By Wendy Mertz
Mommy to Caleb
Born premature at 23 weeks, lived 10.5 hours
February 2021
My husband and I started trying for a baby about a year into marriage in 2011. I already had a diagnosis that was going to complicate getting pregnant, so we sought fertility support with a reproductive endocrinologist early on. With their help, we were able to get pregnant—but staying pregnant became an issue.
We lost our first two babies to miscarriage in 2013. After our second loss, additional testing led to more diagnoses. We were told IVF was our best route and tried one round in 2014, but it was unsuccessful. At that point, after so much heartbreak, we decided we were ready to pursue adoption—something we had always discussed, though we thought it would come after we were done having biological children.
We were blessed with our first son through adoption in May 2015. Then, in December of that same year, we got pregnant on our own—something we never thought possible—but miscarried again. In July 2017, we welcomed a second son via adoption. Life felt full. We moved, started a church, and began our foster care journey in 2018.
Then 2020 brought the shock of our life.
At the time, we had four kids in our home (our adopted sons and two foster children) when I found out we were unexpectedly pregnant again. All my previous miscarriages were early losses, around 6–8 weeks. But this time, the pregnancy continued and baby looked healthy.
At 20 weeks, I started having complications that sent me to labor and delivery four times, and each time I was sent home. But I wasn’t fine. Eventually, my water broke completely. I was admitted to the hospital expecting to deliver, but my contractions stopped overnight. The next morning, I was given two options: induce labor knowing the baby was too young to survive, or wait and see how long my body could stay pregnant. Our baby’s heartbeat was still strong. We weren’t comfortable with induction.
Because of how early I was, I was transferred from our local hospital to Barnes in St. Louis. I was admitted to their antepartum unit, where we met with the MFM team and Children’s NICU multiple times. We were told over and over how low our baby’s chances of survival were, and what long-term complications could happen due to the lack of amniotic fluid and being born so early.
But as long as our baby’s heartbeat was strong, we wanted to give him every possible chance.
We were told if I made it to at least 22 weeks and delivered, they could attempt life-saving measures. Anything before that, we’d be handed our baby to pass away in our room. So we opted for antibiotics and medications to try and keep infection away—hoping and praying every day to stay pregnant long enough.
Pregnancy after loss is such a mental battle. Every day I wondered when the other shoe would drop. When my water broke, we clung to our faith and prayed for a miracle.
I stayed admitted for nearly three weeks, bouncing between antepartum and labor and delivery. At 23 weeks, just after midnight on February 15, 2021, our son—Caleb Otto—was born. His birth was traumatic. I was in antepartum, hooked up to monitors, but didn’t realize he was coming until he was practically here. I delivered him in my room with only a nurse. The NICU team rushed in just in time. We’d prepared ourselves with the plan, but living it was different. The NICU team was able to intubate him in our room and transfer him to Children’s Hospital. He lived for 10.5 precious hours.
We were able to hold his hand, love on him, and be there as he passed. His NICU doctor prayed with us, and we held him as he slipped away. He died from complications related to extreme prematurity.
In all my previous pregnancies, I’d dreamed of just getting to meet our baby. Even though we didn’t get the miracle of bringing Caleb home, getting to see him, meet him, and hold him as he passed—that was a miracle in itself. I believe God graciously gave us those moments in the midst of heartbreak.
Even though we had those precious moments with him, losing Caleb broke me. The grief was overwhelming. Nighttime was the hardest. After our boys were asleep, the silence made room for the pain. I cried myself to sleep for months. It took nearly a year to begin feeling functional again. My faith carried me through. It gave me hope that it wouldn’t feel like this forever.
After Caleb passed, we decided to pursue a vasectomy. We didn’t want to risk going through such a loss again. But our insurance changed and delayed the procedure by a month. Just two days after my husband had the surgery, on Super Bowl Sunday, I found out I was pregnant.
We were shocked—and terrified. Caleb’s first birthday and angelversary were just around the corner (February 2022), and now we were preparing for another baby, due in September. It felt like a gift in the middle of deep grief.
I had a preventative cerclage and weekly injections. I was induced at 37 weeks for medical reasons, and our rainbow baby girl, Calliope Joanna, was born in September 2022.
I hope to continue using our experiences with infertility, grief, and loss to walk alongside others in similar pain. I don’t believe God lets our pain go to waste—there’s purpose in it. This is how we use our story.
The photos of Caleb are the only ones we have, aside from the few my husband took after birth. I look at them often. They remind me he was real, even if only for part of a day. I didn’t know how much I’d treasure them until after. I’m so thankful for the nursing staff that asked us if we wanted the photos. We weren’t capable of thinking clearly in that moment, and they knew what it would mean later.
We had a maternity shoot with our rainbow baby, and I’m thankful for those too. I never made it far enough in other pregnancies to get photos like that. Finally, we have images of us celebrating the life of a baby we got to bring home. Not long after she was born, we got Santa pictures through OAW too.
I enjoy reading the stories of other OAW families. There’s something powerful in knowing you’re not alone. Others pray for you, and fill gaps—but hearing from people who’ve been through similar grief hits differently.
To any parent in a similar situation: take the pictures. When you’re in a season of survival, it’s hard to think clearly. You can’t yet see how much they’ll mean to you in the future.
What OAW does is vital. For loss families, there is no redo. There won’t be another chance to get those photos. For families navigating long-term illness, the financial stress often means photos aren’t possible otherwise. OAW fills that gap. What they give is sacrifice and love—and my family is forever grateful.
