Jeff Loving Substack

Growing up, I never really knew anyone who had experienced pregnancy complications or the loss of a child. If I did, my younger self was too naive or perhaps too self-absorbed--to truly notice. My sister had a miscarriage between her second and third daughters, but even then, in my mid-twenties, I didn’t know how to support her in her grief. I didn’t understand her pain. So, when my wife, Cassie, and I faced our own loss, I was unprepared in every possible way.

Cassie and I were married in August 2020, during the height of COVID. Our relationship moved quickly--we met online, dated briefly, and got engaged soon after. By the time we were married, less than a year had passed since our first date. From the start, we shared a deep desire to become parents. Cassie often talked about her dream of being a mother, a hope she had carried since childhood. I, too, felt the pull of parenthood, especially after watching my sister raise her three daughters. My nieces were my world, and spending time with them deepened my longing to have children of my own.

After our wedding, we decided to wait a year before trying for a baby. To prepare ourselves for the responsibility of raising a child--or so we told ourselves--we got a goldendoodle puppy named Sage. She quickly became the center of our little family, her playful antics filling our tiny apartment in Lincoln, Nebraska. We often imagined the life we wanted: kids and a dog running around together, growing up as best friends. Sage was perfect--gentle, loving, and great with children. She made us even more excited for the future we were building.

In August 2021, a year into our marriage, Cassie handed me a positive pregnancy test. She’d been feeling nauseous and slightly uncomfortable since we had returned from a cousin’s wedding in Arizona, but we had chalked it up to dehydration from the desert heat. Her symptoms persisted, though, and when she handed me that test, I was overwhelmed. Joy, nervousness, confusion--they all crashed over me at once. It felt surreal to know our dream was coming true.

But as we approached our 19-week appointment, the dream began to unravel. Cassie had started spotting and experiencing cramps. Concerned, we booked an urgent visit with her OB-GYN. Sitting in the waiting room, time crawled. When we were finally seen, the ultrasound technician seemed calm and patient, answering all our questions. But toward the end of the appointment, she excused herself and returned with the doctor. They whispered quietly, keeping the screen turned away from us. My heart sank.

The doctor sat down on a stool, her expression grave. “Cassie, you are starting to dilate,” She said. “We need you to go to the hospital immediately.’ The words were a punch to the gut. Tears filled my eyes as my mind raced, grasping for answers. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

At the hospital, specialists presented us with an impossible choice: attempt to keep our baby in the womb, risking Cassie’s health, or deliver early, knowing he wouldn’t survive. After agonizing hours, we made the most devastating decision of our lives.

On November 24, 2021, our son, Davian Myles Loving, was born at just 8.9 ounces. His lungs weren’t developed enough to sustain him, but he held on for 43 precious minutes before passing in my hands. I remember every detail of those moments--his fragile body, the steady but faint rhythm of his heartbeat, the unbearable stillness when it stopped. 

The grief was overwhelming. Losing Davian shattered our world. Cassie and I had both struggled with anxiety and depression in the past, but this was a depth of pain we’d never known. Some days I cried uncontrollably, clutching my pillow, while Cassie sat numb on the couch. Other days, our roles reversed. The Joy of life seemed stolen from us, replaced by a relentless ache. 

Adding to the pain were well-meaning but thoughtless comments from others. I remember men telling me, “Cassie needs you to stay strong. You are the provider.” They made me feel like my own grief was a weakness, something to bury. But a close friend gave me a piece of advice that changed everything: “You have the right to grieve your child. To show up for Cassie, you need to process your own pain first.” Those words gave me permission to grieve fully and deeply.

Cassie and I struggled with our faith during this time. Though we continued attending church, it felt hollow. The hymns and sermons seemed like empty promises from a God who had let us down. By May 2022, we needed a fresh start. On a whim, we moved to North Carolina--a place we had only visited once, during our honeymoon. We hoped a new environment might help us heal.

There, we found a church small-group that welcomed us with open arms. Unbeknownst to us, this group would be a lifeline, helping us rediscover our faith. One Sunday, during a study in the book of Joshua, the pastor posed a question: “Are you living in the wilderness, or the promised land?” Cassie and I realized we had been wandering in a wilderness of grief and isolation, trying to carry our burdens alone. That moment marked the beginning of our healing. 

After that shift in our hearts, we found hope for the future. Though we grieved Davian’s loss deeply, we allowed ourselves to dream again about the possibility of children. It took nearly a year before we found success in our journey. Cassie began meeting with a fertility doula who, despite my initial skepticism, became a close friend and invaluable guide. Alongside this, she visited a women’s clinic that helped identify potential causes for her struggles with natural conception.

