is unique and these tips may not be appropriate for other situations)