I don’t want to write this.

I don’t want a lot of things but I especially don’t want to write this. I suppose when you need the right words, you turn to a writer.

That’s me. A writer.

My name is Julie. My parents are Tom and Abbie. I have three younger siblings – Jessica, Jon, and Jenna.


I met Jenna when I was in Kindergarten. I remember the day she was born. I remember waiting in the waiting room with my two siblings and my aunt Mary. A male nurse ran in to tell us my mom had her baby. I asked if I had a brother or a sister and he said he didn’t remember. A few hours later, my dad handed me my baby sister. I still wonder how a nurse forgets such a thing.

Jenna and I are six years apart. That’s a huge gap when you’re growing up together. Jenna started Kindergarten when I headed to middle school. Jenna was in middle school when I left the house for college. Jenna became a first time aunt to my daughter, Emma, when she was still in high school.

But then Jenna married Steven. Jenna gave birth to Evelyn four years ago. And then she gave birth to June two years ago. I was in the room during June’s birth. Jenna looked up at me with the baby crying on her chest and whispered, “Her name is June Elaine. June Bug. She’s a bug too.” Jenna and Steven named June after my nickname “bug” and Jessica’s middle name, Elaine.

The six-year gap between Jenna and me doesn’t exist anymore. Jenna, Jessica, and I became the same age when we became mothers. Aunthood and motherhood – it’s the same with my sisters and me. All three of us gave birth to Emma, Kate, Gabby, Evelyn, Savannah, June, William, and Jenna’s little boy – due in June 2017.

We never knew the name of the little boy Jenna carried.

On May 13th, 2017, a nurse knocked on the waiting room door. Our heads shot up. Our swollen, blood-shot eyes stared. The nurse seemed flustered.

“Jenna is still in the operating room. We’re doing everything we can. Steven and Henry are on the 2nd level. I will escort you to down there. We offer our deepest condolences.”


His name was Henry. Henry Steven Flanery.

They say babies can hear outside of the womb. Henry Steven Flanery must have known us all. He knew his sister, Evelyn, and her voice of song. He knew his other sister, June, and her screams of laughter. He heard his dad, Steven, take aim and fire at a box that exploded blue powder, announcing his gender to the world of Facebook. He heard our families cheers of joy. Henry knew us and he knew our love for him. Above all, he knew his mother, Jenna, the most.

I held Henry. He was beautiful inside his mom’s womb. The ears he heard us with were his mom’s ears. I held the same ears 29 years ago, only they were my baby sister’s ears. Henry weighed 5 pounds, 1 ounce. He was 18 inches long. He looked like a sleeping newborn. I stroked his face and touched his light brown hair. He had a small dimple on his chin. I held Henry but I never met him.

Henry wasn’t in my arms. He was two flights up in the hospital with his mom. I met an angel on May 13, 2017.

After five hours of waiting, one of Jenna’s five surgeons knocked on the waiting room door. Jenna was stable but in critical condition.

During the early hours of May 13th, Jenna started to throw up. She started a giant contraction that wouldn’t let go. A doctor would know this means the placenta tore away. Usually there is bleeding with this but Jenna didn’t bleed. Her pain and condition worsened and she went to the hospital around 6 a.m. By the time Jenna was at the hospital, the doctors couldn’t find a heartbeat. Henry passed away due to placental abruption and lack of oxygen.

There are three risk factors women generally have when the placenta tears away from the uterus – the woman is on drugs, the woman has high blood pressure, or the woman suffered trauma. Jenna did not have any of these. The five surgeons could not tell us why her placenta tore away at 8 months. We will never know why.