We already knew she had PCOS, a diagnosis she’d received before Davian’s pregnancy. But with new testing, we explored various treatments, supplements, and medications. By July 2023, Cassie began Letrozole, and to our astonishment, we found success on the first cycle. In August, the pregnancy test came back positive. 

When the results appeared on the stick, our emotions were a tangled web--excitement, anxiety, dread, hope. We were grateful, but shadows of the past loomed large. Each milestone in this pregnancy echoed Davian’s, with their due dates only a week apart. It was both a comfort and a constant reminder of what we had lost.

By the twelfth week, blood tests confirmed we were having a baby boy. We learned this joyful news just before Cassie’s sister’s wedding in late September. Despite the mix of joy and trepidation, we clung to hope that this pregnancy would be different.

In mid-October, that hope was tested when Cassied experienced severe pain in her side. Our first hospital visit resulted in a vague dismissal: “Round ligament pain,” they said, and we were sent home with instructions to take Tylenol and to rest. Hours later, the pain returned with intensity. Back at the hospital, further tests revealed bacterial vaginosis, a common condition in pregnant women. A prescription for Flagyl quickly resolved the issue, but the experience left us shaken--and more wary of the healthcare system.

Given Cassie’s high-risk status after losing Davian, she began seeing a maternal-fetal medicine specialist. Cassie requested a cerclage--a common procedure to prevent early labor with a nearly 95% success rate--but the specialist, after reviewing her previous records, was hesitant. They attributed her earlier loss to complications from an infection during an amniocentesis rather than an incompetent cervix. They opted instead to monitor her cervix length closely.

At 16 weeks, her cervix measured a reassuring 4.7 cm. By week 18, however, it had shortened significantly to 2.9 cem. Alarmed, we pushed again for the cerclage, but the specialist maintained that it wasn’t necessary yet, as the length was still above the critical threshold of 2.5 cm. When her cervix dropped to 2.7 cm at week 19, we pleaded for intervention. Again, they insisted on waiting.

Three days later, on my birthday, our world shifted. Cassie called me into the bathroom, tears streaming down her face. “I just lost my mucus plug,” she whispered, her voice trembling. My heart plummeted as I saw what she meant. The drive to the hospital was a blur of tears and raw, guttural cries. All I could think was, Not again. Please, not again.

At the hospital, initial exams offered false hope. “Mucus plugs can regenerate,” a midwife assured us. “Everything looks closed and fine.” But we knew better. Less than a day later, Cassie’s amniotic sac began to bulge further, and again, we rushed to the hospital, uncertain of what was about to unfold. 

After spending less than a full day at the hospital, we requested to be transferred to a specialized hospital in town backed by the urging of a close friend who worked there. It was thankfully in our city, and had one of the best NICUs in the state. Praying for a miracle for our son, Jadon Noah, we made the move despite the risk of preterm delivery.

Despite the best efforts of the medical team, the prognosis was grim. Jadon’s fetal parts were descending, and it was only a matter of when, not if, he would arrive prematurely. Our families, and Cassie’s best friend, arrived from across the country, giving us precious time to be surrounded by the much needed love and support.

On December 6, 2023, Jadon Noah was born. He was too premature for NICU intervention, and he passed a few minutes after birth. Those moments, brief and fleeting, were some of the most profound of my life. I held him close to my chest, feeling his tiny heartbeat grow weaker until it faded into stillness. A moment of indescribable pain and sacredness sharing the same space.

The days that followed were a haze. Leaving the hospital and returning to a world that moved on as if nothing had happened felt cruel. It was as if the depth of our grief was invisible to everyone else.

When our families left and the house grew quiet, it was just Cassie, our dog Sage, and me. But this time, our grief carried a fragile hope. Unlike with Davian, we found gratitude amidst the sorrow. We prayed that our faith would not falter, and that, somehow, our story might bring comfort to others enduring similar loss.

Davian and Jadon’s passing taught me something profound: God knows the pain of losing a child. That truth gave me peace, even amidst the storm of anger and heartbreak.

After Davian’s loss, I told Cassie I wanted to write something to share our story. But it wasn’t until Jadon’s passing that I truly understood what I needed to say. This book is for you--parents who have faced the unbearable. I want you to know that your journey did not end with your loss.

Though we may never meet, I am praying for you. I am grieving with you.  And I hope, above all, that you find some glimmer of hope, even in the darkest moments. 

I am holding onto the light with you.