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At 32 weeks pregnant I thought the headaches and extreme tiredness were just normal pregnancy stuff. They weren't. Carbon monoxide had been slowly poisoning my baby for weeks. I barely survived. My baby did not. My son's name was Hudson. I am 38 years old now. I am not pregnant again. My doctor says my body is physically capable. My therapist says my mind is not. So I write. And I check the screens on the walls. And I try to stay alive. I am writing this because what happened to me is happening to other pregnant women in this country right now. They are walking around with headaches they think are normal. They are blaming late pregnancy fatigue. They are doing exactly what I did. If even one of them reads this and ends up different than me, I will have done something with the worst year of my life. Michael and I had been trying for a little over a year when I got pregnant. I was 35. I peed on the test at 5:47 in the morning on a Tuesday before work. Two faint lines. I sat on the bathroom floor for twenty minutes holding the stick with my hands shaking because I was scared if I moved it would stop being real. Eventually I walked into the bedroom and slid back into bed next to Michael and held the test up to his face. He was still half asleep. He looked at it. He looked at me. He said are you serious. Then he said it again. Then he started crying in a way I had never seen him cry, and I started laughing because it was the most absurd and beautiful moment of my entire life. We told our parents that weekend. His mom cried for an hour. My mom got on a plane the next day. I was 5 weeks pregnant. I had no idea something deadly was already happening inside the house. We bought our house at 28 weeks. A five year old colonial in a quiet neighborhood. Three bedrooms upstairs. A small yard with a magnolia tree. Move in ready. We had been renting since we got married and we wanted Hudson to come home to a house that was ours. Everything was inspected. Everything was current. The HVAC system had been serviced six weeks before closing. The water heater was practically new. The detectors were the kind sold at every big box store with green lights and test buttons. I want you to remember that. I want you to remember that everything in that house was new. Everything was checked. Everything was supposed to be safe. It was not. I was the most careful pregnant woman in the history of pregnant women. I had a Google doc with every food I was supposed to avoid. I switched all my cleaning products to Branch Basics. I bought a HEPA filter for the bedroom. I had a What to Expect app, an Ovia app, a Count the Kicks app, and a private Facebook group with 47 other women due in May. I read every article. I drank filtered water. I went to prenatal yoga twice a week. I did Hypnobirthing classes on Tuesdays. I named him at 16 weeks. Hudson Michael. After my grandfather who died the year before I got pregnant and never knew I was even trying. We started the nursery the week we moved in. Soft blue walls. A white crib. A glider I bought used and reupholstered myself. A bookshelf I filled with every book I had loved as a kid. I bought him a tiny pair of red sneakers from a vintage store. They were size 6 to 12 months. I put them on the dresser next to his crib. They are still there. Then the headaches started. Daily. Always the same. Tightening behind the eyes. Worst in the morning. Better by mid afternoon. I told myself it was the weather changing. I told myself it was dehydration. I drank more water. I started sleeping fourteen hours a night. Twelve overnight. Two or three in the afternoon. I told myself it was the third trimester. I told myself the baby was getting bigger and taking more out of me. I started getting confused. I made jokes about pregnancy brain. Then Hudson started moving less. It was subtle. He was still moving. He was just less consistent than he had been before. I told myself he was getting bigger and there was less room. I told myself I was sleeping more and missing some of his active periods. I told myself everything was fine. I should have called the doctor right away. I waited. I finally made an appointment with my OB. I listed everything. The headaches. The exhaustion. The confusion. The feeling that something was off. Dr. Reynolds looked at my chart. She measured my belly. She listened to Hudson's heartbeat. He sounded great. She said Sarah. You have a healthy pregnancy. Some women have an easy third trimester and some women have a hard one. What you are describing is a hard one. It is normal. She told me to drink more water. To take a prenatal vitamin with extra iron. To take Tylenol if the headaches got bad. To rest. I went home and I rested. The next morning the headache was worse. Two weeks later I called again. This time I asked to see a different doctor. Not because I didn't trust Dr. Reynolds. Because I wanted a second opinion. Dr. Mendez was kind. He read my chart. He asked me to describe everything. He listened to Hudson. He measured my belly. Hudson was measuring slightly small. He was at the 30th percentile. Down from the 50th at my last visit. I asked if that was normal. He said yes. Sometimes babies