Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support

Dear Friends, Spring 2026

Wed, 25 Mar 2026 21:45:59 GMT

A letter to the Share Community from our Executive Director

Dear Friends,

This morning I woke to the sound of birds chirping right outside my window, and a sliver of sunlight peeking through the cracks in my curtains. My first thoughts of the day were, “Sunlight, Spring. You’re finally here. Welcome.”

After the long days of Missouri winter, I welcome these burgeoning signs of Spring. They inspire me to gently lean into hope that the heaviness of the winter will soon become lighter, and the days longer, brighter, more colorful. I hope that you might feel that gentle pull toward hope, too. I know that for some of you, the change in the season may hard to embrace--those heavy winter days reflect the heavy feelings of your grief, and stepping into Spring may feel impossible, like your feet simply cannot move. It can be so difficult to see the world move into a season of new life when the new life you have dreamed of isn’t here with you as you imagined they’d be. As much as we sometimes wish we could rush grief, it often demands that we take our time.

Know that no matter where your heart is this first day of Spring, whether you are feeling hopeful or unready for change, you are not alone . Share has so many opportunities for support through those difficult days. Here at the National Office, a support group meets in person on the 2 ^nd Tuesday of each month, and our staff and trained Companions lead an online chat every Tuesday, too. No matter where you are in the world, you can join in and find the support of other bereaved parents who are navigating the challenges and emotions of grieving for their baby. And always, the Share staff and I are here to answer the phone, an email, or a message if that is the way you prefer to connect, to listen and provide support, no matter where you are on your journey.

When it comes to support, Share is always growing the ways we connect with families struggling through the loss of a baby. Some of you may know that March is Pregnancy after Loss Awareness Month, and I am so pleased to announce that the National Office is now hosting an in-person support group for bereaved parents who are pregnant or considering welcoming a new baby into their family. This group meets on the 3 ^rd Tuesday of each month, and there is an online meeting that same night, too. Please join in whichever way you are most comfortable. You’ll find the gentle understanding and support of parents who are also seeking to welcome a new baby into their family after experiencing the heartbreak of losing the child who came before.

With programs like these, the Share community continues to grow and gently walk beside one another as we honor our babies, remember with love, and take those first steps toward hope on this unexpected journey. It is, always, our honor to walk with you.

With the arrival of Spring, I find myself reflecting on all the hopeful, promising changes happening here at the National Office over the past few months, and I’d like to share a few highlights with you. In January, Share moved into a new, cozy office space, just across the hall from where we were. The new space is perfect for our staff, and for our families; we still have the Comfort Room, and a warm, welcoming place for Share families to visit, receive support, and meet for group. The transition was smooth and we’ve made ourselves right at home!

In February, we launched our new website as part of our ongoing commitment to support our families, caregivers, and Share Chapter leaders with meaningful resources, connection, and guidance. The website continues to grow and evolve, and we are excited to be able to increase our impact with the new site.

The Run for Share 5k & 10k was held last month in St. Charles, and was a beautiful day of spreading awareness, raising funds, and building new relationships within our community. We are already looking forward to next year-- save the date for February 27, 2027.

This month, preparations for our fundraising gala, A Share Speakeasy , are in full swing and we are quite looking forward to April 25 ^th ! We know this will be a very special event and would love for you to join us. The annual Share Your Knowledge Trivia Night is also in April, and I hope to see many new and familiar faces there. These events are wonderful opportunities for us to gather and socialize as a community—they are truly two of my favorite nights of the year. While they are both fun and meaningful, they also provide essential fundraising support for the National Office. Please join us if you are able!

We are also looking forward to attending PLIDA’s International Perinatal Bereavement Conference in May—Share was a founding member of PLIDA, the Pregnancy Loss and Infant Death Alliance, and we are proud to be sponsoring, presenting, and attending again this year. This conference is a wonderful opportunity to build knowledge, connection and nurture relationships within the perinatal bereavement and research communities. We hope to see many of our colleagues and Share Chapter Leaders in New Orleans!

As time marches forward and Spring begins, I am grateful for the many opportunities that lie ahead for Share and for the growth I see happening every day—in this organization, our community, and the gentle start of new life around us. I invite you to listen and lean into what your heart needs this Spring, and trust we are here for you as you as you step into this next season of your journey.

With love and hope,

Jenn Stachula

Executive Director

Resting in the In-Between

Mon, 29 Dec 2025 14:35:03 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

In this time, between the busyness and chaos of the winter holidays and the new year, we can feel out of sorts, sometimes with no desire to do much of anything. It can be a time of feeling unproductive and uncertain as we wonder what the new year might bring while we feel overwhelmed at dealing with the aftermath of what is left after the holidays.

We can feel much the same after our baby dies. It, too, can feel like an in-between time, a time when we feel unproductive, uncertain about our future, and overwhelmed at dealing with the aftermath of what has happened to our lives and hearts. When our future feels uncertain, it can provoke feelings of anxiety, stress and difficulty coping as we try to shift from what we thought our lives would be like to what it now is. Time moves on for everyone else, while we feel as if time has come to a standstill.

The most important thing we can do is allow ourselves to rest when we need to and reflect on our life and how we can go on from here. The quiet times, when it seems we are between two different worlds, can open us up to inspiration if we slow down and pause.

The following are some suggestions on ways we can weather this time of transition, to not just survive, but perhaps even thrive during days that can seem to blur from one to the next:

Take advantage of the time of inactivity by reading inspirational books, watching your favorite movies or finding a creative outlet.
Cozy up your home by putting out soft, warm blankets, light your favorite candles on dreary afternoons, stock up on your favorite hot beverages and listen to music that soothes you. Simmer a small pot of seasonal fruits, herbs and vanilla on your stove to bring a touch of warmth.
Purchase a pretty notebook and some nice pens for journaling. Research shows that journaling can relieve stress, help to reframe negative thoughts and help you cope with anxiety.
Lean on your loved ones. Most people want to be there for us; they are just typically unsure of what to do and how to help. Resist the urge to isolate yourself; go out for coffee or a walk with a good friend. You may feel better when you let others support you, as we are not meant to go through tough times alone.
Focus on self-care. Try to eat healthy meals and find ways to nourish your spirit. That is different for everyone, so do whatever works for best for you.
Spend some time outdoors. Go for quiet walks or just sit outside for a few minutes wrapped in a blanket. Even 20 minutes of fresh air can improve your mood and help you sleep better.
Cook your favorite comfort food, or order it from your favorite restaurant if cooking feels like too much.

While this time of year can make anyone feel out of sorts, it can be especially so when you are grieving. These emotions can feel more intense if this is the year you said goodbye to your baby. The most important thing is to be gentle with yourself and accept the way you are feeling. Do not feel guilty if you have been less than productive. And trust that this in-between time will not last forever; you will eventually find a way to look forward to the future with hope.

About Rose Carlson

Rose is the Program Director at Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support. She came to Share in 2002 as a volunteer and eventually joined the staff in 2004. She has a BS in Psychology with a minor in Sociology. Her personal experience as a bereaved parent brings an invaluable perspective to her work. Rose manages the Share Memorial events, serves as an educator and is the Share Chapter coordinator.

Hope for the Holidays

Tue, 23 Dec 2025 14:31:42 GMT

While the holidays may be a time full of so much busyness and uncertainty in your grief journey, remember that it is a time to reflect on all that you’ve been through during the year.

As a loss mom myself, I know the holidays can be a seemingly lonely time, but I encourage you to find what I like to call “glimmers”. What I call these little glimmers are things that bring simple joys to my day and help me feel close to my son, Jonah. Sometimes, it’s a song that reminds me of him; or maybe a dish that my grandma used to make me that brings a warmth and comfort to my heart, and fills my kitchen with the smell of SO much baked cheese and carbs. Sometimes, it’s smelling Christmas candles, or watching movies that I loved to watch with my mom as a kid—White Christmas is our favorite; hanging his stocking with his name next to all his siblings’ stockings, or catching the sun just right through his sun-catcher. All of these things help me feel closer to my child that isn’t present with our family during our holiday season. But, all of these things also help me to have hope. They are things in my life that help carry me through, to help me remember him and the love I carry for him, and to remind me that I will get through this season of grief with love and remembrance. Having hope for me is a Christmas song on the radio, its fuzzy socks and choosing to stay in if I want to, it’s someone asking if they can pray for me even if I don’t go to church myself, it’s a knowing smile to me from someone who gets it, a girls day with my sister who just lets me be. It’s a warm hug, it’s sitting in thought; it’s hearing your baby’s name read aloud, at a candlelight ceremony with bells. Hope, for me, is knowing that sadness is moved through, not lived in. It’s knowing that grief moves in waves. But please know, that to have both sadness and joy during this season of gathering is both normal and welcomed, because at the center of both of those feelings, is love. Love for your child and the love that you must learn to give yourself. Give yourself the space to feel it. Use the holidays as a time to share your baby and their life with those who feel safest to you, and those who you find comfort in.

My son, Jonah would be almost 11, and my love for him has never left—if anything it has multiplied over the years without him. His spirit has never left me; but the pain that I felt, did lessen, it does get smaller. You will find joy in the holidays with your baby again. I want all of you to try looking ahead to the new year and the new beginnings to come. Stay hopeful and joyful in the new experiences and lessons that your baby may bring to you in this life; it can still be really beautiful. And always remember—they are still with you if you stop to look for the little glimmers.

About Kadie Tannehill

Kadie Tannehill is a wife and mother to five children based in Missouri. When she isn’t busy with their very active home life, she enjoys a love of sourdough baking, attending her children’s sporting events, and traveling when she can. Kadie is a proud TFMR loss-mother and advocate of Jonah since 2015.

The Christopher Tree

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 08:25:36 GMT

By Cathi Lammert, Share’s Former Executive Director 1992-2013

On the first anniversary of our son Christopher’s death, December 4, we gathered with loving members of both sides of our families at our church for a Mass in honor of Christopher. After church, we adjourned to our home for a delicious brunch that everyone helped to prepare. It was very comforting to be with our family on this day as we remembered our precious son.

To our surprise, we were given a very special gift of a small blue spruce tree by my family. We were so touched by this endearing gift; it was a gift that would allow us to continually commemorate our son. It was a remembrance of him that we could see every day. Immediately, we had to find just the right spot for our tree, so we walked around the yard and decided that it would look best in the corner of our front yard. Later that cold winter day, and with a great deal of tenderness, we planted our little spruce. After the blue spruce was in its chosen place, it seemed that something was missing. After all, this was the beginning of the Christmas season. So, we decided to decorate the Christopher Tree with brightly shining white lights that would symbolize his purity and his presence.

Somehow, this little blue spruce brought us peace. It acknowledged our love for Christopher as we began the Christmas season. It became a tradition we looked forward to each year during our anniversary time. Each year our family would adorn the tree with the simple white lights and remember our son and brother. As the years passed, many people referred to the little blue spruce as the Christopher Tree.

In the summer of 1987, we built a new home and moved a few miles away. In our closing contract with the new owners of our former home, we stated that the blue spruce in the front yard would be transplanted to the Lammert’s new residence in the fall. Although someone buying a home may balk at such a request, there was no protest from the buyers of our home.

In the early fall, I contacted a landscaping company and requested that the blue spruce be transplanted. I did not explain the significance of the tree and the man to whom I spoke asked no questions. He agreed to move the tree sometime in the near future. When I turned the page of the calendar to the month of November, I thought surely the blue spruce would be moved soon. I could not imagine a holiday season without it.

I should not have been surprised that on November 30, the anniversary of Christopher’s fifth birthday, I received a phone call from the gentleman from the landscaping company saying, “I will be transplanting the blue spruce sometime this week.” His timing was incredible! I was really excited because I knew that the Christopher Tree was finally coming home. Within that week, on December 4, the fifth anniversary of Christopher’s death, there was an unexpected, strong knock at our front door. It was the gentleman from the landscaping company. I couldn’t believe he was at our new home on this special day. Together, we picked just the right spot for the blue spruce.

When he finished transplanting the tree, I invited him to come into the house. I shared with him the significance of the week and his timing, explained how much the blue spruce meant to us and described our tradition of decorating the tree in memory of Christopher. He was so very touched by our story. When I asked him how much I owed him, he said, “I can’t charge you a cent; it has been a gift to hear your story. I’m glad that I could do this for you.”

That evening, Shaun, Heather, Megan, Shannon, Chuck and I were elated. We decorated our little blue spruce, our Christopher Tree, and remembered. The tree standing alone in our non-landscaped yard symbolized Christopher’s role in our family, apart yet together. It glowed as Christopher himself seemed to welcome our friends and family into our home for that Christmas season, as well as everyone since. Once again, he guided us home and gave us a focus for our family. That very first year in our new home, we knew Christopher was still very much a part of our lives, and we felt his presence in a very endearing and special way.

This original story, The Christopher Tree, was written in 1994, and I decided to write a short update to share how the story continued.

For the next 29 years my husband, Chuck, lovingly decorated the Christopher Tree in early December, and it was a full day process. The last time he decorated the tree, it held over 4,000 lights and was 30 feet tall. Our neighbors loved watching him as he adorned the tree. Our adult children always got excited as they returned home for the holidays, eager to turn the corner to see their brother’s tree lit up. People would come from afar to see it. One night after a Christmas concert, we took a picture of the tree and a bright light from the sky was shining down on it. This tree brought our family tremendous comfort as we remembered our son, brother, uncle and grandson.

In the spring of 2016, the Christopher Tree had to be taken down due to an overshadowing tree preventing it from getting enough sunlight. It was very difficult for our family, as this had been our way of memorializing Christopher. In the process of choosing a company to remove the tree, I found a person who uses raw wood to make mementos. This gentleman, Sam, arrived the day we took down the Christopher Tree. It was raining as our hearts were crying. Sam cut the first slice of the tree and found in the circumference were rays of sunshine. He said he had never seen these markings before in a blue spruce tree. We kept that first slice of wood, and it is a treasure to us. He then took several pieces of wood to create mementos for each of us. He created beautiful ornaments and other small items. Sam was so touched by our story of The Christopher Tree; he would not allow us to pay him for his craftmanship.

It was difficult to turn the corner to our house and not see the Christopher Tree, and there was an unspoken void in our lives. Yet when our son Shaun and his wife Erin moved into their new home the following year, they felt compelled to honor Christopher with another chapter and carry on the story of The Christopher Tree. As part of their family’s landscaping, a little blue spruce was planted as lovingly as the first Christopher Tree. And Shaun, just like his dad, makes sure his brother’s tree is lit to welcome the Christmas season and remember his little brother. The tradition continues and will make our family and friends feel a warm connection to Christopher for many years to come.

Holiday Blessings,

Cathi Lammert

2025

About Cathi Lammert

For nearly four decades Cathi has been involved in the perinatal bereavement field. She has combined her experience as a bereaved parent since the death of her son Christopher at 4 days old with her professional obstetrics nursing career in her work. She served as National Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support’s Executive Director (1992-2013) and Pregnancy Loss and Infant Death Alliance (PLIDA) Founding Co-President, then another term as president and additional terms as a board member. She has been involved internationally in the perinatal bereavement field as an author, conference planner, consultant, contributor to position statements and articles, educator, not for profit management, support group management and most of all as a parent advocate. She believes the cornerstone of her commitment to this especially important work is time she has been privileged to spend with those who lives are touched by the death of a precious baby. They have been her best teachers.

Awareness Helps Spread Love and Support

Thu, 30 Oct 2025 14:20:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

October is a bustling time of year for our family. We juggle birthdays, anniversaries, swim lessons, fall sports, a new school routine, homework, pumpkin carving, Halloween fun, and so much more.

After I experienced a miscarriage in August 2020, I learned that October is also Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month. Every year I write a new article, hoping to reach other families who are in a similar situation. There are so many of us who understand baby loss. Unfortunately, 1 in 4 women will experience a miscarriage.

Genetic testing revealed that our daughter had a chromosome disorder (Trisomy 18), but my husband and I did not expect to lose our daughter early in the second trimester. In fact, an emergency ultrasound, just six days before we lost Olivia, revealed a perfect baby – with no physical markers of the disorder.

Trisomy 18 occurs as cells are dividing. It is not a genetic issue carried through the mother or father’s genes. In one way, that made it more difficult for us because there was no concrete place to direct our anger. In another way, it was easier because neither my husband nor I could blame ourselves for our daughter’s medical condition. Trisomy 18 is an anomaly and a cruel twist of fate that took away our much -wanted baby girl.

The emotional carnage of a miscarriage doesn’t just affect the parents. It touches the entire family.

Writing has been therapeutic for me. I’ve created books that can be used as a parenting tool to talk with children about miscarriages. I write articles to honor my daughter and share our family’s story. I write to ensure my daughter didn’t die in vain. I write to reach others, to help those who are grieving, and hope my words help other parents know they are not alone in their struggle.

Each October is a new wave of bittersweet emotions. Cool days of fall fun and busyness coupled with yearning and wondering how things would be different with one more child in the mix. My husband and I lean on each other, and we sadly have friends and acquaintances who understand our pain. My longing for Olivia will never stop, but the pain has lessened somewhat since we lost her. My wish today is for calm and peace, and a day that has smiles to help through the tears. I wish this for my family and for yours too.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is the author of many children’s books. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18. Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

The Splintered Self

Tue, 28 Oct 2025 15:15:00 GMT

By: Carol-Anne Naylor

Although this is written as fiction – and some of the details are fictionalised, this is written from my own very raw and very emotional journey of suffering. A journey born from longing, loss, grief and faith in God. However you experience loss and grief, you are not alone. I send you my love, always.

The Splintered Self

She is three women. Four, if you count the one who wakes at night with her chest pressed flat by invisible hands.

The first one laughs easily. She is chalk-dusted, paper-cut, surrounded by children’s questions that tumble like bright marbles. She corrects spelling tests, smiles at parents at the gate, carries coffee in her left hand and exhaustion in her right. They call her Teacher , though she has forgotten when her voice became so steady.

The second keeps lists: milk, bread, dinner, bills. She folds laundry into neat towers that lean like weary soldiers. She holds a child’s small palm as if it were the last unbroken thing in the world. They call her Mother .

The third. Ah, the third is harder to name. She is the one who buckles in the supermarket, skin rippling with a storm no one else can see. Her lungs flutter like trapped birds, and she crouches by the oranges in the fruit aisle, waiting for her heart to loosen its fist. To strangers she looks like a woman unravelling; to herself, she is simply Her .

And then there is the fourth, the one who kneels. She stitches prayers together with shaking fingers, threads them through the silence, hoping God has not turned away. She believes, even when belief feels like swallowing glass. This one is Believer .

They live in different rooms of the same house, but the doors are locked against one another. Teacher does not know Mother’s sorrow. Mother cannot hear Her’s breathless terror. Believer dares not look at any of them too closely.

Only at night, when the walls soften and the locks melt, do they whisper through the cracks: Are we one? Or are we many?

I will tell you their stories. But they belong to the same woman.

You will not see her clearly until the end.

