By Cheyanne LeGrand
Mommy to Poppy Kate
Congenital Heart Defect
January 2024
We got the diagnosis for our sweet girl, Poppy Kate, on December 6, 2023. I had been airlifted from the labor and delivery unit in Joplin, Missouri, to Barnes-Jewish Hospital and St. Louis Children’s—five hours away—because her heart rate was dangerously low, in the 50s.
After a 2.5-hour helicopter ride, I was checked into an antepartum room, waiting for my husband to arrive by car. The next day, we met with a team of doctors and went through hours of ultrasounds and echocardiograms. That’s when we received the news: Poppy had Complete AV Canal Defect, heterotaxy, bradycardia, heart block, and ascites. Her little heart had multiple diagnoses.
We began traveling weekly from Southwest Missouri to St. Louis for monitoring. Our plan was to wait as long as safely possible before delivering her—giving her lungs time to mature since her heart would need all the help it could get. I was doing the hard work of breathing for her while she stayed safe inside me. Once she was born, she’d be moved to the NICU and placed on life support until she could undergo heart surgery.
But at our 34-week appointment, everything changed. Poppy had entered heart failure and developed fetal hydrops. The next day, I was induced. Our care team told us to simply cherish the moments we’d have with her.
Labor with Poppy was long and tender—I wanted it to go as slowly as possible. As long as she was still inside me, she was alive. We couldn’t pick up her heartbeat on a Doppler, so we did hourly ultrasounds to monitor her. With my severe polyhydramnios, Poppy had a lot of space to move. She was so active—head down, then breech, then sideways. She danced in the fluid, flipping positions constantly.
Eventually, she settled sideways and wouldn’t budge, so my doctors manually turned her with an external cephalic version (ECV), getting her into a breech position. At that point, I was dilated to six centimeters, and my water hadn’t broken. My OB decided to break my water to help keep her in place.
The gush of fluid was massive, and I told my doctor I felt something coming out—it was Poppy’s foot. I was at 10 centimeters.
Everything happened so fast, and all I could say was, “I’m not ready.” I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I asked my OB what time it was. I don’t know why I felt compelled to ask, but she said, “It’s 3:00.” I told her 3 was my lucky number. She replied, “It’s 3:03 exactly,” and I broke into tears. 303 is one of my angel numbers.
At 3:24 p.m. on January 5, 2024, I delivered Poppy Kate breech. As she emerged, her tiny hand went straight toward me. One of the nurses said, “Look, Mom—she’s giving you a high five.” I held her against my chest and told her “I love you” over and over again until she took her last breath. She was with us for maybe 20 minutes. The doctor called her time of passing at 4:13 p.m.
During labor, our bereavement nurse had asked if we wanted a photo session after birth. I’m a photographer myself and have documented births before. I knew how precious photos are—how they allow us to relive a moment forever. Shortly after Poppy passed, a wonderful photographer from On Angels’ Wings came in to document our time with her. Those photos are some of our most treasured possessions.
I had previously experienced an emergency C-section with my second child, and it was traumatic. I didn’t want to spend the only moments I’d have with Poppy on an operating table, cut open. I knew she was a fighter—I believed she could be born naturally, and I’d have time to love her before she passed. And that’s exactly what happened. I am so proud of her for holding on as long as she did.
Poppy Kate is our fifth baby. Our other four children are perfectly healthy. To experience a pregnancy with a fatal diagnosis was devastating. Things are better now, but I still go to bed thinking of her and wake up thinking of her. She’s with me—just behind a veil, not seen, but felt.
Our kids—ages 2 to 10—talk about Poppy all the time. They look at her photos, her urn. Some days the reality of her not being physically here knocks me off my feet. My arms ache for her. I don’t think that feeling will ever completely go away. And I don’t want it to.
The pictures mean absolutely everything. When all you have left of someone is a photograph, it becomes the most precious thing. On Angels’ Wings gave us that treasure.
Their support group has also shown us we’re not alone. It’s easy to feel like no one else could understand this pain—but connecting with other families who’ve walked this road helps us keep going.
If I could tell another family anything, it would be this: document every single moment. One day, you’ll be so thankful you did. Our memories fade, but photos keep them alive. Some of the images I have from Poppy’s birth show me moments I’d forgotten. They remind me that she was here, she was real, and she was ours—even if only for a moment in time.
Now, a year and a half later, through reflection and healing, I’ve learned that everything about Poppy Kate’s life was divinely guided. God truly had His hand over it all. She was simply meant to come say “hello” before “see you later.” 🩷 Her life has transformed me for the better.
It’s funny how a parent’s role is to guide their children through this life, but sometimes you might find the roles reversed. Sometimes I find myself saying, “Poppy girl, what the heck do I do?” and I’ve found healing knowing she’s watching over her family—specifically her mama.
And if I could add one more thing for other families, it’s this:
Though we may not understand it in the moment, our struggles often become the very thing used to shape us, strengthen us, and lead us into the destiny of our lives. When you feel the emotions of grief rise up like a wave, allow yourself to truly feel whatever it is you’re feeling, and ride out that emotion instead of pushing it away. Pour the love you would have poured into the child you had to let go of into yourself and into others.
Remember that this life is truly all about how much you love.