have growth spurts and sometimes they slow down. The 30th percentile is still completely healthy. I told him about the confusion. The forgetting. The fact that I had walked into a Target three days earlier and could not remember what I was there for. He smiled gently. He said Sarah. You are pregnant. You are 35. The hormones of pregnancy can do strange things to a body. This will all resolve when the baby is born. I left the office. Hudson kicked twice on the way home. A week later I woke up at 3 in the morning and could not catch my breath. Like someone was sitting on my chest. I shook Michael awake and he drove me to urgent care. The doctor on call took my vitals. My blood pressure was fine. The oxygen reading on the clip on my finger was 98 percent. He listened to Hudson's heartbeat. It was strong. He looked at me. He said ma'am. You are 32 weeks pregnant. You are carrying extra weight on your chest and your diaphragm. Sometimes pregnant women wake up feeling like they cannot breathe because the baby is pushing up against the lungs. It will get better after delivery. He told me to go back to my OB if it kept happening. He did not order any tests. He did not check my carbon monoxide level. He sent me home at 4:47 in the morning with a recommendation to sleep propped up on extra pillows. I have the discharge papers from that visit. They are in a manila folder in my closet. I keep them so I do not forget that I asked. Three times. I asked. The baby shower was on a Saturday. My mom had flown in on Wednesday. My sister had flown in on Thursday. Michael's mom and his two sisters were driving up from Virginia on Friday afternoon. The house was full. I should have been happy. I slept for sixteen hours on Thursday. Michael had to come upstairs at 4 in the afternoon and shake me awake because my mom and sister were already at the house waiting for me to come down for dinner. I came down. I was so dizzy I had to hold the railing on the stairs. My mom looked at me. She said honey, when was the last time you ate? I said I was not sure. She made me a grilled cheese. I could not finish it. I went back upstairs to bed. I remember my sister coming in around 9 to check on me. She sat on the edge of the bed and held my hand and said are you okay. I said I think I am just so tired. She said you are growing a person. That is hard. She kissed my forehead and turned off the light. I do not remember falling asleep. Hudson did not kick that night. I did not notice. The baby shower was supposed to start at 1 in the afternoon. I came downstairs at 9. My mom and sister had been up for hours setting up. There were blue and silver balloons everywhere. A banner that said WELCOME HUDSON strung across the dining room. A diaper cake on the side table. A folding table set up for gifts. My sister had baked a cake. She had spelled his name out in soft blue frosting. Hudson. With a little dot over each letter that was supposed to be a star. I sat down at the dining room table and I started crying. My mom thought I was crying because I was overwhelmed. She held me. She said sweetheart this is just a happy day. We are celebrating you. We are celebrating Hudson. I was not crying because I was overwhelmed. I was crying because I felt wrong. I could not tell her. I could not articulate it. My head was pounding. My chest felt tight. My hands were shaking. I felt like I was going to throw up. I felt like something was going to happen. Michael came in. He brought me a glass of water. He sat next to me. He said do you want me to cancel. I said no. Everyone is already here. He said okay. I am going to pick up the cupcakes from the bakery. I will be back in twenty minutes. He kissed my forehead. He left. He had no idea Hudson was already gone. After Michael left I sat at the table watching my mom tie balloons to the chairs. I put my hand on my belly. I waited. Hudson did not move. I told myself he was sleeping. He had been sleeping more lately. I told myself he was tired. I told myself everything was fine. I drank cold water. I lay on my left side on the couch. I pressed where his foot usually was. Nothing. I tried again ten minutes later. I ate a piece of the cake with his name on it. I drank orange juice. I shook my belly gently the way the books said not to but the way every desperate mother does. Nothing. Twenty minutes. Thirty. I called for my mom. I said mom. Hudson is not moving. She looked at me. The color drained from her face. She said how long. I said I don't know. An hour. Maybe more. Maybe since last night. She picked up her phone and called Michael. Then she called the OB on call. Michael got home before we left for the hospital. He came running through the front door past all the balloons and the diaper cake and the welcome banner with his hands shaking and his eyes wide and he held my face in both his hands and said we are going to the hospital right now. He drove me himself. My mom and my sister followed in my mom's rental car. The drive to the hospital was twenty seven minutes. I do not remember the drive. I remember Michael saying he is going to be okay over and over again like he was trying to convince himself. I remember him not letting go of my hand at any red light. They took