The First Loss
It was a Tuesday, though she cannot remember the month. The calendar was heavy with scribbled notes, lesson observations, a birthday circled in purple. Ordinary things.

The Teacher walked into school that morning with her bag overstuffed, her smile rehearsed. She explained fractions to ten-year-olds, her hands carving the air into pieces that almost added up to clarity. She laughed when one boy said “Miss, are you a wizard?” and felt a sliver of warmth slip beneath her ribs.

The Mother, though, was not laughing. She was in a bathroom with pale tiles, her hands clenched on porcelain, the world spinning as a crimson thread loosened from her body. It was small, so small, barely more than a word that had been erased before it was spoken. But she knew. And in knowing, she broke.

She wiped her face before stepping into her son’s room. He was sprawled across the bed, cheeks flushed with sleep. She kissed his hair softly, breathing him in. One child safe in her arms, while another slipped away into silence.

The Believer pressed her forehead into praying hands that night. She whispered a Psalm she half-remembered, a plea tangled in the dust. She told herself this was a test, that God did not give more than one could bear. That his plan was to prosper her, not to harm her. That he cared for his children, for her. She repeated these until the syllables became a lullaby, though no sleep came.

And Her, the one without a name, stood at the threshold of the supermarket, basket dangling from a numb hand. The fluorescent lights hummed too loud, the aisles swayed, the shelves closed in. Too many people, strangers, pushed into her space. Her chest folded inward. She could not breathe. A stranger touched her elbow.

A women with kind eyes asked, “ Are you alright, love? ” but she could not answer. Her lungs were locked, her body foreign. She thought: I am dying here, between the apples and the bread.

They were not the same woman, not then. The Teacher went on with her marking. The Mother scrubbed the bathroom tiles. The Believer knelt until her knees bruised. And Her, she simply survived, though she could not tell you how.

It was only the first. There would be more.

Multiplying Shadows

The second time, she told herself it was a mistake. An accident. A cruel roll of the dice. The third, fourth and fifth time, she stopped using words like “chance.”

The Teacher kept her desk orderly, her handwriting neat, her face a practiced mask. She knew the exact pitch of voice to soothe a restless child, the precise curve of smile for an anxious parent. Outside, she was composed. Inside, she counted: one, two, three.

The Mother, though, lived in fragments of silence. She folded tiny items of clothing that would never again be worn, pressed her cheek against fabric that carried the scent of her son but never a sibling.

Each time, she buried another small dream in the drawer and closed it quietly. Each time, a small part of her heart withered too.

Still, there was laughter to be heard in the house, even through the heartache. A small boy with sticky fingers, with questions tumbling faster than answers. His presence was both balm and blade: joy pressed against grief, proof of life alongside shadows of loss.

Her, the one who dissolved, grew sharper in those months. Panic arrived in waves: a tightening throat in the queue at the post office, she forgot how to breathe and would find herself gasping for air, a sudden blindness would take over whilst driving home. She feared the death of those around her. Especially her son, her husband. The world turned hostile without warning. To Her, even air became an enemy.

And the Believer… she wavered. She read Job’s story again and again, searching for the place where grief met restoration. But her prayers sounded hollow, like knocking on a door in an empty house.

One woman taught. Another mourned. One collapsed. One prayed.

Together, they carried seven shadows, and each shadow asked the same unspoken question: How much more can one body lose before it disappears?

Panic’s Face

She thought panic was invisible, until it wasn’t.

It had a shape: claws closing around her ribs, eyes like search lights, breath stolen and bartered. It could enter anywhere: school corridors, the car park, her own bedroom at 3 a.m. Her body became its dwelling.

The Teacher hid it well. She excused herself between lessons, washed her hands longer than necessary, gripped the sink until her pulse slowed. She returned to the classroom with a smile as though nothing had happened.

The Mother tried to hush it with routine: feeding, tidying, counting, cleaning. Yet the panic always slipped beneath the door, sat at the kitchen table beside her, silent and waiting. Sometimes, when panic threatened to drown her, her son’s voice cut through like a lifeline. “Mummy, come play.” Two small words that dragged her back into the room, into her body. Into now.

Her, the storm of skin and bone, fought it in public, sweating under strip lights, gasping in frozen aisles, strangers staring. To them, she was simply unstable. To herself, she was burning alive from the inside out.

The Believer knelt harder, whispered louder, begged longer. Sometimes she thought the panic was punishment, a divine reminder of her smallness. Other times, she thought it was simply proof that she was breaking.

Panic was no longer faceless. It was a companion, cruel and intimate, following whichever woman wore the body that day.

The Questioning

By the sixth loss, faith was not a comfort but a blade.

The Believer asked questions into silence: Why me? Why this? She pressed her Bible closed, afraid the pages would answer with nothing but echoes.

Her son climbed into her lap, sticky with crumbs, insistent with love. She held him close, whispering a prayer she didn’t fully believe: “Keep him. Just keep him.”

The Teacher lectured on history. On kings and empires and the inevitability of collapse and wondered, secretly, if her body was just another fallen kingdom.

The Mother traced tiny names in her mind, ones she would never speak aloud. Each name became a ghost-child trailing behind her, unseen but heavy.

Her knelt on bathroom tiles, forehead pressed to cool ceramic, whispering through teeth clenched against panic, “ I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. ”

Four women. One body. Too many graves dug in her heart.

And a God who seemed to watch from behind an unbroken sky.

Therapy Rooms

The chairs were always soft, the walls pale, the clock too loud.

The Teacher entered first, speaking clearly, listing symptoms as though reciting from a textbook. She used words like anxiety disorder and coping strategies, her voice trained to sound calm.

The Mother came next, quieter, twisting her hands in her lap. She confessed to sleepless nights, to folding clothes no child would wear, to crying in silence while stirring soup.

Her stormed in without permission. She couldn’t speak, not really. Her body shook, her heart raced, her throat closed. She sat on the floor and gasped until the session was over.

The Believer listened. She wanted the therapist to say God has a plan but instead heard words like trauma and chemical imbalance. She wondered if faith and medicine could live in the same body.

And always, there was another presence: the pills. Small, chalky, bitter. They became their own kind of character, both enemy and companion. Swallowed in the mornings, carried in a pocket like secret stones.

Sometimes she carried strength for her son alone. She wanted him to remember her laughter, not her trembling hands. Therapy was not only for herself, it was a shield she tried to build for him, though the metal was thin.

Therapy did not heal them. Not yet. But it held up a mirror, and for the first time, the women saw how close their faces were to each other’s.

Adopting Hope

The journey was long, measured not in miles but in paperwork.
The Teacher signed forms with precise loops of ink, answering questions with the same clarity she gave her students.

The Mother packed and unpacked the spare room, folding blankets, smoothing sheets, daring to imagine laughter in the quiet house.

Her waited in waiting rooms, knees bouncing, breath short, heart slamming at every new delay. She hated corridors, clipboards, the smell of disinfectant. Yet she endured.

The Believer prayed over each signature, each interview, each official stamp. She prayed for the unseen child, somewhere out there, waiting.

Adoption was not an event but a pilgrimage. Courtrooms were cathedrals. Social workers were gatekeepers. Every door opened slowly, so slowly and so terribly, emotionally painfully.

Still, they dreamed of another child, a brother or sister for the boy already growing before their eyes. He drew pictures with four figures: Mummy, Daddy, me and ‘baby.’ Hope expanded in crayon and ink, though the page would later remain unfinished.

Teaching While Breaking

The classroom was a stage. The Teacher stood tall, her voice strong, chalk dust blooming at the strike of her hand. She was steady, dependable. Miss, the one who never faltered.

The Mother lingered at the back of her mind. She packed lunches at dawn, checked homework by lamplight, carried exhaustion like a hidden stone.

Her crouched behind cupboard doors, heart hammering during breathless moments, forcing air into her lungs until she could stand again. No child ever knew. She would not allow them to see her splinter.

The Believer whispered prayers over each desk, over each child’s bowed head, asking God to let her brokenness be invisible to them.

But sometimes, in the middle of a lesson, all four voices slipped into one. She would pause mid-sentence, chalk still in hand, as a strange thought surfaced: What if I am not who they think I am? What if I am no one at all?

She always finished the lesson. Always smiled. But the question lingered, like an echo caught between walls.

At home, her son waited with drawings, with hugs that came with full force. He did not know she was splintering. To him, she was simply Mummy. The one who came back, always, even from the dark

The Mirror Shakes

By now, the seams were fraying.
The Teacher looked into the bathroom mirror and thought she saw the Mother’s face staring back.

The Mother dreamed of panic attacks that belonged to Her.

Her clutched the Bible one night and whispered prayers like the Believer.

The Believer stood before a classroom and wondered when she had learned how to teach.

The mirror rattled. Their reflections overlapped.

Were they separate women? Or simply shards of one, scattered by grief and held apart by fear?

The answer had not yet come. But the glass was cracking, and once it broke, they would see the truth.

Sometimes, in his laughter, all the fragments stilled at once. For a moment she was not Teacher, not Mother-of-loss, not Her, not only Believer. She was simply Mummy. Whole, if only for the length of a giggle.

The Son Already Held

There was already a boy, with laughter like bells and eyes that turned every shadow softer.

The Teacher packed his school bag each morning, tying shoelaces between stacks of marking. She showed him how to form letters, how to ask big questions.

The Mother tucked him in at night, humming lullabies that never left her lips for long. She breathed him in, the proof that she was not barren of love, that motherhood was already stitched into her bones.

Her still feared losing him: each cough, each stumble, each fever a spark that ignited the panic. Sometimes she woke in the night just to press her fingers to his chest, counting the rhythm of his breath.

And the Believer thanked God for him, fiercely, desperately. For the gift already given, even as other prayers went unanswered.

He was joy and anchor. Proof and paradox. The reminder of what was possible, and of all that had been taken away.

The Empty Cradle of Adoption

Hope returned once, dressed in paperwork and waiting rooms.

The Teacher answered questions with composure: How do you manage stress? How do you discipline? Her voice steady, professional.

The Mother prepared space in the house, folded blankets, set aside toys. She pictured laughter that had not yet arrived.

Her fidgeted in corridors, heart pounding at every delay, every silence on the other end of the phone. She feared that hope itself was dangerous.

The Believer prayed. Every form signed, every door opened, every hesitant promise; she offered it all as sacrifice. But the call never came. The room stayed empty. The hope dissolved.

The adoption ended not with a child in arms but with silence.

Four women sat together in that silence, realising there would be no new life to braid into their days.

The Collapse

Grief does not always scream.

Sometimes it sits heavy in the lungs, refusing to move.

This was the collapse: not just the panic attacks, not just the blood and the bathroom tiles, but the stillness of a dream denied.

The Teacher went on teaching. The Mother went on loving. Her went on trembling. The Believer went on praying. But now, the walls between them began to dissolve.

One day, standing before a mirror, they saw it: there had never been four women. There was only one, broken into parts to survive.

God’s Plan in the Dark

She did not receive the answer she hoped for. The children she lost did not return. The adoption journey closed its doors. But she still had her son. And she still had breath.

And perhaps that was enough.

She learned that God’s plan is not a path laid clear but a wilderness in which light appears in fragments. That acceptance is not surrender but a quieter kind of faith, the faith that even in loss, she is not abandoned.

Her life was not what she imagined. But it was hers. Scarred, incomplete, luminous in its broken edges. She did not end with triumph. She ended with peace.

All the Colours of the Dark

This is how she lived: in fragments, in shadows, in sudden bursts of light.
Teacher. Mother. Her. Believer.
Not four, but one.
Not whole, but holy in the breaking.

The colours of the dark are many, but together, they make light.

About Carol-Anne Naylor

Carol-Anne is a writer, teacher, and mother whose work explores the fragile intersections between identity, loss, and hope. Her writing blurs the boundaries between fiction and memoir, weaving lyrical prose with raw emotional truth.

In The Splintered Self, she examines the quiet disintegration that followed her repeated losses and the slow, deliberate act of piecing herself back together. Her work speaks to anyone who has lived through grief or anxiety and searched for meaning in the spaces left behind.

Carol-Anne has written and published two middle grade stories: Memoirs of Faeries (2018) and Secrets of the Quercus Tree (2021). This is her first published article.

Outside of writing, Carol-Anne teaches in primary education, where she finds daily reminders of resilience in the laughter and curiosity of children. She lives in Blackburn, England where she continues to write about the unseen, interior lives of ordinary people.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness: Supporting the Fertility Community

Fri, 24 Oct 2025 17:37:00 GMT

By: Rosie Buckley

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day falls each year on October 15th. On this day, people come together to remember babies who have passed during pregnancy or shortly after and acknowledge their grief. People going through fertility treatments like IVF and IUI often experience a range of feelings, like grief and disappointment, to hope and excitement. This day creates a safe space for people all over the world to grieve, as well as for those in the fertility community.

The Importance of Remembrance

So many families are affected by pregnancy and infant loss, yet this topic isn’t really spoken about. For those getting fertility treatment, the experience of loss is heavy as it often comes after lots of waiting and hope. Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day brings people together to acknowledge grief . It breaks the silence, enabling people to initiate conversations about loss, which can foster healing and connection. Through events, social media, and support groups, people can connect with others in similar situations, which can help them feel less alone. Publicly shared remembrance is powerful, reminding people that they have support around them.

The Journey of Hope – IVF and IUI

Fertility treatments like IVF and IUI help people who are struggling to conceive to start a family. Although the journey involves hope, some families experience tragic loss along the way. The emotional weight of failed embryo transfers, early miscarriages, or chemical pregnancies isn’t always publicly recognized, but October 15th gives communities the opportunity to acknowledge and validate these losses. It also gives families going through fertility treatment room to grieve, remember, and honor any loss they might have experienced throughout their journey.

Taking Part in Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

What is The Wave of Light?

On October 15th at 7 pm, families around the world light candles in memory of their babies and leave them to burn for at least an hour. Several families do this in the comfort of their own homes, but there are also Wave of Light events around the globe. Many people also post a photo of their candle on social media with the hashtag #WaveOfLight . This simple act is powerful and provides comfort for families who have experienced loss.

Other Ways To Get Involved

As well as taking part in The Wave of Light, there are other ways you can get involved:

Some charities are holding fundraising events, such as walks. You can participate in these events or even organize your own fundraising event. Many people also donate to a charity on this day.
Request that local buildings and landmarks be lit up pink and blue .
Share your story on social media.
Join remembrance events online and in-person.
Dedicate a blue or pink ribbon on the Sands BLAW memory tree .

Hope After Loss

Loss is something that’s always there, yet it can coexist with hope. This is something many people in the fertility community experience as they continue IVF or IUI treatment, explore new options, or give themselves room to grieve before making plans for the future. Through the powerful presence of community, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day can allow them to feel less alone, and acts of remembrance can be helpful in the healing process.

There’s support out there to help people experiencing grief, like support groups, which provide a safe and non-judgmental space for people to share their feelings and connect with others in similar situations. This can provide validation, help them navigate their own journey, and provide peer support. Some people benefit from counselling as it can help them adapt strategies and understand their emotions.

At Share, we provide a community to anyone who experiences the tragic death of a baby. We serve parents, siblings, grandparents, and other family members, as well as professionals who care for grieving families. Find out more about us and how we can support you on our website .

About Rosie Buckley

Rosie Buckley is a freelance writer with a passion for writing and a love for exploring diverse topics. She enjoys diving into subjects close to her heart and bringing them to life through engaging well-researched content

A Letter from Our New Executive Director

Wed, 06 Aug 2025 19:11:00 GMT

Dear Friends,

What tremendous privilege it is, dear Share friends and community, to write you today. I have served Share’s mission for the past 14 years, under the leadership of three remarkable executive directors, and I am honored to follow in their mighty, beautiful footsteps. I will be forever grateful for Cathi Lammert, Debbie Cochran, and Sarah Lawrenz for paving the way for me and for leaving behind a legacy of love, dedication, and faithful service to bereaved families & care providers all over the world.

When I came to work with the National Share Office in 2011, I brought with me a deep well of grief knowledge and experience, but I did not yet know the heartache of losing a child. But through speaking with each of you, our Share parents, I heard your voices: I heard how deeply you love, how deeply you grieve, and how slowly, surely, healing can feel possible again and joy can seep back in after such heartbreaking loss. You taught me through your stories, and I carried them with me. I let you teach me how to listen, how to hold space, how to carry grief and hope in each hand. You showed me how you loved beyond life.

And as I learned, I slid into various roles at Share: the first voice you heard on the phone; liaison to our Share Chapters around the country; an educator in our trainings; your support group leader, a fixture at local events and international conferences alike. I have seen from all sides how Share touches lives, heals hearts, and gives hope, and that drives my commitment to ensuring that Share’s services remain freely available to anyone seeking support after losing their precious baby.

I am also driven by my daughter, Caroline, our Sophie and Nathan’s little sister. Our family embraced Caroline with such joy, and she was loved completely for her entire life. And it was you, dear friends, who I heard in my heart when she died. With Share support all around me, I was able to grieve our precious, beautiful, cherished baby girl and reshape our little family with the love we have for her. Because of you and Share, I have people who remember her, and ways to celebrate her life with my every breath and each beat of my heart.

So, when I say it is my honor to serve this community, I do not use those words lightly. It is truly a privilege to serve an organization whose mission I deeply believe in, and have been served by, with people I highly respect and admire. I am blessed to work alongside colleagues and care providers dedicated to bringing gentle compassion, advocacy, knowledge, and support to bereaved families and those who care for them.

As you may have heard, this team here at the National Office has shifted shape recently, and I am inspired and energized by the changes we have made. Cindy Swain, our longtime colleague, has stepped into the role of Bereavement Care Manager. She brings her nursing experience, dedication, and deep compassion to this role and we are blessed to have her as the liaison to our local Share chapters, Companions, and our medical community. We are also excited to share that our former marketing intern, Emily Swain, is now Share’s Marketing and Development Assistant. She brings energy and joy with her experience and will be the person many of you will speak with about the Walk for Remembrance and Hope, sponsorships, volunteering, and events. We are also pleased to share that Jessica Bruckerhoff has joined the staff as our Accounting Manager; with her love for numbers and spreadsheets and a deep dedication to service, she responsibly manages your donations, our funds raised, and our future. Silvia Bowman is still the thoughtful leader of our Share Espanõl Program, and Rose Carlson remains our Program Director and Chapter Coordinator as she heads into her 23rd year with Share.

I speak on behalf of the entire team when I say we are honored to represent an organization that was groundbreaking when it began in 1977 and continues to challenge, inform, and raise the standard of perinatal bereavement care in this country, and around the world. We will work tirelessly to ensure that Share is there for each person enduring the tremendous loss of a baby on every step of their journey. We know, all of us, how important and impactful this support can be.

I would like to thank you for the warm welcome I have received as I slide into my new role, and promise to continue to lead Share with integrity, an open heart, a willing ear, and a heart firmly aligned with Share’s mission. Please reach out with any questions you may have, to share your story, or simply to connect with the Share community. We look forward to hearing from you!

