She Was Alive When I Was Pushing

There are moments that divide your life into before and after.

The day Heidi was born is where my life split in two.

She was born on May 4th, 2024, at 3:27 in the morning.

39 weeks

21 inches long.

6 pounds, 15 ounces.

Perfect in every way… and gone in the same breath that we met her.

One second I was pushing, focused on bringing our baby into the world. We were at the finish line. Our car seat was already installed in the backseat, ready to bring our baby home.

Then everything shifted.

You can feel it before anyone even speaks. The energy in the room changed. Faces changed. And then the words came that shattered everything I knew about my life.

She didn’t make it.

I remember the exact second my brain caught up to what was said.

She.

That was how I learned our baby was a girl.

There was no joyful announcement. No celebration. Just the quiet realization, in the middle of devastation, that our surprise baby… was our daughter.

Her gender had been a surprise. We chose not to find out during pregnancy. I had dreamed of that moment for months, hearing who our baby was at birth and then going shopping afterward to pick out outfits that fit him or her.

They swaddled her and handed her to us.

I remember staring at her face, trying to memorize every detail, terrified to blink in case I missed something.

And then it hit me.

We had no girly clothes to change her into.

I always thought I’d be walking through store aisles after delivery, picking out something pink and sparkly for our daughter.

I thought I had time to become her mom out in the world… not just inside a hospital room.

Instead, the first outfit we ever chose for Heidi…

…was for her funeral.

We were meeting her and losing her all at once.

And almost immediately, reality came rushing in.

Instructions. Information. Logistics.

My nurse, the one responsible for my and Heidi’s care, quickly began talking to me about suppressing my milk.

“Don’t take hot showers so your milk doesn’t come in.”

I remember just staring.

You are told your baby didn’t make it… and within moments you are being told how to stop your body from feeding the baby you no longer have.

The emotional whiplash of that moment is something I will never forget.

I remember noticing her tiny hands starting to stiffen and panicking. I was terrified she would start looking different. I had only just met her. I wasn’t ready for anything to change.

But in the middle of all that shock and trauma, we were given a gift that changed everything.

A nonprofit, Rain-Bowie, had donated a CuddleCot to our hospital.

Because of that cot, we weren’t rushed into goodbye.

We were given time.

Time to hold Heidi.

Time to memorize her face.

Time to be her parents without a clock ticking beside us.

The cooling cot allowed us to slow down that fear. It preserved those first moments that every parent deserves, even in loss.

Because we were given that time, our family got moments that would have otherwise been stolen from us.

My sister flew in from Dallas to Mandeville to meet Heidi.

My parents came and held their granddaughter.

They even went shopping and picked out an outfit that was girly and beautiful and perfect for her… something I had dreamed of doing myself after her birth.

Those memories exist because we weren’t rushed.

We were also given time to think through decisions no grieving parent should have to make immediately. Funeral homes. Autopsy decisions. Paperwork.

Choices that feel impossible when you are still lying in a hospital bed trying to understand how your baby was alive while you were pushing and is now gone.

The hospital provided a photographer, which we were grateful for. But even that moment carried a weight I still feel.

When I asked if she could take a photo of Heidi with my husband, she told me we only received 11 free photos.

I would have paid anything for more.

But I was in such shock from her response… from everything… that I just went quiet.

We don’t have those photos.

And we will never get that moment back.

When we were discharged, another heartbreak waited for us.

We knew the car seat was in the back.

But when we walked outside… it wasn’t there.

My sister and my parents had quietly taken it out while we were still in the hospital so we wouldn’t have to see it when we got in the car.

They had also gone to our home and “de-babied” it.

They took the bassinet out of our bedroom and moved it into the nursery. They closed the nursery door.

They made the house breathable… survivable… for two parents coming home without their baby.

We didn’t leave the hospital carrying Heidi.

We left carrying a box.

A box filled with keepsakes instead of the living, breathing baby who should have been buckled into that car seat.

Footprints. A blanket. Photos. A lock of hair.

Memories in place of a future.

No parent should ever have to make that walk.

And while there were painful parts of our experience, I want to say this clearly…

Our experience was still better than many.

Some families are not given cooling cots.

Some are given only hours.

Some hear crying babies next door.

Some are never offered photos or keepsakes.

That is why the pursuit of SB 32, Angel’s Law matters so deeply.

Angel’s Law is about improving bereavement care for families experiencing miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss.

It is about providing cooling cots so families have time.

It is about educating nurses and hospital staff so parents are met with compassion instead of discomfort or silence.

It is about making sure families are offered as many photos, keepsakes, and memory-making moments without having to beg for them.

This law is being championed by our Vice President, Kristi, whose passion for improving bereavement care helped bring this legislation forward. Angel’s Law carries her daughter’s name, Angelle, her Angel, whose story is woven into the very foundation of this bill. Heidi Saint James is proud to stand behind this legislation and advocate for its passage, but the creation of the law belongs to Kristi’s incredible leadership and vision.

Because baby loss is more common than most people realize.

About 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage. Roughly 1 in 175 births in the United States is a stillbirth. Thousands more families experience infant loss each year.

Even if you don’t know someone personally, the odds are high that someone in your family line will one day face this heartbreak. A daughter. A granddaughter. A great granddaughter.

We are fighting for them too.

I don’t get to raise Heidi the way I dreamed I would.

But I do get to mother her in this way, by fighting for families who deserve more time, more compassion, and more support in the moments that follow loss.

If you believe families deserve time with their babies…

If you believe hospitals should be equipped to care for grieving parents…

If you believe compassion should be part of medical care…

We ask you to stand with us in supporting SB 32, Angel’s Law.

If you live in Louisiana, you can find and contact your state representatives here: https://www.legis.la.gov/legis/FindMyLegislators.aspx

But this work doesn’t stop at state lines.

Right now, Texas is the only state that has legislation in place requiring hospitals to provide this level of bereavement support, including access to cooling cots and extended time with babies after loss.

Families everywhere deserve that same care.

If you are reading this from another state, we encourage you to take this story, take this mission, and bring it to your own legislators. Ask what bereavement policies exist where you live. Advocate for cooling cots. Advocate for nurse education. Advocate for time.

Change often begins with one voice willing to speak up.

We are fighting for Angel’s Law in Louisiana, but our hope is that laws like this will one day exist in every state, so that no matter where a family experiences loss, they are met with proper care.

For Heidi. For Angel. For Daisy. For Lily. For Christopher. For Graham. For Hardy. For Hannah.

For every empty car seat.

And for every parent who deserves the chance to hold their baby a little longer.

With Care,

Heidi's Mom, Jamie