us straight to labor and delivery. A nurse listened for Hudson's heartbeat with the handheld monitor. She moved it around for forty five seconds. She didn't find anything. She said let me get the ultrasound. The ultrasound tech came in. She put gel on my belly. She moved the wand around. She didn't say anything for a full minute. Then she said let me get the doctor. The doctor came in. She sat on the rolling stool next to my head. She put her hand on my shoulder. She said Sarah. I'm so sorry. There is no heartbeat. I cannot tell you what that did to me. I cannot describe it. There are no words. We had to deliver him. My doctor explained that with the dizziness I had been having, the chest tightness, the elevated heart rate they had just measured at intake, an emergency C section was the safest option for me. I asked her what the safest option was for Hudson. She held my hand. She said honey. There is no safest option for him anymore. They prepped me for surgery. Before they took me back, a nurse came in to draw blood. Standard pre op. She asked me to describe my symptoms one more time. Headaches. Dizziness. Confusion. Fatigue. Chest tightness in the middle of the night. She wrote it all down. She walked out. She came back twenty minutes later with another doctor. He said Sarah. Before we take you back, I need to run one more test. Your symptom pattern is concerning. I asked what test. He said we are going to test you for carbon monoxide. The test came back in fifteen minutes. My carboxyhemoglobin level was 28 percent. The doctor came back into the room. He was holding a clipboard. He was holding it tight. He said Sarah. You have been exposed to carbon monoxide. A lot of it. We think for weeks. We have already called the fire department. They are on their way to your house right now. You and Michael and your family cannot go back into that house tonight. Not until they clear it. I asked him what this meant for Hudson. He looked at me. He said I think we know now. They put me on oxygen. They wheeled me back to the operating room. I was awake for the C section. They gave me a spinal block. They put a curtain up so I could not see what they were doing. Michael sat by my head. He held my hand. He did not stop crying. When they pulled Hudson out, there was no sound. There is supposed to be sound. A cry. Even a small one. There is supposed to be a sound. There was no sound. Michael saw him before I did. He let out something I cannot describe. The doctor wrapped him in a soft blanket. She brought him over. She placed him on my chest. He was 4 pounds 1 ounce. He was 16 inches long. He had Michael's nose. He had my hands. He had a full head of dark hair, which I had been telling my mom for months would happen because I had terrible heartburn the entire pregnancy. He was still warm. I held him for two hours. I sang him every song I had been planning to sing him for seven months. I sang him the lullaby my dad used to sing to me. I sang him a Lana Del Rey song. I sang him the alphabet. Michael put his hand on Hudson's tiny chest and didn't take it off the whole time. When the nurse came in and asked if we were ready, we said yes because what else are you supposed to say. They took footprints. They took a lock of his hair. They put him in a memory box. I have it in the closet next to the discharge papers. The fire captain came to see me on the third day. I was still in the hospital. The doctors wanted to monitor my levels. They wanted to make sure my heart hadn't been damaged. They wanted to make sure my brain hadn't been damaged. His name was Captain Hayes. He was in his mid 50s. He took off his cap when he walked in. He sat in the chair next to my bed. Michael was on the other side. He said Mrs. Mitchell. I came to see you because you and your husband deserve answers. I sat up in my hospital bed. I started crying before he had finished his sentence. I said how is this possible. He looked at me. He did not say anything yet. I said we had new detectors. We had everything checked when we bought the house. The HVAC system had been serviced six weeks before we moved in. The furnace was practically new. The water heater was practically new. The roof was practically new. I tested the detectors every week. The green lights were on every single night. I checked. I checked. Michael had his hand on my back. I was shaking. I said how does this even happen. We do not have a fireplace. We do not have a gas stove. We do not run our cars in the garage. We did everything right. How did we get carbon monoxide in our house. How can this even happen to people. How can it happen to a baby. Captain Hayes did not flinch. He waited until I stopped. Then he said Mrs. Mitchell. I am going to answer every single one of those questions. I am going to tell you exactly what happened in that house. And I want you to know I have answered these questions to other families before yours. And I will probably have to answer them again. Because what happened to you is not rare. It is just rarely talked about. He told me the carbon monoxide had come from the furnace. I told him the furnace was practically new. He nodded. He said ma'am. I know. And I have to tell you something most homeowners do not