With hope,

Jenn Stachula

Executive Director

Hiking for Healing

Thu, 29 May 2025 16:47:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

Now that spring has arrived, you may be looking for things to do outdoors. Give hiking a try if you are looking for a physical outlet to help take your mind away from grief for a bit.

On a recent hiking trip, I was enjoying the peace and quiet, and I realized I lose all track of time. My mind and heart feel calmer when the only thing I am focusing on is the path in front of me, birdsong and the rustling leaves. I also thought about lessons one can learn about grief and life in general from hiking.

Hiking makes you feel stronger

Grieving can sap your mental and physical energy; encountering and overcoming obstacles on the trail is common, and getting through those obstacles can make you feel stronger, both mentally and physically. Hiking will stretch your soul along with your legs. Getting through hard days when you are grieving also stretches you in ways you never thought possible. Obstacles on the pathways of the woods and life present opportunities for you to take on challenges you don’t think you are capable of and feel proud of yourself when you do.

Hiking forces you to live in the moment

When you are hiking, it is next to impossible to focus on what is troubling your heart and mind; in a way, walking on uneven terrain through the woods forces you to be in the moment and focus only on what is in front of you and around you. If you don’t, you might stumble, fall and injure yourself. During times of grief, you also must stop and be in whatever moment you find yourself in.

Hiking teaches you the value and necessity of resting and refueling

Hiking teaches you there is nothing wrong with stopping to rest when you need to, especially when the way is challenging or difficult. Hiking often involves steep hills, and when you have climbed them, you may need to sit on a bench and replenish yourself with some water and a snack before you are ready to move on. Sometimes, you may need to sit and fuel yourself to prepare for a difficult hill you know is ahead. Grieving also takes a lot out of you, and you may need more rest and time to refuel to keep going. But you also must keep going, even if it is necessary to slow your pace. You can’t stay stuck in the moment you are in in life any more than you can stay sitting on a bench resting in the woods forever.

Through hiking, I have learned that we all take life’s paths, hurdles, and hardships at different paces, and that is okay!

There are people I hike with who take the same trail much faster than I do. They may end up far ahead of me and stop to wait for me to catch up. They may hop on over the downed trees that I slowly and carefully crawl over.

This serves as a reminder to me that in life as well as hiking, we all go at our own pace and have different capabilities for overcoming rough terrain and obstacles blocking our path. Some may think you are moving way too slowly right now or not handling obstacles the way they are sure they would, but that’s okay. Know in your heart you are doing what you can when you can. Step gently and slowly when you need to.

Hiking shows you that things can grow and even thrive in harsh and less than ideal conditions

I think this is one of the most important things I have discovered since I started hiking. There may not be much sunshine deep in the woods, and there are typically fallen trees in various stages of decay. Yet there are often tiny, colorful flowers blooming in the crevices of these trees. Sometimes, they seem to be growing out of stones and boulders. The environment may be inhospitable, yet these plants are hardy and search for any little bit of sustenance they can find. They might thrive in more favorable conditions, yet they still take root and grow.

You might be in a phase now where life feels dark and inhospitable, and it may be taking every ounce of your physical and mental energy to simply get through each day. You may feel like you aren’t thriving at all, not even in tiny ways. But know that, just like those flowers and plants that bloom and grow in unlikely places, you are surviving and growing in ways you cannot see yet.

About Rose Carlson

Navigating an Impossible Grief

Tue, 22 Apr 2025 14:26:00 GMT

By: Karen Struzik

As I contemplate on many of the events that occurred 23 years ago when we lost our son to stillbirth, I find that I would want to go back and tell my 31-year-old self several things to help her navigate this impossible grief.

Having to choose a funeral home while you hold your baby is not normal: You are not crazy for not wanting to think about it.
To the woman who rejected you for wanting to return the diapers to Walmart: She was the ignorant snob – it was not you!
To those kind and religious souls who thought they were helping you by telling you “It was the devil’s work” or “now you are saved”: Don’t listen to them – they are trying but failing – you have your own conversations and arguments with God.
To those who ignored you – and didn’t want to be near you like you had the plague because “they” were uncomfortable: Remind yourself – they have absolutely no clue how uncomfortable you are – breathe and keep your head high – you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
To those who ask you, “Do you want to stay in your grief?” OF COURSE NOT ! There are so many so-called “psychologists “out there telling you what they think you should be doing or feeling – I’m telling you they are clueless- are they all pros at how to navigate losing a child? – Nope, so you go at your own pace.
To those who asked you, “Where is your baby?”- Explain as best you can – after they walk away, realize that sadly, this may happen again. It is okay for you to walk away and cry – don’t ever think it is not.

I would also like to tell you this: You are on a healing journey that is unexpected and unprepared for. After months of preparing for your little one, the pain and grief are real and heavy. If you do not mind, I will also tell you this:

You will be given gifts that are beyond beautiful in your life.
The grief and pain in your gut will lighten over the years, but you will have the pain and the scar with you always- it becomes part of you.
You may become a little more cautious, ask more questions, be less trustworthy of people and things, but at the same time become more compassionate and show empathy for all people.
You will find beauty in the little things – hold onto every one of them as you go through this journey.
I promise you will make it through even though it seems impossible right now.
You will love your baby forever from the first day to your last.

If you or someone you know has lost a baby due to stillbirth, neonatal death, or miscarriage, please email me at struziks@yahoo.com

About Karen Struzik

Karen is a Counseling Secretary for the Waterloo Central School District in the little town of Waterloo, NY. Married to her wonderful husband Conrad of 32 years, and has 3 beautiful girls, Jacqueline, Gabrielle, and Julianna. Her son, Alexander James, was born sleeping on April 17 ^th , 2002. At her 37-week appointment, they were unable to find his heartbeat. There was no cause of death for Alexander- no reason and no answers. Over the years, Karen has decided to do something positive for women who have experienced the same suffering. She creates bookmarks for those who have experienced a loss due to stillbirth, miscarriage, or neonatal death. SHARE was the first group I reached out to when I lost Alexander, and I am hoping to give back for all the support they gave me during that difficult time.

Impossible Beauty

Mon, 03 Feb 2025 20:23:00 GMT

By: Autumn Purdy

I haven’t been pregnant for almost 11 years. My youngest son, who will turn 10 soon, begs for a newborn sibling at certain intervals, and I tell him repeatedly, “Someone has to be the baby of the family, and that special someone is you.” And I leave my response lighthearted, hugging him to me, offering a prayer of gratitude that I have a “baby of the family” to speak of, not ready to tell the whole truth. The story of what we endured for the sake of our family is not easy to share, and I’m weary of repeating the tale to my youngest child.
How do I tell my sweet boy that after nine pregnancies, only three survived? He doesn’t need to know the details about my progesterone insufficiency, lengthy bouts of infertility, advanced maternal age, the Endometriosis surgery that confirmed the worst, a subsequent Adenomyosis diagnosis, too many ovarian cysts, fibroids, a long list of pregnancy complications and the risks they posed to my life. How do I tell him that the fear of potentially losing another child and breaking his heart, along with our pair of parental ones, is too big a risk to take? How can we ever look into his innocent green eyes and share how, despite love and medical intervention, six of his older siblings didn’t make it? How do I explain if it weren’t this way, we’d grant his wish for a younger sibling in a heartbeat? Despite the odds, my faith is strong, but this is family lore I’m not ready to divulge to the youngest one.
The older ones know they have six siblings in heaven. They knew far before their younger brother was born because they lived through some of those losses with us. They have heard me speak the names of our miscarried babies. They’ve lit candles with us, attended pregnancy loss memorials, and recognized the somberness of October 15th. They’ve witnessed us sobbing in remembrance throughout the years when the grief overtook us–at Mass and special occasions, on due dates gone by, or hearing the awful news of other pregnancy losses. But my youngest is unique in our family circle because he was born last, and despite being open to life, we’ve not had a pregnancy since. We may need to tell him one day, probably sooner rather than later. For now, I would like to relish in the impossible beauty that after suffering my last two miscarriages, which were incredibly physically painful and mentally taxing, leaving us heartbroken and devastated, he arrived–perfectly formed.
I want to celebrate him as our last one–the child who made it across a particularly scary second trimester riddled with complications that threatened his existence. I want to celebrate how we triumphed together despite those complications, including persistent placenta previa and his subsequent cesarean birth. When he was placed almost immediately on my chest, I exhaled an emotional sigh of relief. A resounding feeling of unbelief overtook me for the miracle of his precious life as he nursed easily, and I began my recovery from another arduous pregnancy and third surgical birth.
What I remember most about that last delivery day, as he snuggled against my chest, is that he stole everyone’s hearts and took our breath away with his mere presence. I’ll never forget what it took to get him here, but I want to remember his pregnancy story and birth as our last happy ending on the road to parenthood. Not another loss. Not a seventh miscarriage. Not a tragedy–but a love story.

Autumn Purdy is a contributing writer for Sharing Magazine and a former Reviews Editor for Literary Mama. She has published pieces on The HerStories Project Blog , the HerKind Collective Blog , Haiku Journal , Literary Mama , and two photos in The Sunlight Press . She is an essayist in The Pandemic Midlife Crisis: Gen X Women on the Brink and an editorial assistant for the anthology. She earned a B.A. in English from Saint Vincent College in Latrobe, PA, and is now writing a book about her experience with recurrent miscarriage. She lives in Westerville, OH with her family.

Finding Peace in the New Year

Tue, 21 Jan 2025 18:13:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

The holidays are over, and you may be breathing a huge sigh of relief that you made it through those stressful days. Hopefully, they weren’t as bad as you might have imagined they would be. Now it is a new year, a fresh start, and you may be dreading that as well. Some grieving parents find the beginning of a new year just as difficult, if not more difficult, than the holiday season.

It isn’t always easy in the best of times getting through the long, dreary winter, and when you are grieving, winter can seem endless. During the shorter, darker days of winter, it may seem as if spring will never arrive, just as you may feel as if the darkness in your heart will never ease. It may seem next to impossible to feel hopeful during the long winter months. Amid grief, just as in the midst of a frigid, icy winter, it can take a great deal of effort to appreciate or find even the most minuscule things to enjoy. Yet if you do make the effort, you will probably find small yet lovely things all around you. And noticing them can make the difference between a day that you just muddle through waiting for things to get better and a day that you can look back on when it ends and know that you made the best of whatever it held. Often, it does seem as if things will never get better, which makes noticing and enjoying small things all that much more important. And while you will still be grieving and deeply missing your baby, you may find that focusing on the little details may bring you some peace and maybe even a moment or two of joy, despite your sadness.

You may be thinking right now that there is absolutely nothing in your life any longer that will bring you joy. In fact, you may be thinking right at this moment that you will never enjoy anything or laugh or even smile ever again because it is not uncommon to feel that way after your baby dies. And while I know it is hard to do, try to trust me when I say that you will slowly begin to feel better, to smile and laugh again, even if in the beginning it is only because of small things.

I challenge you to take a few moments each day to seek out something that will bring you some happiness, make you smile, or make you feel grateful. Whether it is cuddling with a pet, going for coffee with a friend, noticing an early spring breeze blowing through your open window, taking a slower-paced route home from work or simply looking at something you see every day with “new” eyes, it can help heal your broken heart to focus on something pleasant each day, even if it is only for a few moments. I think you will find that as the days go by, it will become like second nature for you to look for these small things to enjoy. You may find that you notice little “gifts” each day that you might not have noticed if you were not actively seeking them out. It can also be helpful to write these things down each day in a journal; you will then have a permanent record of how far you have come months or years down the road.

It can be helpful to think of a few small things you enjoy and make a list of them to refer to in the coming months when you need a pick-me-up. Even simple things such as enjoying a cup of hot chocolate by the fire or bundling up and taking a short walk can help chase the chill from your heart. On a snowy day, re-discover the joy of lying in the snow and making snow angels…write your baby’s name in the snow next to it, take a picture, and put it in a frame. If you enjoy gardening, look on the internet or buy a book or magazine and start planning a garden in memory of your baby that you can create in the spring. There are many different websites that sell engraved stones, wind chimes, garden benches, and more.

While you may not feel much like socializing, try to take some time each week to spend with a close friend or family member who has been kind and supportive of you. For many people, cooking and/or baking nourishes the soul…if you enjoy baking, make some cookies or bread and take them to a friend, neighbor, or even your doctor’s office. Perhaps now is a good time to make a special scrapbook or photo album honoring your baby. The ideas are endless; the key is finding small things you enjoy doing and turning to those things on days when your spirit may need a lift.

While it may be sad leaving the old year behind, you may at the same time be looking forward to embracing a new year full of hope, promise, and new beginnings. Whatever you are feeling right now is right for YOU. There is no right or wrong way to approach any new milestone you encounter. The most important things are to honor and acknowledge whatever feelings you may be having and to do whatever you need to do to nourish your body, mind, and spirit during the long winter months. And try to remember that spring always follows even the longest and darkest of winters.

About Rose Carlson

Traditions Always Include the Baby

Mon, 16 Dec 2024 21:05:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

Our family has many holiday traditions – visits with Santa, writing letters on Christmas Eve, setting out cookies with milk, sprinkling reindeer food on the front lawn, seeing holiday lights, visiting with friends, and so much more.

On Christmas morning our brood wakes up to a tree with flashing red and green lights, shiny presents, full stockings, and “snow” (Styrofoam balls) spread all over our family room. Our first tradition of the day is a snowball fight before we start opening gifts.

On Christmas Eve, we always place our stockings by the tree so Santa can’t miss them – and that is the hardest for me – five stockings ready to be filled, but one person is missing.

Four people will wake up early the next morning: two bleary-eyed and ready for coffee, and the other two will be energetic and eager to discover the surprises under the tree. And it is the joy of Christmas morning that makes the eve of Christmas so difficult.

Grief is always a two-sided coin because tears are a reflection of love. The five Christmas stockings represent my whole family, and I love seeing them all together. And in equal measure, it makes me unbearably sad. It is the epitome of bittersweet.

There is no grief without love, and it is because of this love that our family tradition will remain unchanged. It is important that Olivia is always included in our family events. She has ornaments on our tree, a Christmas stocking, a birthday to be celebrated, and a place in our family.

About Marie Kriedman

Dear Charlie…Letters to my son

Thu, 14 Nov 2024 20:00:00 GMT

By: David Corvi

This is Charlie’s story. On October 26, 2021, Charles Martin Corvi was stillborn, just 15 days shy of his due date. When he should have been taking his first steps, opening his Christmas presents, and playing with his older brothers, Charlie’s absence instead left an emptiness full of heartache. Charlie is not here to tell his story, so we must do it for him.

An excerpt from Letter 9

Dear Charlie,
Mom is pregnant. So much is running through my mind
right now. How do I tell you? Should I tell you? What do I
tell you? What does it mean for you? What does it mean for
us? It’s insane to think that just eight months ago, we were
eagerly anticipating your arrival. Now your mother’s pregnant
again, and you’re gone.

Like always, it’s multiple emotions at the same time. Joy
for the baby. Sorrow for your loss. Anger that this happened
to you. All of it is wrapped up in a big bow of anxiety and
stress about how this pregnancy will go.

Mom had her eight-week appointment a few days ago. I
parked in the same lot I parked in the night you were born.
I crossed the same walkway to the hospital. Sat in the same
waiting room where we last heard your heartbeat. Mom’s
doctor came into the exam room. We could immediately tell
he, too, was experiencing multiple emotions. He embraced us
and said congratulations.

We’ve become very close with him. Mom works with
his wife, who is also a doctor. He was there the night you
died when he came running into the triage room, out of
breath from sprinting across the hospital. He confirmed
your heart had stopped. He stayed with us the whole night
and took a nap in the room next door so he could be on
call to deliver you. He cried with us when you were born.
He and his wife attended your funeral. We soon learned
afterward that his daughter also lost a child in a similar
manner. He referred us to the therapist his family saw; she
has been wonderful for your mom and me. Now, here he
was, celebrating with us and comforting us as we waited
to listen for your sibling’s heartbeat. You’ve left such an
impact on so many people.

About David Corvi

David has spent the past 15+ years as an educational leader in some of our nation’s most underserved and disadvantaged communities. During those years, he served as a teacher, athletic coach, dean, principal, and consultant. Currently, David is a leadership Coach for Lynch Leadership Academy out of Boston College where he provides professional training and executive coaching to aspiring and sitting school administrators. As a Teach For America alum, David remains committed to the movement of educational equity in our nation, believing this is currently our most pressing social issue. David is also an avid rock climber, skier, and hiker. He resides in Ohio with his wife, three living boys, and Charlie.

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Potholes of Grief

Wed, 13 Nov 2024 19:48:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

One of the painful things about grief is there are a multitude of situations that can trigger heavy feelings that you don’t know what to do with, even months and years after your loss. Triggers can come from out of nowhere, and you do not always know what your triggers will be until you are confronted with them. Years ago, I read an essay about the potholes of grief, and I always think of that when I think of triggers. The author wrote how you can just be tooling along down the road when you suddenly hit a pothole, and she compared that to grief—you can be going about your days when out of the blue, a sudden jolt brings on fresh waves of grief and sadness.

Some triggers are universal, yet just as grief is different for everyone, so are triggers.

For instance, many moms who experience pregnancy loss feel immense heartbreak, as if the breath is being sucked out of them when they see pregnant women or babies. You may feel as if everywhere you go, there are happy, glowing pregnant mamas, making it difficult, especially in the early weeks and months, to go out in public. Your friends and family members might also have babies at the same time as you, and you may have a tough time being around them, even if you were once close. It can feel too hard on your tender heart. But sometimes, grieving moms are comforted and enjoy being around babies as it can give them hope for their future. They may focus on how precious life is, and while it is common to feel jealous of others who have what you wish for yourself, you may be able to celebrate your loved one’s new babies, too.

Other common triggers can be things such as:

Hearing your baby’s name spoken when you are out in public. This can throw you off guard, especially the first time it happens.
Approaching holidays and vacations. When you were pregnant, you likely dreamed about how you would spend your holidays and other meaningful times when your baby was here, and when they come, it is hard not to focus on what you are missing out on and what should be. Even if it has been many years and you have other children, the holidays can still feel like a harsh reminder of what you and your family have lost.
Dates. Due dates and birthdays can be especially challenging as they are another reminder of what you are missing out on. In the early months, even a year or more, certain days and dates can be hard—every month on the day or date you found out your baby had died. Even the time of day can be triggering.
Seasons. Perhaps fall reminds you of when you found out you were pregnant, or spring makes you long for taking walks with your baby in the sunshine. Or the snow falling may always remind you of the day your baby was born, and you watched the snow falling outside your hospital room window.