Jenna delivered Henry with ease. She was able to hold Henry and see his face. Then she started to bleed. The blood wouldn’t stop. Doctors had to put Jenna under while they worked to save her life. The surgeon tried every trick she knew to stop the bleeding. Jenna wouldn’t stop. It was like water flowing out of a sink. Jenna lost 8 liters of blood. She lost as much blood in a non-pregnant body. Not only was Jenna losing blood from her uterus, she was also filling up with blood in her body cavity. In order to save Jenna’s life, surgeons removed her uterus. The surgeon took her uterus to a table and searched everywhere for a hole. Jenna had to have been leaking; the surgeon was determined to know where. The surgeon couldn’t find the hole. This is another answer the doctors could not give us. We don’t know why Jenna bled outside of the uterus. We will never know why.

The five surgeons told us they have never seen a hemorrhage this catastrophic in 25 years of practice.

Jenna lived.

Henry never cried that day. He wasn’t in my arms. He was saving his mom.

There’s nothing I can do for Jenna but be her sister and I will write this story for her even though I don’t want to write this.



Many people have asked what they can do to help. We set up a GoFundMe page for Jenna and Steven. If anything, we can relieve the financial stress with medical bills and funeral costs. If you would like to help my sister, please consider donating. 

The Flanery Family Go Fund Me

Thank you for your prayers and love as we mourn the loss of Henry and continue to support Jenna’s healing.



28 thoughts on “Henry.

  1. Seriously crying in an Omaha parking lot.
    Much love to you and your family and holding you all in my thoughts and prayers.
    Your phrase “became the same age when we became mothers” will stay with me all day.
    You are truly a beautiful writer – a writer that writes the hard things with grace.


  2. As someone who lost a nephew when he was four days old after my sister-in-laws uterus ruptured, your post hit the heart hard. I would have never been able to put the words together so beautifully. I will be keeping you and your family in my thoughts and prayers, especially your sister, her husband and girls. It has been almost 13 years since my nephew passed, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him and who he would be today.


  3. I’m sobbing over my keyboard. I don’t know you or your sister personally, Julie, but I’m a mom. My heart breaks for Henry’s loss and for you and your sister and families. Death leaves a heartache that’s hard to heal. Love leaves a memory no one can steal.


  4. I’m reluctant to press the like button, but I do “like” your love for your sister and her family and your own family and I “like” that the love your extended family shares is one of those things that gives me hope that this world is still a great place.

    Women probably don’t get enough credit for how incredibly difficult and risky helping to create and carry a baby to term is. Every person on earth is literally a miracle.

    I love the name Henry and I can only imagine how happy and excited your family was to meet him. I’m not ashamed to admit that I consider many of my blogger pals to be friends, even though I’ve not meant most. You are a friend, Julie. You make me smile with your words most of the time, and for that I am grateful. I understand your need to write, even words you wished you never had to. Those are the hardest, but also the most personal. Thank you for sharing your family with us, good times and bad.

    Know that you’re in my thoughts and prayers this week. I’m so sorry for your loss.


  5. So sorry for your loss and can’t even imagine what you and your family are going thru. I don’t even know what to say to try to help ease your pain. Your writing said it very well, and I’m sure your family is very proud of that. My wife is a labor and delivery nurse and was very aware of what happened when I showed her your story. We will keep your family in our thoughts and prayers. RIP Henry.


    1. I had my BFF nurse on call through this whole thing. God bless the hands of nurses. I could not do what they do every day. Please tell your wife thank you for all the babies she’s saved and mothers as well. 💙


  6. It is such a loving gift that you wrote this hard for your sister and that you are supporting her in this most lasting, protective way. You’re the big sis I would want to be! I am sorry for your family’s tremendous loss and so thankful Henry’s mommy lives on.


  7. First, I’m so, so sorry for your loss. There are no words for such a tragedy.

    Of course you had to write. For some of us, finding words is the first step to comprehending the unfathomable. Finding a way to write about grief is a way to honor the ones we love, even ones we never got to meet in life. You’ve done beautifully. Much love to you and your family.


  8. I’m sitting here with tears in my eyes. I understand the need to write about this, but I can’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been to type those words out. My heart is breaking for your entire family. Many prayers being sent.


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