understand. Heat exchangers crack from use. Not age. Every single time your furnace fires up, the metal expands. Every single time it shuts off, the metal contracts. That happens hundreds of thousands of times in the life of a furnace. He paused. He said they all crack eventually. I have seen it in furnaces that were 18 months old. I have seen it in furnaces that were 20 years old. I have seen it in furnaces that were professionally serviced six weeks before they killed somebody. The age of the furnace does not matter. He said and this is the worst part. The furnace runs perfectly even when the heat exchanger is cracked. The flame looks normal. The thermostat works. You have heat. Everything seems fine. The only thing that is different is what is leaking into your house. He said the cracked heat exchanger in your basement has been venting carbon monoxide straight up into your ductwork every time your furnace fired up. And that ductwork carries it into every room of your house. Including the room you slept in. I asked him how long it had been happening. He said based on the corrosion pattern, probably six to eight weeks. Maybe longer. I asked him how the detector did not catch it. He looked at me. He picked up his cap off his lap. He put it back down. He said Mrs. Mitchell. The detector on your wall is not broken. The sensor inside is functioning. The battery is fine. The green light is on. The test button works. I said then how did it never make a sound. He paused. He said because it was not designed to. He told me about the federal regulation. He said it was written four decades ago to prevent nuisance alarms in adults. Detectors are legally allowed to stay silent until carbon monoxide levels hit 70 parts per million for an extended period of time. And even at 70 PPM, the detector is allowed to wait up to four hours before it makes a single sound. I asked him what the levels in our house had been. He said based on what they had found, the levels were probably between 25 and 50 PPM. Spiking higher when the heat ran. Dropping back down when it stopped. Never hitting 70 long enough to trigger the alarm. I asked him if 25 PPM was dangerous. He looked at Michael. Then he looked at me. He said for you it was not deadly yet. But it was close. It had already done permanent damage. The headaches. The confusion. The forgetting words. The dizziness. All of it was carbon monoxide eating away at your brain. The neurologist will explain it tomorrow. But you should know now. Some of what you have lost will come back. Some of it never will. He took a long breath. He said and for your son it was deadly. Because a baby's blood holds onto carbon monoxide five times longer than yours does. So even when your blood was clearing, his was not. Every time the furnace ran, his levels went up. In between, they didn't come down fast enough. I asked him if the detector was supposed to ignore that. He said yes. The regulation was never updated for pregnant women. It was never updated for fetuses. The level that killed Hudson was a level your detector was legally allowed to ignore. I asked him how that was legal. He said I do not know. I asked him how many other babies this had happened to. He looked at the floor. Then he looked back at me. He said more than anyone wants to admit. I asked him what detector I need now after everything that happened. He pulled a different detector out of his bag. He set it on the bedside table. He said this is what we use at the station. It is what most of the men and women on my crew have at home. It is what I have on my wall and what I put in my parents house. It is called the Dewlora 4 in 1. The sensor inside is a grade 3 industrial grade sensor. The same kind we use in our professional equipment. He said grade 3 catches carbon monoxide way faster than the big box store detectors. It alarms before 30 PPM instead of waiting for 70. It is not so sensitive that it gives you false alarms when you cook bacon or burn toast. It knows the difference between a real threat and a kitchen accident. He said and this is the part I really need you to understand. It also catches natural gas. Propane. Combustible gas. Your old detector was completely blind to all of those. He looked at me. He said Mrs. Mitchell. You did not fail Hudson. The system failed you. The standards failed you. The doctors who told you it was normal failed you. The detector failed you. He turned to Michael. He said sir. None of this is your fault either. You did everything you were supposed to do. You bought new detectors. You had the house inspected. You trusted what was on the wall. The system failed both of you. He looked back at me. He said I cannot bring your son back. But I can tell you what you needed to have. And I can tell you that I am so sorry you did not have it. He left the Dewlora on the table. He said keep it. It is for when you go home. He stood up. He put his cap back on. He left. Michael held my hand. I cried for an hour. We did not go home from the hospital. The fire department had told us not to until they cleared the air. They had said it would take at least four days of running fans and ventilating before it was safe. We stayed at a hotel near the hospital. When we finally