Other things that may be sudden reminders and spark fresh waves of grief:

Music. A song may come on the radio that feels like a gut punch because of the memories it brings about.
Milestones. When children in your family, especially those who are the same age as your child would be are taking part in religious milestone ceremonies like baptism, First Holy Communion, or Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, it can be painful.
Seeing the school bus on the first day your child should be starting school.
Certain smells. Maybe it’s flowers or the scent of lotion that reminds you of the time you spent with your baby.
Symbols. Often, bereaved parents connect with symbols such as butterflies, ladybugs, angels, etc., and seeing those can generate fresh waves of grief.
Social media posts. Facebook likes to share your memories, and it can feel jarring when you log on and see a memory you shared in the past of your baby shower, or announcing your pregnancy. It can also be triggering to see your friend’s posts that have to do with pregnancy or new babies.

Triggers as well as your reactions to them often change over time. The next time you drive down a street where you once hit a pothole, it may now be patched over, allowing you to drive over it without so much as a bump. The same thing can happen with the potholes of grief: Depending on what is going on in your life at the time, the same situation may not have nearly the same impact.

While experiencing triggering situations can make you feel out of sorts for a while and bring a surge of grief, they are usually not like the deep pit you may have found yourself unable to climb out of when your loss was new, fresh, and horribly painful. While potholes do hit you unaware, the pain they cause is usually short-lived, and they may not even be painful or negative. They may simply be memories that take you by surprise with their intensity.

What can you do with these triggers when they happen?

First, it is important to acknowledge your feelings and recognize there are things that may always be challenging for you to deal with. Lean into them when they happen, and cry if you need to. Smile if they are positive memories. Know there is nothing wrong with anything you are feeling and know that triggers are common.
Journal. Getting your thoughts on paper can help you figure out your feelings and what to do about them.
Talk to a trusted friend or other loved one. If you have a therapist, he or she can also help you work through complex emotions as well as help you figure out ways to deal with these sudden reminders in the future. Share what happened with your partner. You may each have different triggers, and this is a good opportunity for you to open up to each other.
Find ways to practice self-care. Go for a walk, make a cup of your favorite tea, and enjoy it while reading a good book. Bake a loaf of bread. Whatever works to calm your thoughts and help you feel settled, do those things whenever you need to.
Take the time to do something to honor your baby. Create a new keepsake or purchase one. Start or add to a scrapbook. Perform a Random Act of Kindness. Start a collection of holiday ornaments that remind you of your baby. Take photos of your baby’s name and or keepsakes when you travel. Anything that honors this moment of thinking about your baby can help.
Take a social media break if you think that will help.
Some parents say they begin to look at unexpected triggers as signs their child is with them and always will be. They begin to find comfort in them. Look at them as your baby’s way of staying connected with you at that moment.

You may have many years of small bumps in the road of grief…many years of potholes, some bigger and more jolting than others, just as potholes on the highway are. You may have a hard time dealing with them and may wonder if something is wrong with you.

Stop wondering what is wrong with you (because nothing is!) and accept that there may always be situations that will come up and take you back in time. We would also love to hear about how you have handled triggers that come up for you.

About Rose Carlson

How to Help your Grieving Child

Mon, 04 Nov 2024 20:57:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

Children are often called the forgotten grievers, yet they often feel deep sadness and fear when their baby sibling dies. Depending on their age, they have limited understanding of death and what it means, but they can be quite intuitive and at the very least, they are aware that something is different and out of sorts within their family. You may struggle to take care of your child’s needs while you are deeply grieving, but the death of a sibling can have a profound impact on children. The following are some ways you can help your child who is grieving:

*Allow them to talk about their feelings. Their questions can be difficult, especially when they seem to come out of nowhere, but be open and honest with them, based on their age.

*Avoid cliches, such as “the baby is sleeping” as children are often literal thinkers and may then be afraid to go to sleep themselves.

*Allow them to be a part of goodbye rituals if it is appropriate for their age.

*Find a way for your child to have his or her own mementos, perhaps even their memory box. Beaded name bracelets, photos, copies of the baby’s hand, and footprints are tangible items that can help your child process their grief and establish a lasting connection with his or her sibling.

*Keep their normal routine as much as possible. It’s okay to reach out to loved ones for help in getting them to sports practices or school if you are struggling to do it all.

*Let your child’s teachers know about your loss so they are aware if there are any behavior changes.

*A child or family therapist can be helpful if your child is having trouble processing everything.

Share has a brochure, booklets, memory, and activity books, peer companions, and other resources that can assist you if you need more information on helping your grieving child. You are not alone, and we are here to help you and your family through this time.

About Rose Carlson

Awareness is needed to reach more moms and Dads

Fri, 04 Oct 2024 13:37:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

I never knew there was a Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. In my mind, October was a month of crisp fall air, pumpkin spice overload, colorful leaves, and pink breast cancer ribbons, before beelining into Halloween.

I am now very familiar with the pink and blue ribbon that represents a baby loved and mourned. I recently learned that there is a Baby Loss Awareness week, October 9-15. How many parents are out there missing their babies? One in four women can experience a miscarriage but how many moms and dads are carrying their babies in their hearts? How many friends and families are holding someone else’s baby in their thoughts?

After my loss, I met more and more mothers who also experienced a miscarriage. Some reached out after reading my books, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia had Trisomy 18 . People I have known for years shared that they too lost a child nearly 15 and 20 years earlier.

Miscarriage is not a secret to be hidden, and I am glad more people are speaking up about their experiences, but it is not a topic that is easy to bring up in everyday chit-chat. I hope those grieving have a safe space to share their feelings and receive support.

Perhaps media and news outlets will bring more awareness to Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I am trying to do my part – writing is part of how I choose to honor my daughter and share her story. Each October I write a new piece to share on local and national blogs and mom groups. Maybe the right writing style and words will make their way to the person who needs to know they are not alone.

I also speak at support groups. I am honored to talk with other parents. It takes a great amount of strength to walk through the doors of a support group meeting, especially when working through a fog of grief. It doesn’t feel like I’m doing enough, but I try my best. In a small way, talking about my daughter helps keep her alive. She has inspired a positive impact in the world, and I am grateful to be part of her important work.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is the author of many children’s books. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18 . Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

She is Still a Part of Our Family

Tue, 23 Jul 2024 12:39:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

In the immediate days following the miscarriage of our daughter, my husband and I were in a minefield of grief. We were in shock, still trying to understand how our life had taken such a turn, and we felt deeply overwhelmed.

We needed a breather from caring for our children, so we stepped outside for a quick break. The weather matched our mood. The sky was black, and a storm was blowing in quickly. And amazingly, unfathomably, there was one solitary pink cloud in the sky. It stood out among the darkness. We weren’t expecting it, and I am convinced it came from our baby, Olivia, sending us a sign that she was OK.

“She’s still checking on us and she loves us,” I thought.

My husband and I held each other and cried, knowing the pink cloud was from our girl. We saw it again three days later and have not seen it since.

From that moment on, we have always associated a pink sky with our daughter. It feels like a hug, and I smile every time. I stop my busy, hectic day and pause, enjoying the serene moment. Logically, I know there is red in a sunrise or sunset, but my soul only sees my baby sending us love.

It has become a symbol that she is still with us. She is forever a part of our family. In that pink cloud, I could feel her, see a symbol of her, and know she loves us. I also choose to believe that it is a sign that she is at peace. I like to think that she knows how much we love her and miss her – how much we grieve her. We still have good and bad days with our grief, and I suspect we always will. Finding a beautiful pink cloud in the sky reminds me that she is with me for all of my days.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is the author of many children’s books. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18 . Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

Happy Hour

Thu, 11 Jul 2024 16:45:00 GMT

Join us on Thursday August 8th for a Happy Hour!
Time – 6pm – 8pm
Location – 1600 Heritage Landing
Suite 109
St. Peters, Mo. 63303
Potluck style! Feel free to bring snacks and drinks.
Share strives to provide ways for parents to meet others who can relate to what they are going through.
If you live in the St. Louis area, we would love to have you join us for a fun evening of food, drinks, games, and fellowship. Call the Share office at 636-947-6164 for more information. This is a 21+ event, we hope to see you there!

How Come It Feels So Tough To Ask For What We Need?

Mon, 24 Jun 2024 18:26:00 GMT

By: Justine Froelker

How come it feels so tough to ask for what we want and need or to say what we need to say?

Is it really as tough as we tell ourselves?
What holds us back?

The discomfort?
We don’t want to be a burden?
We think and insist on doing everything ourselves?
What happens if we ask and we don’t get it? Doesn’t that suck more?

The unspoken is never benign.

Everything you don’t say…
Every tough conversation you put off and avoid…

Is never ever ever benign.

Leaving it inside slowly kills us.
Which means it slowly kills our connection with the person and therefore our relationship and then our family or culture.

How many unspokens are really death by a thousand tiny paper cuts?

Learn how to befriend your emotions.
Learn to sit with discomfort.
Name the awkward.
Choose curious language and empathy.
Ask for what you want and need.
Speak it.
Hold people accountable.
Go find it somewhere else if they can’t, won’t, or aren’t capable.
Turn toward another.

Let people love you.
And just say what needs to be said in a clear and kind way.

About Justine Froelker

Justine is a Licensed Professional Counselor with more than 25 years of experience in traditional mental health and personal and professional development. Justine has been certified in the work of Dr. Brené Brown for ten years. Justine is the author of eleven books, including five Amazon bestsellers. She has written children’s books in addition to her books covering subjects such as infertility, faith, and grief. She has been honored to do two TEDx Talks, The Permission of the And and The Donut Effect . She travels nationally and presents virtually to global audiences delivering keynotes, workshops, retreats, and trainings on topics such as leadership, courage, resilience, mental health, preventing and coping with burnout, and courageous and curious conversation, especially in creating cultures of belonging and diversity, equity, and inclusion. Justine lives in St. Louis with her husband Chad, their three dogs, and for four months of the year hundreds of monarch and swallowtail butterflies.

Your Baby is So Much More than Gone

Wed, 19 Jun 2024 16:16:00 GMT

By: Amanda Crews

After Carson died, my world turned to ruins. Everything we had planned for was gone. It didn’t matter that we installed the car seat a week prior or that his nursery was 100% ready. It didn’t matter that every piece of clothing was washed and ready to be worn. We wouldn’t wait expectantly for a gummy-smile or first giggle. There would be no first birthday or first steps. We wouldn’t wonder what he would be, because he would never be anything other than gone.

I didn’t realize then, but it was all a lie.

In fact, he’s been so much more than gone.

He’s in everything. He’s in my writing and public speaking. He’s in the softness of my motherhood. He’s in the appreciation I feel for every day. He’s in the sweet moments with his brothers and sister, and he’s also in the hard moments. He’s a perspective that pushes me to love harder because, at the end of the day, love is all that we really have.

He’s a driving force for the good that flows from my body.

He’s pushed me to be a better human.

To love those who weave in and out of my life with all of my heart.

To know that everyone has a story.

To offer the benefit of the doubt, even in circumstances that hurt or feel unreasonable.

To appreciate every snuggle and aspect of motherhood that I hear so many friends complain about.

To live and let go.

He made me a mother.

He’s made me stronger, yet also softer.

He’s made me brave.

And I understand love better because of him.

He’s anything but gone. He’s all around me in the faces of my children and husband. He’s in the hurt and healing. He’s loved beyond my own understanding, and he has strengthened my faith to the core. Look around, mama. Your baby is anything but gone. They’re all around you, strengthening and sharpening you. Let them make you brave. Let them make you bold. Let them make you do things you’ve only ever dreamed of. Let them make you love harder, squeeze tighter, and appreciate it all. Live for another day. Live in another day. Take each moment and squeeze it for what it is. We’ve got this.

About Amanda Crews

Amanda is a follower of Jesus, wife to Chris, and mama to Carson (5) and Lucy in Heaven, and Mia (4), Arie (2), and Mateo (9 months) here on Earth. She offers Christian encouragement on her website http://www.sanctifiedbylove.com and enjoys reading, writing, cooking/baking, traveling, and investing in relationships. Amanda can also be found on Instagram at Amanda’s (@as.crews) profile on Instagram

Dear Bereaved Parent:

Thu, 30 May 2024 16:57:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

I wish this weren’t your reality. Losing a child is something we should not have to experience. If I had a magic wand, I would wish for a different reality for myself and for you. Something unexpected happened and it is trying. Acceptance is understanding that what we have experienced is not okay and yet is our reality. I always looked for a reason to make sense of my loss. It took much time and then I realized any reason would not make our loss okay. Holidays and milestones look different, and plans changed.

Moving forward, look for your tribe. The people who know what to say at the best time. The people who don’t know what to say, but their quietness makes you realize they care. Look for the sunshine moments: flowers blooming, a cool breeze, butterflies fluttering around.

Sometimes a tribe may include books, podcasts, songs, or support groups that work together to be a tribe that fits you.

Take one step at a time. Sometimes those steps are very small…inch-like. I think of snails when I think of inching along. Snails have one foot to move from place to place. The foot pulls and pushes along to reach the next place. When we are grieving, it is hard for us to balance our emotions and it feels like we are standing or inching along on one foot. Snails also have their shells to retreat. We also need to retreat at times to find solace. When retreating, we also have to come out of our shells as we inch along on our journey. Our grief journey moves slowly forward inch by inch, while carrying our shell (memories, dreams, wishes) along.

As a bereaved parent, I inch more so at certain times of the year. The would-be birthdays, the milestones missed, the what could have been. Inching along with the support of others, and finding some joy (however small) enables us to journey on this winding path of grief. Wishing you a steady pace, sunshine moments, and a tribe of support that will help you inch along.

About Robyn Busekrus

Robyn Busekrus is a mom, wife, educator, and writer who makes her home in Washington, MO. Losing her third son Hope in the second trimester of pregnancy, was an unexpected part of her life’s journey. Robyn’s blog www.robynsnestofhope.com chronicles the journey of loss and hope. Appreciating the little things in life, while holding onto faith each day is the message she wants to share with others. Her interests include reading, home decorating, vintage markets, and community service.

Whatever It Takes

Tue, 16 Apr 2024 00:42:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

I love the band Imagine Dragons. They have a song called “Whatever it Takes,” which I’m certain was written about something far different than managing grief but for a long time after the loss of our baby, I felt like it was my theme song. (Actually, if we’re being really honest, my theme song was “I Will Survive,” except I wasn’t sure that I would). I live my life in songs. There’s a song for everything. It’s kind of like baseball. Every hitter gets a “walk-up song,” the song that plays as you walk up to the plate to bat. Since February 18, 2020, there have been many songs swimming through my head but “Whatever it Takes” seems to be my constant walk-up song. February 18, 2020, was the day we found out our baby had no heartbeat…a day that’s burned into my brain with a branding iron.

Ever since that day, I’ve had to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to heal, whatever it takes to move on, whatever it takes to grieve, to work, to be present in my life, etc. Whatever it takes. Now, that can mean something different for every person. I remember specifically very shortly after the loss of our baby, “whatever it takes” meant something completely different for me. I was sitting on the couch watching television mindlessly. I couldn’t tell you what garbage show I was watching or what it was about, but I remember there was a psychic medium on. I was always fascinated by mediums and their ability to “speak” to the deceased. I don’t know how much I do or don’t believe in it, but I will say that I’m fascinated by it.

I can’t remember exactly which psychic medium was on TV that day, but I remember it was a famous one. I remember going to all of his social media platforms to find him. I saw that he did personal sessions, not just television appearances. I HAD TO HAVE ONE. I was dying (no pun intended) for some answers and since the medical professionals couldn’t give them to me, perhaps this perfect stranger who knew nothing about me or my situation could do it. A personal reading with this particular medium costs several hundred dollars and I didn’t care. I remember telling my husband about it and I remember him looking at me like I had completely lost my mind. Maybe I had. At that time in our grief process, I didn’t know what else to do. I felt like maybe I really had lost my mind. I was willing to pay any amount of money for something . I didn’t even care what. I just needed someone to tell me something.

I have a tendency to be an impulse buyer at times but when it comes to more expensive things, I try to think it through a little bit more. I didn’t immediately book the session with the medium, but I did reach out to get more information. I know my husband wasn’t thrilled about the idea of spending hundreds of dollars on what he probably considered a waste of money, but I know he was willing to do whatever it took to make me feel better. Ultimately, I never did end up booking the session with the medium and I still do wonder if he would have given me the peace of mind that I needed. I wonder if he would have been able to speak to my daughter and if I would have believed him anyway. I’ve seen psychics and mediums and psychic mediums on TV and am floored by the things they’re able to “read” but I just never know if I’m 100% convinced. I suppose if we had money flowing out of our ears and a few hundred dollars was a drop in the bucket then I would have done it without question.

There’s a chance that one day I’ll still pony up the money and do it. Truthfully, the reality is we’ve saved a lot of money by not having children (not by choice) so I guess one day I could do it if I still wanted to. It’s a gamble and I’m afraid if I drop the money and don’t get what I need or want out of it I’ll be pissed that I wasted the money, with nothing tangible to show for it. I guess my point is that when you’re grieving, you have the right to do whatever it takes to make yourself feel better. Grief is hard. And I was willing to go to lengths I wouldn’t have normally gone to in order to feel even one ounce of relief. I’m not judging anyone who believes in the supernatural. Like I said, I’m still not sure what I think. I’ve even been to a live show before with a very famous medium and it was a very cool experience for the lucky few who got to interact with her.

Even four years after the loss of our daughter I still find myself in survival mode at times, needing to do whatever it takes just to get through a day sometimes. And I’ve given myself permission to do that. Sometimes that means staying in bed longer, skipping a workout, eating dessert first, and saying no to something. It looks different for everyone. Just know that it’s ok to do whatever it takes, however long it takes. Imagine Dragons said so, so it must be true!

About Lindsey Dell

Lindsey is a mother to 2 angel babies. She lives in Cottleville, MO with her husband Nathan and their 4-year-old Wheaten Terrier, Louie. They are still hopeful that they will have their rainbow baby one day.

Creating a Healing Memorial Garden

Fri, 12 Apr 2024 15:48:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

Many people enjoy gardening as a relaxing and comforting way to connect with nature, so creating a special memorial garden may be the ideal project for this spring. The planning process can give you something positive and creative to focus on at a time when you may have difficulty focusing on much else. Doing the manual work to prepare the soil (such as digging, tilling, etc.) may be a good physical outlet that many people need when they are grieving. Tending to a garden can be therapeutic and healing not only as you plan, dig, and plant, but also in the coming years…it will become a living tribute to your baby. Many parents do not have a cemetery or other special place to visit, so a garden in your yard will give you that personal sanctuary. Plants need tender loving care to grow and thrive, and nurturing your garden over the years will give you a physical way to feel connected and to reflect upon the ways your baby touched your life.

Creating a quiet, relaxing outdoor retreat can be as simple or as elaborate as you want it to be. Even if you only have a small corner, it is still possible to create a beautiful garden. If you have the space available, you may want to choose a spot that can be added to later. Your garden can be as small as a tree with a planting area surrounding it, or a large space you designate in your yard.

The ideas as to what types of plants and ornaments to include in your garden are endless, but here are some ideas to get you started:

*Choose a color theme. The color could be based on the gender of your baby, your favorite color, the color of the month your baby was born or due, or even the favorite colors of your other children or family members. If you have no preference, white represents purity and innocence and is a good choice for a garden created in a child’s memory.

*Make sure you choose plants and flowers that thrive in your area. You can check out books from the library or search the internet.

*Choose flowers that may have some meaning to your baby’s name…for instance, Sweet William, Jasmine, Rose, Lily, etc.

*If you want to add roses to your garden, there are many varieties with names such as Audrey Hepburn, Queen Elizabeth, etc., so you may be able to find a species that has a name like your baby’s name. There are also varieties of roses with names such as Baby Blanket Rose and Angel Face Rose.

*Choose plants that are specific to a certain time of year if that time of year is meaningful to you, whether it’s the season you became pregnant, the season your baby was born, the season your baby was due, or even your favorite season. For instance, if your baby was born or due in the spring, you may want to consider filling your garden with plants and flowers such as tulips, daffodils crocuses, and hyacinths that bloom in the spring. If fall is meaningful to you, choose fall-blooming flowers such as mums. If more than one season holds special significance, plan your garden to encompass them all. Again, the ideas are endless, and you can research on the internet to learn what plants and trees bloom during different seasons where you live.

*Sow a variety of plants and flowers that bloom during each season to get the maximum enjoyment from your garden.

*Include both perennials and annuals.

*Select plants based on specific meanings.

*Choose plants or add bird feeders to attract different types of birds or butterflies.

*If you have other children, consider letting them help pick out plants and flowers. It can be a wonderfully healing family project for everyone to work together both in the planning and the planting of your garden.

*Take photographs each year of the different plants in your garden and place them all together in one album. Over the years, this will become a permanent record of how your garden grows and evolves.

In addition to plants, there are other ways to personalize your garden. Many companies sell stepping stones, statuary, wind chimes, and other ornaments that can make your garden unique. If there is a special memento you have connected with, such as angels or butterflies, you can include items that will make your garden even more meaningful to you and your family. You may want to add rocks throughout your garden or surround it with a collection of stones. These can be purchased or collected from streams and lakes and can be a memorable way to personalize the garden if your family has a favorite spot to collect the rocks from. If you have other children, they may enjoy painting something special on rocks to scatter among the plants and flowers.

You may want to include a water fountain in your garden to add a serene, soothing atmosphere. You can find plans on the internet or purchase kits from home improvement stores. And don’t forget a bench or a chair. Finally, you may want to place landscaping lights to give it a peaceful feeling at night.

However much space you have to dedicate to a memory garden, it can become a place your family enjoys for years to come.

About Rose Carlson

You can help, even when feeling helpless

Tue, 12 Mar 2024 15:52:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

It can be difficult when friends or family grieve a loss. Watching someone work through shock and crippling pain is even more difficult when you want to help. There are no concrete steps that will make it better, and it can feel helpless.

A friend of mine experienced a baby loss at 20 weeks. She and her husband were devastated and asked for space. They wanted to be alone, and I stepped back to give them all the time they needed. My husband and I worried and fretted and mourned their son. She reached out when she was ready, and we cried together when we saw each other for the first time. I thought giving her the time she asked for was the best thing to do. My own miscarriage made me question whether it was the right decision.

She supported me and my family for months (and years) after our loss, and she did it in the most perfect way possible. Every few days I would get a text. She asked for nothing but let me know that we were in her thoughts and that she understood our pain.

It was a quick check-in, and sometimes a virtual hug or meme to help us smile.

“Thinking of you”

“I am here for you, and we love you”

“Can I send you dinner?”

“How are you today?”

“I know it hurts but I promise you will survive this.”

“Do you need anything?”

Her words were simple and meaningful and helped carry us through our darkest days of missing our daughter. I realize now that she needed breathing room for her grief but not for her friends to vanish. I couldn’t imagine the pain she was feeling, but now I am an unexpected member of the club. My friend showed me how to do it better if I knew someone in a similar situation. She never complained about my missteps, and instead showered my family with love and kindness.

I tell her often that I like to think of Cooper and Olivia as fast friends, watching over us together, causing all kinds of mischief. We still share our grief, but we also share our successes. Today, we each have two children, and two of our kids are six months apart in age. We have a new bond that started with the nerve-wracking first days of kindergarten. We continue to support each other on our sad days, and also our lives of juggling work demands and parenting challenges.

It is possible to help when feeling helpless. It is possible to help, even if you can’t identify with the other person’s pain. A 5- or 10-minute text exchange or phone call can mean a world of difference. If you don’t know what to say, just reach out and let the other person know you are there. It is important because every bit of support is crucial and can help someone through a very challenging path.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is a children’s book author. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18 . Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

Words that Heal: Journaling your way through healing and hope

Thu, 29 Feb 2024 20:20:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

People often feel intimidated by the thought of journaling because they think they are not good writers. Perhaps they have bad memories of papers and English classes with red pen marks pointing out every mistake. But journaling is not about “good” writing. Or grammar. Or punctuation. Or spelling. Or any of that. Simply put, it’s about putting the thoughts in your head onto paper. Doing so helps you process and make some sense of them. In short, you are doing it for you, not for anyone else to read and critique.

Why is journaling helpful?

Writing/journaling can:

be a healthy outlet for processing painful feelings and emotions, especially for those who may not have a great deal of support from their family and friends.
provide a permanent record of your experiences. You may think you will never forget certain feelings and times, but they do tend to fade.
help you focus on and clarify what your real needs are while you are mourning, healing, and trying to make plans for your future.
enable you to “talk” about things you really do not have the energy to talk about.
help you find ways to have a meaningful ongoing relationship with your baby.
help you sleep better if you write at night before bed.

Additionally:

Reading through the past things you have written can help you see how far you have come and can be healing. As time goes by, you may think you are not progressing at all, yet when you go back and read your journal, you can have more clarity into just how far you have come. Do not go back and read what you have written too soon, though, as you may be tempted to delete and change what you wrote.
Writing out your emotions has been proven by research to lower stress, depression, and anxiety.

When you are deeply grieving, your thoughts and emotions can feel scattered all over the place. They can be hard to wrap your mind around and make sense of. When you sit down to write, while your mind and thoughts may wander, getting them out in a visible form can help you make sense of them. It can help you whittle them down to what might really be going on in your heart. It can help you put them in perspective. It is common to start writing about one thing only to be surprised by what you end up writing. This is normal and to be expected.

Tips for getting the most out of journaling

The most important thing to keep in mind when you start journaling is to tell the truth. Always be honest about your feelings and experiences. It can be difficult to write freely, even to yourself, but you will glean the most benefits from writing when you do not censor your words and emotions. Always give yourself permission to write your truths.
Do not worry about others reading your words. I cannot stress this enough. When you journal, you are writing for yourself, so resist the urge to think about who may read what you write. You will find it difficult to truly be honest in your writing if you are worried about who will read it. If you write in a paper journal, find a good hiding spot. If you journal on a computer, you can password-protect what you write.
There are no rules. Pick a certain time of day or write whenever the mood strikes you. Choose a writing prompt, or freely write whatever is on your heart and mind. Set a timer and decide to write for that amount of time, or simply write for however long you feel moved to write. Do not set unrealistic goals for yourself. It can be helpful, especially in the beginning, to write every day to establish a habit, but do not put that pressure on yourself. If you do decide to journal every day, do not give up if you end up not sticking to that.
If you struggle to begin, make lists. This can feel less overwhelming than writing paragraphs. Journaling prompts can help you get started, too.
Do not worry about punctuation, spelling, or grammar. No one is grading you.
Just start! Do not overthink it.
If you end up off-topic, that is okay! Sometimes, what you start with is only a jumping-off place that helps you get to where you need to go.
It can help if you pretend you are writing to a friend or other loved one. What would you say to them if you could?
Some grieving parents like to use their journals to write letters to their babies. This can be an easy way to get started, too.

Atmosphere can make a difference

Try to make the space you write in as calm and soothing as possible so you will look forward to your writing time. Play soft music, burn a scented candle you love, make a cup of your favorite tea, or whatever else helps you relax.
While you do not need anything fancy to journal, just a notebook and pen or computer is plenty, you might be more inspired to keep up your journaling practice if you have a pretty journal and nice pens or pencils. Do not just use any old pen with a broken cap and splotchy ink from your junk drawer.
You can use drawings, doodles, stickers, or photographs to add creative touches to your journal and make the process more inviting.

Overcoming roadblocks

If you are not already someone who enjoys writing and journaling, it can feel awkward at first, and you might encounter roadblocks or things that make you want to not write. It can be hard to put your deep feelings and raw emotions into written words because doing so can make them seem more real. However, once you start a journaling practice, it does slowly come more naturally, especially if you begin to feel it is helping you process your grief and what is happening in your life because of it. If you are writing about something you find too emotional or difficult, take a break and come back to it another time.

Life can seem too busy to indulge in quiet time to write. It can be helpful to put it into your schedule as you will be more likely to stick with it. Even writing for 15 minutes at a time can be beneficial.

As I’ve already mentioned, shying away from your intense emotions can be a stumbling block and prevent you from fully experiencing the healing that can come from writing. Again, the more you do it, the easier it becomes. Acknowledge to yourself that this is hard, and why it is hard, but tell yourself you are going to do it anyway. It sounds simple, but it works.

When you are having a hard time starting, simply writing your journaling prompt over and over can give you a jumpstart. Or start by writing something like, “I don’t know what to write, but…” and see where that takes you. You can also start by listing things you are feeling at that moment, and it may get the words flowing more freely.

Do not go back to rewrite or edit your words unless you have a good reason for wanting to polish something you wrote. Let your journaling stand as you wrote and felt at the time.

Another good way to start is to go back through your social media posts, emails, and texts and start compiling them into one document in time order of when you wrote them. This is its own form of journaling and may inspire you to write more about a topic you did not feel comfortable putting on social media.

Writing about difficult things and emotions may leave you feeling out of sorts a bit. One thing you can do to overcome this if you feel up to it, is end with imagining what that situation may be like, or how you would like it to be, in the future to end your writing on a more positive note. Skip a few lines and type it in italics or write it in a different color pen to denote this is your dream scenario for whatever difficult situation you are in right now.

If you have wanted to start journaling but are not sure where to begin, I hope I have inspired you to just begin! There are no rules, and the things you write do not have to make sense to anyone but you. You may want to start journaling to try to make sense of your grief, but you may end up gaining more benefits and learning more about yourself than you imagined.

If you journal, please share how you found it helpful.

About Rose Carlson

Walking in My Grief

Tue, 20 Feb 2024 16:09:00 GMT

By: Amanda Crews

Child loss is something I had honestly never even thought about. Now, it’s all that I think about. We lost our first born at 37 weeks. On Thursday we heard his heartbeat, and on Friday, he was gone.

How do you wrap your head around that? It’s nearly impossible. It took everything that felt safe and made it feel scary. It filled the crevices of hope with angst. It made me wonder: When will the next person I love die?

However, I have learned in my walk of loss and in my journey of faith: that those what-ifs are just ways to stop us from living.

Our babies would want us to laugh, to breathe in the fresh air, to take in this beautiful life, and to most importantly, carry them on until we meet again.

It’s been almost seven years since we’ve said goodbye to our sweet boy. I miss him every day. As a family, we’ve decided to do positive things for our community, for our neighbors, and for our lives in order to carry on Carson’s name in love and goodness.

We’ve donated hundreds of swaddle blankets to a local hospital with help from our family and friends. When Covid stopped us from doing that, we shifted to other things. We’ve done random acts of kindness (meals, money, groceries, etc.). We’ve made birthday cakes together and blow out our candles every year on what should have been his day to celebrate.

We don’t often share our why with others because that is between us and God, but we are determined to turn the hardness of our loss into good. One act at a time, one smile at a time, from one hurting heart to another, we will always make sure good is done for our sweet boy in Heaven.

However you carry your child on, make it good, my sweet friend! I’m doing that, we also carry each other.

”You planned evil against me; God planned it for good to bring about the present result — the survival of many people.“ Genesis 50:20 HCSB

About Amanda Crews

Grieving Individually and as a Couple

Fri, 02 Feb 2024 15:22:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

My water broke unexpectedly on a Sunday morning, and I gave birth at home. My husband cradled our tiny daughter while I spoke with the on-call OB. She urged me to go to the ER for care. I left the hospital with an empty uterus, a body that still looked pregnant, and a cruel blow that our family of five would not be happening.

I also came home with a pin, remembrance stones, and pamphlets on men’s grief. It all felt surreal, but I was glad to see anything that acknowledged the man’s loss as well. Men are often overlooked when it comes to miscarriage grief. Most people naturally think of the woman’s pain – for she has more to bear because her recovery is both emotional and physical.

A father’s emotional pain cannot be ignored, and that was the beginning of how my husband, and I grieved together. We both knew the other person had feelings not yet spoken, each of us privately questioning our role in the loss (our daughter had a genetic abnormality).

But in the middle of our silent disbelief and shock, we sought each other. Also unspoken was our understanding that we would never survive our daughter’s loss alone. We needed each other. Together we shed countless tears, held hands, shared hugs, reassured our children, and constantly checked in with each other throughout the day. We gave kindness and grace while simultaneously finding our way through the worst days of grief.

We lost our daughter in 2020 when the world was still grappling with the unknowns of Covid. The pandemic stopped life as we knew it with a screeching halt. It was the slow pace of homebound life that helped my husband and I to stay connected and grieve together. I’m not sure that we would have remained so fiercely devoted to one another if the realities of working outside the home and running to kid activities had continued without pause. We needed a lot of time and space.

It was easier to grieve in private and take breaks when working from home. I could wallow in my feelings without putting on a brave face at the office. Our family changed significantly, and we needed significant time to process our loss.

We didn’t have to hold our grief to the evenings and weekends. We could cry as needed. Our loss was everywhere. It hurt to see the baby items all over the house, just as it hurt to put them away, unused. Every family is different, and I believe each family’s grief path is unique. Unfortunately, I have no magic words of wisdom that will ease the pain. I would encourage grieving parents to check on each other often, give random hugs, and be vulnerable and open. Communication is the best way to support your partner and it is also the best way to express your needs.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is a children’s book author. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18 . Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

You are not Alone

Mon, 11 Dec 2023 20:01:00 GMT

By: Amanda Crews

When I rolled into our family’s house on Christmas Eve, I was nervous but also happy to see everyone. It had been around 9-months since we had lost our sweet Carson, at 37 weeks, and we were just weeks out from losing our little girl at 10 weeks. The dinner was great, and I felt relieved that we had made it through the entire meal, on Christmas Eve, and I was still feeling ok.

We moved into the living room to begin a gift exchange. We laughed and opened gifts and really had a nice time. One-by-one the stockings began to come down, until there was just one remaining, hanging all by itself, empty. And that’s when the grief came crashing back in, rolling inwards, taking the very breath I had just been enjoying.

I knew that Carson had had a stocking. It was beautiful, and I’m so grateful for it to hang on the fireplace, amongst our growing families. However, I never thought about how the stocking would look, empty, and all alone by itself.

At best, it was a physical representation of how I felt at the time. I, too, was empty, and I felt so alone, despite friends and family’s efforts to make me feel not so.

But for so long, 37 weeks to be exact, I hadn’t been alone. I had been with child. And now, for equally as long, I had been without him, and not just in my arms, but in my life. He was now a memory, a hope shattered, a dream deferred, and an empty stocking.

That was my first Christmas after losing Carson. It’s now been almost seven years. I can’t even believe it when I think about it. And now, each Christmas, I look forward to seeing his stocking hanging. I run my fingers along the beautiful stocking and embroidered name, and I wonder how it would look if he were still here with us today. I wonder if he’d be entertaining everyone around the living room like his sister who came a year after him, almost to the day. I wonder if he’d be curled on my lap from the overstimulation of the loud room bursting with laughter and love like his brother who came two years after him. Or I wonder if he’d be grazing the dessert bar and reaching for seconds like his littlest brother who came four years later. But to be honest, I really think he’d be a mix of all three, and though they’ll never know him, I will.

So, as we approach Christmas in just a few weeks, I want to encourage you to find ways to incorporate your sweet baby into your Christmas celebrations. Lean into the hard and feel what you need to. But most importantly, carry your baby with strength, honor, and love, because you, my sweet friend, are not the empty stocking hanging alone.

We’re all here, wading through muddy water, just waiting for the next wave of grief to come crashing in.

We see you.

We feel your pain, and we send our love.

Love, Someone who has gone before you.

About Amanda Crews

It’s Ok

Fri, 08 Dec 2023 09:00:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

To you. The mother and father sitting at home, binge watching Netflix because you don’t feel like celebrating the holidays this year. It’s ok.

To you. The parents of an angel baby who put on a brave face every day when they go out into the world but are secretly dying inside. It’s ok.

What’s ok, you might ask? IT. IT is ok. Let me explain. Do you ever find it difficult to talk about your grief, or your feelings in general because you’re afraid of the response you might get? It’s ok. It’s ok because you’re allowed to feel that way. It’s ok to want to protect yourself and your heart from anyone or anything that you fear might not feel good.

Don’t feel like getting together over the holidays to celebrate because in your heart you don’t feel super “celebrate-y” at the moment? It’s ok.

Did you allow yourself to “accidentally” smile or laugh at something today, even though your heart is still broken? It’s ok.

Did you let one whole hour pass without thinking of your lost baby? It’s ok.

Did you have four failed fertility treatments after the loss of your baby and now you’re just mad at the world? It’s ok.

Do you feel empty inside when you see parents and children doing all the things you were supposed to get to do? It’s ok.

Here’s what I’m getting at. It’s ok. There is no rule book on grief. There is no list of things you “should be able to do” by a certain time in the grieving process. You do not have to feel guilty because you actually allowed yourself to do something fun WHILE you’re grieving. On the flipside, it’s also ok if you decline or cancel plans because the grief is too heavy on a particular day. Grief does not have a schedule and we are not programmed to pick and choose when we grieve and when we don’t.

It’s also ok if you want to talk about your baby openly and freely. It’s ok if you choose not to. I have been very open about the loss of our baby because it has allowed me to connect with other people who truly understand. If that’s not what “fills your cup,” as they say, it’s ok.

I have also talked semi-openly about our struggles with getting pregnant again after our loss. In the beginning, I talked about it very openly because we had tons of hope. By the fourth round, I had become VERY tight-lipped about it. I was tired of receiving bad news. And I was also tired of delivering bad news. So, I stopped telling people.

But you know what? It’s ok. This final round of IVF I found myself trying my hardest to maintain a positive outlook throughout the entire process. But I was faking it most of the time. Yes, I was hopeful because we were doing some things differently than the previous three rounds. But somehow amidst all the hope, I still found myself doubting everything. And it’s ok. You don’t have to be “Polly Positivity” all the time. It’s ok if you have lost hope for now. If you surround yourself with the right people, they will have hope when you can’t.

It’s ok if you decide to cut people out of your life who are not helpful to your healing (I’m sure there is a “right and wrong” way to do this, but I don’t know what it is).