went home five days later, the house smelled different. Like cleaning products and outdoor air. The furnace had been replaced. The fire department had installed temporary detectors in every room until I could get the Dewlora detectors delivered. I walked into the nursery. The crib. The glider. The bookshelf. The tiny red sneakers on the dresser. I closed the door. I have not opened it since. We had Hudson's funeral the Saturday after we came home. A small white casket. Smaller than I want to describe. I walked behind it. Michael walked beside me. My mom held my elbow. I was on my feet for forty seven minutes total that day. I was in pain from the C section. I was in pain from everything else. But I was there. I was there for my son. We buried him next to my grandfather. The grandfather I had named him for. I held a handful of dirt over the grave for thirty seconds before I could drop it. I cried so hard I lost my breath. Michael caught me before my knees gave out. It has been 18 months. The neurologist told me at my discharge appointment that levels above 25 percent can cause lasting neurological effects. Memory problems. Word finding difficulty. Mood changes. Trouble concentrating. Anxiety. Depression. PTSD. Most of it resolves within a year. Some of it does not. She told me to give it time. I still cannot find the right words sometimes. I forget appointments. I forget what I was doing. I have to write everything down on a yellow legal pad I carry with me from room to room. I have woken up in the middle of the night and not known what year it was three different times. I am on three different medications. One for the headaches that never fully went away. One for the anxiety. One for the trouble sleeping. Carbon monoxide did permanent damage to me. Michael has lasting effects too. Less than mine. He worked from his office most days during my pregnancy so his exposure was lower. But he still has memory issues. He still has not been the same man he was before Hudson died. We have not slept in our actual bedroom since we came home from the hospital. We sleep in the guest room. There is a Dewlora on my nightstand. There is a Dewlora on his nightstand. There is one in the hallway. One in the kitchen. One in the basement. One in every room of this house except the nursery. The nursery has been closed since the day we came home. I cannot open it. Michael cannot open it. His tiny red sneakers are still on the dresser. I see my therapist twice a week. She told me three months ago that part of my recovery was telling my story. Writing it down. Letting someone read it. She said the only way to move through trauma is to put it somewhere outside of your body. I started writing this 47 times. I stopped 46 times. I am finishing it tonight. I am 38 years old. I am not pregnant. My therapist says I am not ready. My OB says I am physically capable but emotionally fragile. My mother says I should wait. My sister says I should adopt. Michael says he just wants me back. I do not know what I want. I know I do not want Hudson to have died for nothing. I am writing this because I have spent the last 18 months on Facebook groups and Reddit threads and pregnancy forums reading posts from women who sound exactly like I did before everything happened. I have headaches. I am so tired. I keep getting dizzy. I forgot my password three times today. I think I am losing my mind. Every single one of those posts has 50 replies saying it is normal. It is pregnancy brain. It is the third trimester. Drink water. Take Tylenol. You are fine. None of those replies are saying go check your detector. None of them are saying get a real one. None of them are saying carbon monoxide can do this and your detector might not catch it because the federal standard does not protect you. I am. I am saying it. If you are pregnant right now and you have headaches you think are normal, please read this twice. If you have extreme tiredness you think is normal, please read this twice. If you are forgetting words. If you are dizzy. If something feels wrong and your doctor told you it was fine. Please. Go look at the detector on your wall right now. Is it the small white kind with a green light and a test button? If it is, it is not protecting you. It is legally allowed to stay silent at the very levels that killed Hudson. It is the same kind I had on my wall. Please get the detector the firefighter told me about. Do not make the same mistake I did. I have linked it below for any pregnant woman who is reading this and any family member who loves a pregnant woman and wants to make sure she comes home with her baby. https://trydewlora.com/pages/pregnancy-safety-report It will not bring Hudson back. But it might bring your son or daughter home. I am not asking for your money. I am asking for your attention. I am asking for five minutes of reading that might be the difference between a baby shower and a funeral. If you do not believe me, look at my discharge papers. Look at the urgent care notes. Look at the MyChart messages where I told three different doctors that something was wrong and they told me it was normal. I am telling you something is wrong. Please. Do not be me. Don't trust the green light. I did. 🤍 Sarah