It’s ok if you are selfish sometimes. Saying “no” to something because you’re exhausted does not make you a bad human. It makes you a real one.

It’s also ok if you teach people how to be there for you. People generally have good intentions but sometimes don’t know what to say. Recently I told a friend about our last failed round of IVF. She said “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say except I’m here if you need anything.” And you know what? That is the most perfect thing anyone could say. I get it. It’s an uncomfortable topic and I don’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. It’s ok to just be there.

It’s ok to take a social media hiatus if the constant flood of family pictures is too much for you right now.

It’s ok to be non-committal because you have no idea how you will feel weeks or months from now.

It’s ok to be a blob on the couch all weekend (guilty) because you just “can’t even.”

IT’S OK TO ASK FOR HELP. (I say this to you but also to myself). You do not have to grieve alone, and you do not have to “figure it out” on your own. It’s ok to ask a professional for help. It’s ok to do something that makes you happy. It’s ok to withdraw while you sort out your feelings.

I wish that I could tell you that it’s going to be ok. Yes, it probably will be. But it almost never feels that way in the moment. But what I CAN tell you, with 100% certainty, is that what you are feeling is ok. Don’t question yourself so much. You are probably right. If you feel it, it’s valid.

You are doing everything you can, and that’s ok.

About Lindsey Dell

Making Sure She Matters

Mon, 04 Dec 2023 21:00:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

Miscarriages are an emotional bombshell on many levels. The holidays can be an additional burden to families struggling with heartache.

One of my struggles is knowing my daughter’s impact. She has no birth certificate and no social security number. Olivia was deeply loved within my family, but I have no proof of her existence.

I needed to know she mattered. I needed something tangible to prove she existed. I needed her to be known outside of our family, and I needed some good to come from her death.

I couldn’t fix what was broken but I needed to make the world better. I was eager, desperate, willing to create a resource for other grieving parents. I had to do something positive in her name, and I honored her by writing two books. It was a necessary and welcome outlet for the days I wanted to pitch a fit and scream “I WANT HER BACK”.

The holidays are a significant challenge of merry and bright vs. despair and longing. I try to use it as another way to honor Olivia. She has her own stocking and many ornaments on our Christmas tree. We make a donation in her memory every year, and I try to reflect on the good we put into the world.

It doesn’t feel like enough. There should be a little one cradled on my lap while we read Christmas books. Presents under the tree don’t have a nametag displaying her name.

It has been three years since our loss, and now my husband and I navigate our grief by smiling through the tears. When the kids are sitting on each other’s heads, wrestling, practicing their Minion voices and fart noises, or not-so-politely refusing dinner, my husband sighs.

“I just know she would have been the good one,” he says, shaking his head. We try to laugh when we can, be present for our kids, and enjoy family activities. We give ourselves grace on the days we are sad and need space. The bustling holiday events help build new memories and even if she isn’t physically present, she is remembered and included. We carry Olivia with us, in our hearts. We always will.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is a children’s book author. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18 . Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

Holiday Hodge Podge

Mon, 27 Nov 2023 17:09:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

Holidays… Am I Right?? That time of year when families are getting together and celebrating, exchanging gifts, reminiscing about happy times of years past. The time of year when people are constantly reminding you to be thankful and grateful for everything you have. Maybe you have one of those families that likes to go around the table at Thanksgiving and “name one thing you’re Thankful for.” I’m here to tell you, it’s ok if you can’t think of anything. I’m here to tell you if the only thing you’re thankful for this year is that you got out of bed to eat, that’s ok. Grief is difficult and it tends to pull up a seat at the table during the most inopportune times (as if there is ever a good time).

One of the hardest things about holidays, in my opinion, is setting boundaries. Boundaries with family, boundaries with friends, boundaries with jobs, etc. I am the first to admit that I am terrible at setting boundaries because in the true spirit of an empath, I don’t ever want to hurt anyone’s feelings by saying “no.” What does that usually mean? It means that I typically end up doing things that I don’t want to do because I have never learned to exercise my right to say NO.

Now, let’s be clear about something. There is a difference between setting boundaries and just being rude. Since I’m always afraid of coming off as rude, I don’t set any boundaries and that just avoids that problem (see also: doormat). I’m definitely not here to help you set boundaries because as previously stated, I don’t know how. I follow a woman on Instagram who is AMAZING at explaining boundaries and I am just fascinated at her ability to say the things that she says in a respectful way. If you also struggle with boundaries, her name is Melissa Urban (founder of The Whole 30).

What does this have to do with grief and holidays (and could you please hurry up and get there already)? PLENTY. I think holidays are such a wonderful time to celebrate traditions and cultures and hopefully see family you haven’t gotten to see in a while. That said, it doesn’t always feel that way for everyone. For someone who is in the depths of their grief, holidays can bring on an overwhelming sense of dread and isolation. We think about how old our baby would have been, how big our belly should have been if we were still pregnant, what traditions we would be passing down to our child.

Of course, when making plans for the holidays, the answer to everything was “Yes!” In theory, being with loved ones sounds like the best cure for broken hearts. But we also have to remember that everyone grieves differently. I remember specifically not wanting to be around anyone, and sometimes that is still the case. This is when the boundary setting becomes a problem, especially the further along I get in my loss journey. After nearly four years, it doesn’t always feel appropriate to say “no” to something because I’m grieving. I find myself then trying to make excuses to not do something when the real answer is, I just don’t want to. I don’t know if/when “no” will ever feel ok to me. Because truthfully, it is a perfectly acceptable answer, with no explanation needed. Holidays become tricky because there is an expectation, usually accompanied by guilt if things don’t go as planned. Someone who is dealing with intense grief does not want to “ruin” the happy times for the rest of the family so in order to maintain a sense of normalcy for everyone else, they will probably just go along with everything as planned. And that might be exactly what they want to do. However, if someone in your family is grieving, the best gift you can give them for the holidays is an out. Let them know that if they truly don’t feel up to doing anything, that’s perfectly fine. Offer to drop a meal off for them, or just take something off their (figurative) plate if you can. Maybe offer to NOT exchange gifts this year to make their life easier. Speaking from experience, if your loved one is grieving AND has trouble setting boundaries, these things will be probably better than anything you can buy them. Just taking some weight off of their already burdened shoulders is worth more than gold.

One final thing to remember: your grieving loved one likely wants to celebrate the holidays with family and friends, but their “social meter” may be running on fumes. If you give them an out and they take it, they will still likely feel guilty. Please don’t take offense and if they happen to tell you “No,” be proud of them. Don’t ask why, just accept it. I can guarantee that “no” was one of the most difficult sentences they’ve had to say.

About Lindsey Dell

What if you aren’t feeling thankful?

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 15:39:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

‘Tis the season to be…thankful?

What if you don’t feel thankful, or think you have anything to be thankful for this year? What if you feel guilty about not having an “attitude of gratitude?”

Others may tell you, “Just be thankful for what you DO have,” which can be hurtful and make it seem like they do not understand or care about what you have been through since your baby died. You may indeed know in your heart that you have plenty to be grateful for, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have a difficult time showing any feelings of gratitude.

You may want a quieter Thanksgiving than you have had in years past, and that is all right. If you feel up to it, though, it can be helpful to start some new traditions, especially those that acknowledge your grief and allow you to include your baby. Doing so can generate some positive feelings, even if you are not feeling at all grateful.

The following are a few ideas if you would like to try something new, but please be easy on yourself if you are not up to doing any of them.

*Purchase a real or artificial white pumpkin. White pumpkins have become a meaningful symbol for those who experience the death of a baby and making them a part of your décor can be a special way of embracing and honoring the memory of your baby. Tie ribbons around the stem and put a small basket or bowl of permanent markers next to it. Have your family or any guests write something they are thankful for on the pumpkin. You can also use it to jot down gifts your baby’s life has brought to yours. If you use an artificial pumpkin, you can display it next year, too.

*Make a thankful jar. Purchase a pretty jar and some colorful paper. Cut the paper into small strips and decorate the jar with ribbons and stickers. Have everyone write something they are grateful for on a strip of paper, fold it and place it in the jar. Leave it out throughout the season, not just on Thanksgiving Day, and ask anyone who stops by to add to your jar. At some point, read each strip of paper, perhaps on a quiet evening with just your partner and/or other children.

*Create a paper chain out of strips of paper with what everyone is grateful for written on them. Drape it on a mantel or window ledge, and again, continue to add to it.

*Make a thankful tree. Cut some branches from trees or bushes in your yard and place them in a vase. Use paper to cut out leaf shapes, poke a hole in them and tie a ribbon or string through the hole. As friends and family write what they are thankful for on the leaves, hang them on the branches.

*Provide flat river stones and markers or paint for your family and/or guests to write or draw something they are grateful for. Keep them in a basket so you can look through them whenever you are feeling down.

*Write a heartfelt letter to someone who has been especially kind and helpful to you since your loss.

*Start a family gratitude journal. Purchase a blank book or even a simple spiral notebook and encourage everyone to add something to the journal every day.

You may be reading this list thinking, “I have nothing to be grateful for, and these are dumb ideas!” That is understandable; it may be too soon for you to try any sort of gratitude activities. Know that whatever emotions you have surrounding this season of gratitude everywhere you look are OKAY! You may have high expectations for yourself and how holidays should be; others may have high expectations of you, as well. But for now, put those expectations aside and give yourself permission to spend the day doing, or not doing, whatever is easiest on your grieving heart. And even if you do decide to incorporate some gratitude into your life this season, that does not mean you will no longer be sad or missing your baby. It’s okay to feel some peace and joy while at the same time feeling sadness and longing.

And know that all of us at Share are here for you as is our community of other grieving families who have likely experienced some of these same feelings and thoughts. Please reach out if you are struggling as we head into the winter holiday season.

About Rose Carlson

Blue & Pink Balloons

Mon, 20 Nov 2023 19:30:00 GMT

By Shani Rogers

A little girl’s hope about having a sibling, excitement of becoming one, and sadness learning the sibling passed away due to miscarriage. Though sad, she finds comfort with family.

Discover the heartfelt tale of hope, anticipation, loss, and love in Shani Roger’s moving children’s book, “Blue and Pink Balloons.” This delicately penned story seen through the eyes of a four-year-old little girl, echoes the mixed emotions of joy in becoming a big sister, and the confusion and sorrow of losing that dream to a miscarriage. Despite the heartbreak, this tale is a gentle reminder that even through the darkest times, there is a shimmer of light with the love and support from family.

Where to order :

Amazon Link –

Blue and Pink Balloons: A Child’s Journey through Joy, Loss, and Healing: Rogers, Shani: 9781956769609: Amazon.com: Books

Barnes & Noble Link –

Blue and Pink Balloons: A Child’s Journey through Joy, Loss, and Healing by Shani Rogers, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

About Shani Rogers

Shani is a devoted wife and mother to two incredible children. She was born and raised in Long Beach California. “Blue & Pink Balloons” is the real-life story of the miscarriage their family experienced when their daughter was about to turn four. It’s a story told through their daughter’s eyes, recounting her wish for a sibling, the excitement of becoming one, and the sadness of losing the baby. This book validates children’s feelings when experiencing loss and reminds them that they are loved no matter what.

One Step At A Time

Thu, 16 Nov 2023 13:49:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

One of my favorite things to do is to sit outside at night and watch the sun go down. Sometimes the deer run through our woods and the birds perch on the feeders. When I think of the purpose in the serenity of the woods, it’s to reflect on the simple things: the hues of the sun showing their radiant colors, the sounds of the leaves rustling as the deer prance past and the gift of time to just be present.

In our woods, there are paths created by the natural flow of water from the creek. There are also paths created by us as we walk through the woods in a variety of winding loops. The paths have a starting point. There is not a set ending point of the paths, as they journey down the hill and seem to continue.

Sometimes we have to reset and begin a new path on our grief journey. It’s the winding and weaving of the path that makes it worthwhile. At other times, we think we can journey a bit further and take extra steps to get to our resting place. At times, when I think I am doing good on the path taking it step by step, something will hinder my journey. It can be a sound, a memory, a season, or something that takes me back to that time in life that was so difficult.

A few years ago, I participated in a 5K mud race obstacle course. Let’s just say I am not a runner. However, I wanted to attempt the obstacles to say I completed the course at my pace. It was a year after losing our son and my husband and our other two boys participated alongside myself. (I should say they were ahead of me as they are runners and are super good at running!) They lead the way, as I did not want to hold them back due to my pace.

They were my leaders. The ones who kept pursuing the path over lakes, branches, rocks, and other obstacles. I was the one trailing behind watching them accomplish the tasks which prepared myself for the next obstacle by seeing their lead. When I wanted to give up, they were there to see me go to the next obstacle. They were in my view on the winding and weaving path. Knowing I had them as trail markers, provided that boost to attempt the next task.

One of the first obstacles was going through a pond that had mud across the bottom. About a third of the way, my shoes became stuck in the mud. My husband wasn’t too far for me and retrieved my shoes. We progressed through a variety of obstacles: mud pits, climbing structures, crossing creeks, climbing uphill and going downhill.

We came to one obstacle which was crossing a creek with the choice of two bridges. One of the race workers shared with us the pros and cons of crossing each bridge. The first was a bridge ladder that wobbled, and you had to maintain balance to cross. The second bridge consisted of balance beams of various widths. Our crew started the second bridge and when it came to my turn, I had to figure out my strategy. “How was I going to cross this bridge?” My husband yelled, “Do you want help?” I said, “No, I got this.” The worker came over and said, “You earned a badge because I heard you say, “I got this.” She told me to turn the badge in at the end of the race to get a prize. I learned that if a worker saw good in others or heard them say something to push through the challenges, they would give participants a badge.

I started on the balance beam and made it halfway across. I had the badge in my hand and was trying to put it somewhere when I lost focus and fell into the creek! I am not a good swimmer, so I was startled and just hung onto the skinny balance beam board until I could get across to the other side. In the past, I would have given up, but I was determined. Soaking wet, we approached our next obstacle, and it was crossing the creek again on the opposite side.

The task was to shimmy down a wooden, wobbly ladder, then get yourself on these metal square platforms to get to the other side of the creek. Our boys and friends were on the other side waiting. I said to my husband, “I am doing this my way.” Most participants were walking, jumping or running fast to get to the other side. My way included going down the wooden ladder and edging over to the first platform. My style also consisted of scooting and crawling over the creek!

In the race, I had to take one step at a time. Crossing the platform bridge consisted of crawling to the other side and that was okay. When I fell off the bridge into the creek, I took a rest and got up again. Getting up again is the key to continue on the journey. There have been days where it has been taking one step at a time. In the early days of grief, there were times of crawling into bed. When the grief was too much, I learned it was okay to rest.

At the conclusion of the race, I turned my badge in and retrieved my prize. It was a glass with the logo and makes for a reminder of the race.

As I read books, I always have a pencil or pen to write notes or highlight parts of the books to remember. In You Are Not Alone Love Letters from Loss Mom to Loss Mom , one passage of the book has been one that has resonated with me the most. It says,

“Just take one step, and then another. When you can’t take one step, it’s okay to crawl. When crawling is too much, it’s okay to take a rest. You will get up again.”

May we take it step by step on our winding journey. May we look for ways to support others on their journey step by step.

About Robyn Busekrus

Love From Up Above

Wed, 08 Nov 2023 17:20:00 GMT

By: Evelyn Rodriguez

Bereaved sibling, Evelyn Rodriguez wrote a children’s book in honor of her sister Vivianne. Please read the introduction from Evelyn and click on the link to view her book.

This book is dedicated to all the surviving children who have lost their siblings. We are a part of an exclusive group with loved ones up above. I wanted to give a resource that could be used for both the children and parents to talk and work together in their grief of their experience with pregnancy and infant loss. When I lost my little sister, Vivianne Isabelle when I was eight years old, I had wished that this type of resource was available for myself, but I didn’t have one. This book shows those experiencing this that they are not alone in their grief, that what they feel is valid, and that there is light on the other side of the tunnel during this difficult time. I didn’t have this type of resources growing up and I had tried to comprehend what was happening practically on my own. My mom always tried her best to help me understand that I wasn’t alone and that others have been through this experience, but I think having a book where parents can read to their kids and work pages in the back so they can work hand in hand together would have helped me growing up. This resource is free for anyone to download or share; I want it to be a resource anyone can use when needed. I also provided phone numbers and websites to the back of the book if professional help is wanted. I completed this book as my Gold Award Project. From the start of my Gold Award process, I knew that I wanted to have this as my “action project” since it was so dear to my heart.

A Gold Award must prove a girl’s leadership skills in a “take action” project that has a sustainable impact in their community and beyond. My take-action project goal was to publish a booklet to donate to an organization that helps others with infant loss grief. My Gold Award addresses our community’s lack of resources specifically for children who have lost a sibling to a miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss. This is something close to my heart as I am a sibling less due to my mom losing my little sister due to stillbirth. I felt alone and would have liked something to connect me with others in a similar situation. I plan to create a storybook connecting the kids, the parents, and the guardians in their grief. I want to help children to understand better what has happened. This book and project will be directed toward the children and the family. And I dedicated my book to my little sister that’s up above, Vivienne.

https://nationalshare.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/Love-From-Up-Above-By-Evelyn-A.-Rodriguez-FINAL-2.pdf

About Evelyn Rodriguez

My name is Evelyn Rodriguez. I am 17 years old, I’ve been in Girl Scouts for 13 years, and I am an Ambassador level scout; this was my last year. Currently, I am working towards my Bachelor’s in Kinesiology, with an emphasis on Pre-Medicine, and my main goal is to become a Pediatrician when I grow up!

The Truth Is…

Wed, 11 Oct 2023 20:33:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

I’ve been feeling very uninspired lately. But the truth is, I’m tired. Too tired to even type an article (pathetic, I know). Some might say that’s a good thing, that I don’t have anything to write about. But the truth is, sometimes I think that maybe I’ve just felt all my feelings and I have nothing left to feel. I guess that could be considered a good thing, but the truth is, sometimes I feel like I’ve just become numb. Trauma will do that to you.

I’ve gotten to the point over the last few years where I can genuinely be happy for people who become pregnant, even if it’s something that I want (and will likely never have). But the truth is, I worry for them. I remember seeing a fitness influencer that I follow on social media posting about her journey with miscarriage, and subsequently with IVF. After a successful embryo transfer, she posted a video announcing her pregnancy at 12 weeks. 12 weeks was always considered the “safe” time to announce publicly once you were through the first trimester because the risk of miscarriage dropped dramatically. But the truth is, I wanted to tell her that you’re never really safe. I, too, announced my pregnancy “safely” at 12 weeks. But the truth is, I had no idea what was coming. I know this all sounds so awful and cynical. Trauma will do that to you.

We’re coming up on exactly four years since we found out we were pregnant with our daughter. I honestly can’t believe it’s been four years but the truth is, it also feels like yesterday. I remember every detail about every moment, from the first positive pregnancy test to the worst day of our lives. The truth is, I don’t think that will ever change. I bet I will always remember those days as if they just happened ten minutes ago. So how does that make me feel? I’m glad you asked. Guilty. It makes me feel guilty. The truth is, I feel guilty because I don’t talk about my baby near as much as I used to. I’m not giving her the time and space I know she deserves. The truth is, I’m afraid people are tired of listening to me talk about her. People are tired of me “bringing them down.” I feel guilty because I’ve spent a lot of time focusing on my health and that makes me feel better physically. But the truth is, I’m angry. I’m angry at my body for failing her, angry at the doctors and the medical community for having zero answers as to why IVF was unsuccessful, angry that there is no refund policy on unsuccessful fertility procedures (kidding…sort of). I have a lot of anger. Trauma will do that to you.

At 41 years old, I have started to become resigned to the fact that we will not have earthside children in our lifetime, and that’s ok. But the truth is, I feel guilty for starting to feel ok about it. I know there are other options for having children in this day and age and I think they are amazing and wonderful options for those who choose to do them. I have my own personal reasons for opting not to. I sometimes feel guilty about that too. And then I feel silly for feeling guilty. Trauma is funny like that.

Sometimes I want to wear a giant sign that just says “GRIEVING MOTHER” on it so that I don’t have to answer anyone’s questions or so I get a free pass for being extra moody sometimes (it happens). The truth is, I’ve gotten slightly ok at pretending to be fine most of the time when I’m not always fine. It’s that guilt again. No one wants to be around a Debbie Downer all the time, right? But the truth is, just call me Debbie. Sure, I have my good days. And there are way more good days now than there were four years ago. But the truth is you can never recover from grief like this. It comes at you like a freight train, seemingly out of nowhere at times. You might be having the best day ever and then BAM. The grief/guilt combo. Trauma will do that to you.

I think the moral of this story is that there are always some hidden truths in everything. What you’re seeing on the outside may only be a fraction of what someone is really feeling. The truth is, we may never really get to know the whole truth. As the years go by and I’m speaking about my daughter less and less, and even writing about her less and less, that doesn’t make my truth any less true. She is still at the forefront of my heart and mind every single day. And then there’s that guilt. The truth is, the guilt is sometimes worse than the grief. I feel guilty for feeling happy, then back to grief, rinse, and repeat. It’s a cycle of emotions that I don’t think we are ever really equipped to manage. We learn to just push through the best we can, sometimes with a smile and sometimes with a grimace. My hope for anyone dealing with grief and guilt is that one day we can all learn to be truthful with ourselves. We should never have to feel guilty for any of our feelings, but the truth is, trauma will do that to you.

About Lindsey Dell

The Days can be Good and Bad

Mon, 14 Aug 2023 19:37:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

A pregnancy loss took my breath away before my daughter had a chance to experience her first one.

Like many women, I had no idea what it meant to recover from a miscarriage until I was in the middle of the experience. There were many things I “had” to do, for which I was completely unprepared.

I had no idea what it was like to go through my usual day without knowing if I would experience a triggering moment. Triggers are terrible. I can encounter the exact same situation on two different days, and one day it is a normal encounter and other days it is an unexpected watershed moment.

I had no idea I would encounter so many pregnant bellies in the grocery store, receive unexpected bills related to my miscarriage health care, or make so many trips to the lab for bloodwork to ensure my hormone levels were dropping.

I had no idea I would need multiple follow up visits at the obstetrician’s office for an unusually long recovery, which involved walking through a waiting room full of future moms with happier outcomes. Some days I made it to the elevator before I cried and some days I didn’t. Each event was a reminder of how my future was different than I wanted or imagined.

I had no idea the grief would show up in unexpected ways, or if I had the strength to survive the day, even though I did time and time again.

I didn’t know it would hurt so much that I felt like I couldn’t breathe. There were times I cried so hard that I panicked, afraid I would never stop. There was only one thing that could calm me down. She is still inside of me. Researchers call it fetal microchimerism. I call it comfort. Simply put, a mother retains some of her child’s DNA within her body for years, or even decades, after birth.

“She is still with me. She is still with me,” I chant silently as my breathing slows down and my crying calms. I choose to believe that DNA from Olivia, and all of my children, will be inside of me until my last breath. Although I never held her in my arms, I still carry her. We are still connected.

While the triggers are numerous, so are the opportunities to memorialize significant milestones.

My August baby would have been three years old this month. I envision a force of nature who is smart, feisty, and determined to keep her older siblings on their toes. We will celebrate her as we always have, with cupcakes. Each member of our family also lights a candle and makes a wish on her behalf. We talk about how she is not forgotten, and how she is with us in spirit as we celebrate her and her special day.

Our special way of toasting the birthday girl has spread, and other family members have started to do the same. We are all remembering and honoring Olivia in our own way, together. It’s OK to be sad and hopeful and miserable and laugh, all in the same day. It’s OK to find hope and peace in grief.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is a children’s book author. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18 . Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

The Legacy of Love: How a Mother’s Loss Ignites a Powerful Purpose

Fri, 14 Jul 2023 12:37:00 GMT

By: LaCara Biddles

I reclined in profound stillness upon the unsettling confines of the hospital bed. Beside me, my husband tossed and turned as he attempted to fall into a deep slumber.

I stared at the black and white clock above the door frame. The minute hand navigated the clock’s circumference, whispering the passage of minutes without an audible sound. Time had not stopped, yet somehow, I felt stuck in it.

I knew what was coming. I spent every moment working to prepare myself mentally and emotionally for the inevitable. The reality, nothing can prepare you for an experience so life-changing, devastating and heartbreaking as the one I was about to endure.

Three days after receiving the news that my membranes had ruptured, I went into active labor with the help of medical intervention. It was Friday, July 24. Contractions were now regular, and I needed to push. I knew the time had come, and I told my husband to call for the nurse.

I was now in active labor, and at this point, I had disconnected emotionally and physically from my body. It’s a strange feeling. Being numb, though, also feeling the contractions and burning sensation accompanying the delivery of a baby. Yet, the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional despair to come.

I just wanted it to be over; I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark hole and die. Days prior, everything in my life felt like it was in alignment. I had done everything exactly as I had planned.

I obtained a bachelor’s and master’s degree.
Found a caring and loving partner.
We bought a house to create our home.
We travelled a bit here and there.
I established my career and secured a position supporting my long-term goals.

Growing up, I learned that hard work and planning would yield rewards. I worked hard to accomplish my goals and dreams. Yet I found myself wondering, why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?

After forty-five minutes of pushing, my baby arrived. The nurse’s voice cut through the silence in the room, “She is beautiful.”

“It’s a girl,” I said to my husband. The nurse handed my daughter to me, wrapped in a pink blanket with a matching toque.

My heart ached as I cradled her close to my chest, breathing in her scent. I moved my head closer to hers. As I pressed my lips against her forehead, I could feel the warmth of her skin move through me.

My husband caressed her tiny head and looked up at me. “I’ve never loved anyone so much,” tears filled his eyes. I understood completely. I never believed in love at first sight until that moment.

She showed me that unconditional and irrevocable love did exist. She was mine, and I was hers.

My gaze was locked on her. She was perfect. She didn’t make a sound. She never opened her eyes. She looked as though she was in a peaceful slumber.

Agonal breathing set in, and the nurse gently placed a stethoscope over her chest. Her heart rate was low and steadily declining. As her heartbeat slowed, mine declined alongside hers. The monitors captured my heart rate at 38 beats per minute. My daughter was dying in my arms, and my heart was breaking.

After a few minutes, the nurse said, “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

Agony pierced through every part of my body. How could I continue to exist in a world where my precious baby no longer breathed? The line between reality and a cruel dream blurred. I struggled to breathe—a heaviness pressed into my chest.

Was this what death felt like? Is this what my daughter had experienced? Did she experience some form of agony and pain? My mind became inundated with a constant barrage of questions and wonderings.

Amidst the chaos, I heard a faint, reassuring voice whispering, “Everything is going to be okay.” It didn’t come from anyone within the room, though it had emerged from within. With the message came a sensation of peace and calm; whoever said it, I believed her.

On July 25, 2023 , a significant milestone approaches – it marks three years since I cradled my precious baby girl in my arms.

Tears flow freely down my cheeks as I write this, and an indescribable pain pierces my core. It feels like I have been transported back in time, reliving that fateful moment that shattered my world and altered my existence forever.

My story is one of heartbreak, unimaginable loss, and the transformative power that lies hidden within the depths of grief. There was a time when I yearned to bury these memories, to escape the excruciating pain accompanying a mother’s mourning . How could there be any beauty within the immense sorrow and grief of a mother who has experienced the death of her baby?

Yet, life has a way of unfolding without clear explanations or justifications. Sometimes, things happen without a discernible rhyme or reason.

As I grappled with my pain and grief, I discovered a profound connection to others who have also experienced the heartache of losing a child. I found my voice within the depths of my grief and unearthed a purpose I had sought for years.

I realized the power and fulfillment of bringing comfort, peace and solace to others navigating the darkness of grief. Because within the pain and heartbreak, there lies beauty and immeasurable love.

It’s not just my baby’s life that has had a profound impact; it’s the life of all babies, no matter how short their lives. It’s through our children that we experience unconditional and boundless love.

It’s a powerful force that can propel us forward.

My daughter’s life, though short, reminds me that strength and purpose can emerge even from the most devasting circumstances. Our pain does not bring forth our purpose, though it can bring clarity to our conscious minds to decide; we can choose to create purpose from our pain.

Grief is a lifelong journey, and as I continue to navigate its intricate path, I have learned to embrace all that accompanies it. I am grateful to have uncovered a strength I never knew I possessed and a purpose that transcends my experience and offers solace to others walking a similar path.

Our actions are forever intertwining the legacies of our little ones, forging an indelible mark of our boundless connection and love. With each breath and step we take, we honour them. We carry their legacy within us, keep their memory alive, and the unbreakable bonds we share remain ever-present as we move forward in our grief.

About LaCara Biddles

LaCara specializes in providing compassionate grief support for women who have experienced pregnancy and infant loss, leveraging her extensive nursing career and personal journey. In 2020, LaCara faced a devastating tragedy—the death of her first daughter, Kailani. This profound event ignited her passion for supporting women as they navigate the intricate landscape of pregnancy and infant loss.

LaCara candidly shares her journey through her published book, “Heavenly Seas,” a touching tribute to her beloved daughter. This heartfelt work is a testament to LaCara’s unwavering commitment to ensuring that no one walks the path of grief alone. www.lacarabiddles.com/babylossbook

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lacarabiddles/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lacara.biddles1/

A Letter to my Baby Girl

Fri, 14 Jul 2023 11:49:00 GMT

By: Julz Richterman

Finding out I was pregnant 4 months after losing my baby, Bobby, brought a wave of conflicting emotions. I was thrilled I was pregnant again, anxious I would have to live through another nightmare, and angry that the new baby was “replacing” the one I lost.

I decided to write this letter to Bobby the week I found out I was pregnant again. I took a leap of faith and included it in my baby announcement. Bobby never had an announcement, and she deserved one.

This letter has been incredibly healing to me and I hope it can help you find some peace.

About Julz Richterman

Julz is a freelance medical writer specializing in the mental health and technological aspects of fertility. Her 10+ years’ experience as a healthcare professional did not prepare her for the loss of her baby at the end of her first trimester in July 2021. She lived firsthand how limiting and broken the system can be, even for someone who knows how to navigate it well. However, she also experienced the continuous and unbroken compassion from her healthcare team, family, and friends.

A year after losing her baby, she gave birth to her rainbow baby. She credits both her children for giving her the courage to leave corporate life and start her own business freelancing. Now she uses her experience as both a healthcare professional and patient to ensure everyone feels connected and supported by making pregnancy loss and infertility conversations less taboo. To learn more about her, please visit her LinkedIn at www.linkedin.com/in/gabrielle-julz-richterman .

Growing in Grief

Thu, 06 Jul 2023 16:44:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

Gardening is one of my hobbies that I enjoy. This year, my garden hasn’t been as productive as in previous years. The drought and heat have hindered our garden’s growth. When planning our garden, I think of the best produce to grow. I have learned through experience of which items grow with success and which items are more difficult to grow. At times, I get discouraged on how our garden is producing. When planting, I magically think the garden will grow overnight. In reality, I know it takes time to get a harvest which comes with patience and care.

My journey of gardening began when my grandpa would plant tomatoes and peppers each summer. I
remember walking down the back porch steps to see the vegetables encased in their supports. The plants
were of various heights along with different shades of colors which reflected their growth. It was tradition to know that each year there would be tomatoes and peppers each season. Throughout the season, some
weeks ushered in a bounty of produce. During other weeks, it stagnated waiting for the next tomatoes and peppers to ripen to be picked.

Our grief journey is like a garden. Grief is hindered at times just like with a season of drought. A season or
reminder of our grief takes us back to our experience. We need care, support, patience and time similar to a garden. After we lost our son, the world was still in its normal everyday mode. I wondered, “How can this be?”, while going through the initial grief. I wanted time to stand still, yet I knew that time doesn’t and we would have to move forward.

When I think of our garden growing magically overnight I relate it to my grief. Others thought I should be over my grief at various points of time. Grief doesn’t magically disappear. It comes at various times and can occur unexpectedly. One person may experience the journey of grief a certain way, while others may experience differently. There is not a magical time frame for grief. Care, support, patience and time are the supports needed just as tending a garden.

As we are on this grief journey, may we grow moment to moment. We may see a bit of growth, experience growth over time or rapid growth on our journey. A garden takes time and with time we see the beautiful gift of harvest. As we are on our journey, we hold onto knowing that with care, support, patience and time we will grow in our grief.

About Robyn Busekrus

A Symbol of Hope and Peace

Thu, 06 Jul 2023 14:56:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

My miscarriage made me doubt that grief is survivable. Rationally, I knew I would survive, but emotionally, my pain was so raw that I couldn’t breathe.

A friend told me that grief is like an ocean tide. The concept really resonated with me. Grief is strong, powerful, and crushing when it first occurs, and the tide comes in. It is overwhelming and terrifying. And then the waters recede, and the tide comes back, a bit more gently the next time. The current remains strong, but you are wiser and stronger and better prepared for how the waves affect you. The rawness fades over the years, and the grief transitions into something that comes and goes.

After our loss, my husband and I struggled with the initial wave of anguish. We fumbled our way. A lot. I found a focus and purpose in writing, and he is my biggest advocate.

I published my first book to honor our daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia . The book focuses on young children and the illustrator encouraged us to incorporate a symbol for reader continuity. We chose a white dove. That simple decision helped us to find our way and spurred us along our path of grief to a path of healing and honoring.

My miscarriage was due to a chromosome disorder, Trisomy 18. It brought my husband and I a lot of solace to know our daughter wasn’t suffering. She was at peace. The white dove is a symbol of peace. Her name, Olivia, is a derivative of Olive and the olive branch of peace. In a way, selecting a white dove was our decision to choose peace.

Life will never be the same. There is a hole and a missing person in our family, but we have found our way to an unsettled acceptance. Most importantly, our baby is at peace. I think we all could use a little more of that in our lives. I hope you find some of yours today.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is a children’s book author. She published two books to honor her daughter, Saying Goodbye to Olivia and Olivia Had Trisomy 18. Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

Walking Down the Stairs: Even Good Days Hurt

Mon, 05 Jun 2023 15:43:00 GMT

By: Julz Richterman

Tragedy is a gas that seeps into every part of your life. Not only are you left remembering the “before” you, but you are haunted by the “should be” and “what if” you – the you who will never exist. You miss the person who never thought about these two opposing realities: the one you are living and the one that could have been. It trickles into the most mundane tasks. Even walking down the stairs, something I have done thousands of times before, brings a wave of emotions.

Every morning, I carry my 11-month-old son down the stairs with his 16-month-old sister trailing behind us. He strains to look over my shoulder so he can giggle at her walking down. She hasn’t mastered the stairs yet, but she thinks she’s a big girl and wants to do it herself. I keep one arm firmly wrapped around him and the other at the ready to catch her. She’s not paying attention to what she’s doing because she’s excited. Her brother starts squirming in my arm. Both of them know their grandmother is downstairs waiting for them.

We take a step down – I cherish the moment. We take another step – I think how fast time has flown. Another step – I flash forward to a time when they need to help me. Another step – I am back in the moment enjoying watching my son laugh and my daughter methodically rush down the stairs. We make it to the bottom. My 16-month-old runs to her grandmother and gives her a big hug. I put my 11-month-old down and he crawls over for his turn. I smile. Today is a good day.

But today is not this day. This will never happen because my 16-month-old didn’t live past my first trimester. This was simply the story that crossed my mind as I carried my 11-month-old son to the top of the stairs.

I begin our descent. A flash of a toddler crosses my mind. Would she know how to go down the stairs by now? Or would I be carrying them both? Would her brother find her funny? I keep one arm firmly wrapped around him and the other hugs him tighter. He watches my feet move and smiles. He starts squirming in my arms. He knows his grandmother is downstairs waiting for him.

I take a step down – I wonder if I could catch his sister while holding him. I take another step – I try to convince myself this question doesn’t matter, but I’m not buying it. Another step – Nothing is more painful than unanswered questions, and I wonder how many more I can possibly ask in my lifetime. Another step – I am back in the moment enjoying watching my son laugh when he sees his grandmother. We make it to the bottom. I put him down and he crawls over to hug her. They embrace. I flash to an image of her hugging two kids, but pull myself back almost immediately. I love watching their relationship grow. I smile.

Today is a good day – but even good days hurt.

About Julz Richterman

Being Part of the Club

Wed, 24 May 2023 17:09:00 GMT

By: Amanda Crews

When I was in labor with our son, Carson, at 37 weeks, I had a dear friend visit me. She, too, had experienced the loss of a child. She stood alongside my bed, as my body prepared for a long labor, and she apologized. She said, “I am so sorry, Amanda. This is a club that no one should ever have to join.”

Her analogy has echoed throughout my body, along with the words of many others who have also tragically and unexpectedly lost a child but have chosen to show up for us. Though all of our stories differ, we just get each other.

Now, six years into our grief journey, I feel personally charged and responsible to connect with other mamas who are walking on similar paths. Not to swoop in to help solve their problems or to offer great advice, because I can’t do either of those things, but I can sit, listen, and connect.

Because the reality is that I don’t have the best advice for navigating loss, but I do know what it’s like to have dreams and plans shatter from beneath you.

I don’t know each person’s triggers, thoughts, and needs, but I do know coming alongside of people and offering presence, even through silence, is sometimes the best gift. It’s a gift that says: I see you, I feel you, and I am here.

I don’t have the right words, but I do know there is NOTHING that I can say or do to take away or even lessen someone’s pain.

To my fellow loss mamas, there’s a whole group of women who are starting their loss journey today. I want to encourage you to bring purpose from your pain and come alongside of them. Offer the things that we needed that came unexpectedly or maybe not at all. Let’s let them talk, and let’s link arms to face the unimaginable aftermath that grief ushers in.

To families and friends of those who have lost, please know that presence and listening are two of the best gifts. There is nothing you can do or say to take away someone’s pain, but healthy presence is a gift that can’t be described. Though you may be sad, it is not about you and to expect comfort from a grieving parent is unrealistic. Be patient, be understanding, and be graceful. Most importantly, please remember that there is no right or wrong way to navigating the loss of a child.

I am holding all my fellow loss mamas and their families and friends close to my heart. I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

About Amanda Crews

I Wanted to Say Thank You, but I Couldn’t: A Letter to MY Parents

Thu, 18 May 2023 16:41:00 GMT

By: Julz Richterman

Saying “thank you” used to be easy. You always supported me, even if you didn’t agree with me. You let me make my own mistakes, celebrated with me when life went well, and stood by me when it didn’t. None of this changed when I said I wanted to go to a fertility clinic and become what some people refer to as a “single mother by choice.”

When I became pregnant, you were arguably more excited than me. We spent hours discussing all my new pregnancy symptoms, and all the activities we would do with the baby over the years to come. Time lasted forever because we were so eager to meet the little one; however, one ultrasound managed to stop time altogether.

It was the beginning of an over 24-hour waiting process to be told the baby had severe congenital abnormalities and would not live. As always, you were there for me every step of the way, from calming me down during complete breakdowns to taking me to appointments to distracting me to helping around the house and yard. You were there, unwavering, even when I said I wanted to try again immediately.

I became pregnant 3 months after losing my baby. We didn’t talk about it. We spent hours discussing anything else. We didn’t speak about the future. You didn’t ask me about my pregnancy symptoms. You wanted to be excited, but you saw my anger. Honestly, I did too, but I couldn’t stop myself.

I wanted to say thank you for making me dinner, but what came out was my anger for the empty chair at my table.

I wanted to say thank you for the baby clothes and toys, but what came out was my anger for the milestones I will never see.

I wanted to say thank you for putting the crib together, but what came out was my anger for a crib that shouldn’t be empty.

I wanted to say thank you for setting up the baby equipment, but what came out was my anger for the dreams that vanished.

I wanted to say thank you for loving me, but what came out was my anger for every parent that got to keep their child, while I didn’t get to keep mine.

My anger was not fair to any of us. I saw the eggshells I made you walk on. I felt the silence I put you in. I saw the pain in your eyes when you couldn’t fix it for me, even though I couldn’t fix it for myself. I wish I could’ve stopped, but the world doesn’t prepare you for losing your baby. It doesn’t teach you what to do when there’s no one to blame.

I wanted to say thank you for making a grave where one didn’t exist. I wanted to say thank you for making space in the nursery for both my babies, the one I lost and the one I have. I wanted to say thank you for never forgetting your lost grandbaby is and will always be part of our family.

I wanted to say thank you for showing up for me every day, for not letting my anger recoil you, and for knowing what I needed more than I did.

I wanted to say thank you. I couldn’t then, but I can now.

Thank you, Mom, and Dad, the two people who define what being a parent is!

About Julz Richterman

Sad Moments During Special Days

Tue, 09 May 2023 12:38:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

I find myself in a new place of my grief journey: regret, with a side helping of disappointment and sorrow.

I am struggling with the fact that my last pregnancy ended in death. My husband and I would like to add to our family, but my age makes it more difficult. We don’t want to replace our daughter, rather we simply want to add to our family.

I’m resentful that my family planning has possibly ended, and not on my terms. I never wanted to be older and say, “I wish we had more kids”, and yet that is exactly where I am. If I were 10 years younger, we could try again with a clearer conscious, but there are many more considerations at the end of a woman’s fertility years, for both mom and baby. We are hesitant and terrified, and quickly running out of time.

The highchair and baby swing and crib sit empty in our home. The bottles, bibs, blankets, and tiny outfits are all put away but still linger in the house. Each item is a constant reminder of our loss and wishful trappings. “Just one more healthy baby,” I think daily. Our loss, and the finality it represents, is too much some days.

I try to remind myself that my baby only knew comfort and love. She had a nice squishy bath that was the perfect temperature. She was never hungry or hurt or scared.

For all the grief and sadness, and anxiety and stress, I wouldn’t change it. I regret many things about the loss and the emotional consequences, but never Olivia. As her mom, I am proud and humbled to share her story. I continue to be her advocate and ensure her life matters, hopefully helping others along the way. She is my daughter, and she, like all my children, have my heart.

This Mother’s Day I will enjoy a (hopefully) wonderful day with my kids. I will marvel and cherish the handmade gifts, and the sweet, eager faces who want to celebrate me. I will also give myself permission to grieve my girl and future children who may not be.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is a children’s book author. Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

The Seasons of Grief

Wed, 03 May 2023 20:01:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

Spring is a time of new beginnings. Seeing the flowers bloom at this time of year brings joy.
The anticipation of the colors unfolding ushers a sense of excitement. Seasons bring changes
in the weather and in our surroundings. Grief also brings changes in the seasons in our lives.

There are two seasons of the year that I experience grief more so. The season we lost our son
and the season we anticipated our son’s arrival or true due date. Fall used to be my favorite
season. Since we lost our son in the fall season, fall does not seem the same to me. I still
enjoy the cooler weather, comfy clothes and colors. However, it does not have the true fall
feeling. I think I have a better appreciation of all of the seasons because like grief seasons
ushers in times of beauty, calm, storms and wonder.

When I look at our trees in our woods in Spring, I think of the buds growing and then
blossoming. When fall transitions to winter, the leaves float downward in the cool breeze and I
see the emptiness of the branches. I ponder the beauty that is to come in the Spring when the
leaves appear again.

Seasons give us opportunities to experience the ups and downs with each season. In Fall, we
feel the cool breezes while we see the beauty fall to the ground with the leaves. Winter
provides us with the glistening snow and the wonder of the season. Winter also brings
dreariness during that season. Spring announces itself with the unfolding of flowers and new
life in nature. It also brings rain and storms that can cause fear. Summer gives us the time to
be more at ease with vacations and summer fun. It also brings weather that may be
uncomfortable…just like grief…summer can be uncomfortable.

Grief is something we will not fully understand. We grieve for things that did not happen. We
grieve for the could have been opportunities. We grieve for the things that did happen, but the
outcome was not what we wanted.

Seasons also have pieces that make our grief journey a mosaic of feelings. Our grief journey
will not be complete. It will have ups and downs. It will have beauty and sadness. The journey
will continue to cycle through the seasons.

Wishing you peace in the seasons of grief. May we find joy in our surroundings. May we hold
onto the beauty we encounter. May we realize that in the storms or dreariness, seasons will
change just as in our journey of grief.

About Robyn Busekrus

To the Nurse That Held My Stillborn Baby

Wed, 03 May 2023 18:19:00 GMT

By: Jenny Albers

I trudged through those steel doors of the labor and delivery unit, my legs weak, my body unstable. It wasn’t the pregnancy weight that threatened my balance, but the weight of fear and sorrow.

You guided me to the delivery room, the one that stood hidden at the very end of a long corridor. The one that I assumed had been reserved for patients like me. Patients who would certainly leave the hospital with empty arms.

I entered that room already in the final stage of labor, and at 20 weeks pregnant, we both knew that my baby would not be coming home with me. Just two days earlier, I had heard the beautiful sound of my baby’s heartbeat, but there was no way to tell if it was still resonating from within or if it had gone silent.

As the contractions shook my body, you held my hand. As the doctor confirmed the death of my baby, you wiped my tears. As I lay in that lonely hospital bed, my body hollowed out by death, your words of understanding spoke to my soul. For you too had experienced the loss of a baby.

You asked if I wanted to see my baby and I said “yes,” while admitting that I was afraid because the doctor had discouraged me from doing so. You encouraged me and acknowledged my fear, while assuring me that there was nothing to be afraid of.

After momentarily leaving the room, you returned with my baby, wrapped in a blanket, head covered in a pastel bonnet. My baby who weighed less than a pound. My baby whose own breath had ceased, and had caused mine to temporarily do the same.

I watched as you held my baby, unfazed by the appearance of a tiny being born 20 weeks too soon. You stroked those itty-bitty fingers and toes. You talked about those eyes. And you told me my baby was beautiful, although the rest of the world would likely have disagreed.

As you placed my breathless baby into the palms of my hands, I too became breathless, afraid to move for fear of causing my brain to become distracted from engraving my baby’s image into my memory. We talked about how much more time my baby should have had to grow. To experience life. To know the sister who was awaiting my return home.

You told me that my baby’s early death did not take away from the importance of his life. Your words were authentic, but it was the look in your eyes that validated this important truth. You treated my baby like a human being and you treated me with compassion as I had unwillingly become a bereaved mother.

Your love and compassion shined brightly during the darkest night of my life. You acknowledged my pain along with the beauty of my baby’s short life. My heart had broken the minute my baby’s had stopped beating. And as you held my baby, you also held my heart.

And now, I hold you in my heart. For I will never forget how you handled the two of us with such care.

I’m certain that I said “thank you” before I walked out of that hospital room. But I wanted to say it again. Thank you.

jennyalbers.com

Infertility….Awareness

Mon, 24 Apr 2023 19:17:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

I have a confession. I’m an addict. Reality tv. You name it…I probably watch it. The trashier the better. I’m sure there’s a whole psychological reason behind why I love trashy television so much, but I don’t really care. It makes me feel better about myself and that’s good enough a reason for me.

Very recently there was a show on Netflix that I somehow managed to binge watch in a matter of no time. I won’t say the name, but it’s a dating experiment to see if people can fall in love based on an emotional connection first rather than a physical connection. I would say most of the couples on the show averaged in age between 25-30, with a few individuals in their mid to upper thirties. Why does this matter? For so many reasons that I’ll get to later.

By the end of the series, you see which couples end up deciding to get married and which ones decide to break up based on their time together (which probably really only amounts to a couple of months when it’s all said and done). Garbage television? For sure. Entertaining? You betcha.

Here’s where it takes a hard left turn for me though. After the series ends, there is always some kind of a reunion episode, which in this case, I read later, was filmed about a year after the show ended. You get to see interviews with the cast and see more drama, blah blah blah. Keep in mind, these couples have been married for about a year. And like I said before, some of them may be nearing 40 years old (see a previous article of mine regarding Advanced Maternal Age). Some couples want to start having kids the second the ink on their marriage license dries. Some couples want to travel the world or actually spend a few minutes together (especially since their whole relationship was filmed) before having kids. And get this… SOME COUPLES DO NOT WANT TO HAVE CHILDREN.

I said it. Some couples do NOT want to have children. Or even worse, some couples can’t. Why do I bring this up? On the reunion episode of this particular show, there was a very uncomfortable portion where one of the hosts of the show kept asking the three married couples when there would be babies and when “she would get to be an aunt.” She said something to the effect of “if this doesn’t make your ovaries burn then I don’t know what will.”

Now, I’m not foolish enough to think that the world is going to stop asking ridiculous questions just because I’m having a hard time. The world does not cater to me. But what the world CAN do is educate themselves. Which is why Infertility Awareness Week is so important. There are many people who choose not to have kids for any number of reasons, every single one of which is valid (and each of which requires zero explanation to anyone). There are also many people who choose to have kids and for any number of reasons cannot. I may be one of those people.

I have never once looked at my medical chart. I do not know if there is any kind of diagnosis inside that says “Infertile.” And why should there be? I got pregnant naturally. Twice. I also have four rounds of failed medical intervention to help become pregnant so I would imagine somewhere in there it might say something about that in the chart. I do not know the medical definition of “Infertility.” But whatever it is, I might be it.

And so might any of the people you encounter every day. People you watch on your favorite reality shows. People you sit next to at work. People you have coffee with, run marathons with (or run errands with, if marathons aren’t your thing).

Infertility is a very painful reality that a lot of people live with but don’t talk about. It’s painful physically, emotionally, and financially. I know that people who choose to go on a reality television show are choosing to put their life out there for the world to see and to judge (and I do), but it’s still hard to watch them squirm when someone asks them the dreaded “so when are you going to have kids” question. No one knows what might be going on. Maybe they’ve been trying the entire year since they stopped filming the show.

I realize that if you are someone who is suffering from infertility, every week (month, day, year) is Infertility Awareness Week. You are constantly aware because it is in your face. In fact, the more you try for it NOT to be in your face, the more in your face it is. The more you want to be pregnant, the more everyone around you seems to get pregnant. Trust me…I know. Everyone else in the world seems to be pregnant except me. That’s just how it is. It is totally unfair, and it just sucks. Especially because we spent (wasted) thousands of dollars on fertility treatments with zero success. And all I can do now is just use my words and hope they help someone else know that they’re not alone.

I would say this, though. I don’t expect anyone to EVER filter themselves or walk on eggshells because of things that have happened to me. Sure, there are ways you can phrase things or maybe certain things you could leave out that might make my life a bit easier, but that’s not other people’s job. However, if you find it in your heart to maybe step back and rethink some of the questions you ask people because of something that I’ve written, well, then I’ve definitely done my job.

About Lindsey Dell

Receive the Healing

Mon, 24 Apr 2023 16:10:00 GMT

By: Justine Froelker

Trauma can stay stuck, living in us for long past the harm.

Our body remembers, trauma gets stuck in our tissues, our hearts yearn, and our brain makes up stories to keep us as safe and comfortable as possible.

It often happened in my office when I was working with individual clients that they would say something like – I don’t know why I am struggling so much. And more times than not, I would remind them that it was an anniversary of some kind of trauma, loss, or tragedy.

Because trauma can and will stay stuck.
Trauma can and will also heal.

I had a day of total presence that day.
I also felt weird unexplainable peace.

I spent the day alone because Chad is hard at work restoring our cabin. I read, did some housework, played with and cared for the dogs, talked to some friends, watched church online, and made myself a delicious and healthy dinner.

I knew it was April 16th – I had thought about the date earlier in the week, remembering the upcoming anniversary. Eleven years. It wasn’t until I checked my FB memories, that I actually remembered the pain, grief, and anguish of that day eleven years ago.

She isn’t pregnant.
Our infertility journey ended in a thirty-second phone call without the baby version of the happy ending.

I, of course, felt the pang of trauma in the lump in my throat, the weight on my chest, and the pull of my stomach.

Because the body remembers.
More than that, the heart always loves.

Except, I felt it for just a pang.
A second, maybe.

Because at the exact same time, and especially even more so right after that pang, I felt what I have come to call the marvel.

The awe, wonder, gratitude, and undoneness alongside the yearning, loss, and grief. More than anything, I remembered and felt the love…the marvel that has come of one of the hardest seasons and the biggest loss of my life.
And yet, on the anniversary day, I felt a weird and unexplainable presence and peace.

Sure, it is because of the work of healing I have chosen to do.
I suppose it is also the passing of time a little too.
I think it is the power of the marvel the most, though.

It can and will stay stuck.
It can and will also heal.

Let it.

Whatever your trauma, loss, or tragedy…

Honor it. Love. Receive the healing.
Live in the marvel.

About Justine Froelker

Justine is a Licensed Professional Counselor. She has over 20 years of experience in traditional mental health and personal development. Justine has been certified in the work of Dr. Brené Brown for seven years. Justine is the author of seven best-selling books and was also honored to do TEDx Talks at TEDxUMDearborn and TEDxLaSierraUniversity . She travels nationally and presents virtually to global audiences delivering keynotes, workshops, and trainings on topics such as leadership, courage, resilience, mental health, preventing burnout, and courageous and curious conversation, especially surrounding such topics as diversity, equity, inclusion, and belonging. Justine lives in St. Louis with her husband Chad, their two dogs and for four months of the year hundreds of monarch butterflies.

Justine’s next book, Marvel Undone: Living In & From God’s Love, will be released in July.

Make sure to follow here for updates.

The Emotions & Experiences of Bereaved Parents

Wed, 15 Mar 2023 16:45:00 GMT

By: Jennifer Haake

When your baby dies you are bombarded by a tsunami of emotions. Especially over the first few years. Everything is raw and there is so much to process. It requires a lot of grace . Not only from others, but yourself as well. Here I am almost 13 years (still seems surreal) from the day we lost our boy. I can honestly say that I have learned so much from losing him.

In the early days there was absolutely nothing anyone could say or do that made it better. There are poignant conversations that I recall even today. For instance, when my husband called the airline to arrange for our son to be flown to St. Louis to be buried; they referred to him as luggage. Now, as a newly bereft father this absolutely infuriated my husband. He refused to fly with them (he still refuses unless forced). It didn’t matter that they treated my mom with compassion and respect when she boarded the same flight as her grandson. Or that when we arrived at the gate they wept with me while I sat in the wheelchair barely a week post c-section sobbing. Or when the ultrasound tech was doing that final ultrasound and they told us he “expired” as if he was a carton of milk; I had issue with that. Never mind, I had a medical background and understood that she was simply using medical jargon. It didn’t matter. She was talking about MY son.

I understand now that these are words. Words used innocently and with no malice. I learned to forgive those people. All of the interactions I have had with people where Charlie is mentioned have an undercurrent of something. Sadness, awkward stares/silence, personal similarities, and people simply being human. When people ask me how many children I have I generally say 4. Nothing much comes of it. However, when they ask their ages of my three girls present and I say 12, 12, and 9. You can see the cogs start to turn. Then the inevitable – Are they twins? Sometimes one of the girls pipes up before me and says “no, we are surviving triplets.” A lot of the times I get a simple “oh” and they quickly change the subject. Last week a woman at my daughter’s dance class sat quietly and must have been stewing on what I said. After class she approached me and apologized. I looked at her with empathy as I know how awkward my statement likely made her feel. Perhaps she had never encountered someone so bold as to declare their loss. Maybe she had a loss at one time and has never shared it with the world. For me, it is just a moment where I can acknowledge him.

Grief is messy.

Grief is hard.

Grief will steal everything you thought you ever knew.

Grief can also be the teacher.

I will not say that my 12 ½ years of grieving has been easy. I won’t say that I started out with any kind of compassion, understanding, empathy, or any ability to forgive. I would be lying. It took years. I am still learning. I not only have to offer forgiveness to those who said or did something that hurt us inadvertently, but I have to forgive myself. I have to show myself the same level of empathy I would for any other person. Am I always great at it; not at all. That is where the grace comes in.

If I were to have a heart to heart with the airline representative or the ultrasound tech today, I would ask them to perhaps change their verbiage. Be softer. Be kinder. To the nursing staff who bombarded us with funeral options as soon as I was wheeled out of recovery. I would suggest they hold off a little bit. Yes, those decisions must be made. But, not right at that moment. To the nurse who was holding my son and softly singing to him; I would tell her she is an absolute angel. And thank her for treating my baby like any other baby. To the neonatologist who forced my scared and overwhelmed husband to sit down and hold our son; I would thank him for giving him that gift.

I would ask that nursing staff either get a professional bereavement photographer in to take photos of my son or make sure I had hundreds. And I would ensure that there were photos with both Derek and I holding him. Looking at him. Loving him. We took our own photos. We only have one with the both of us and his sisters. Those 88 photos are priceless. I would suggest that every hospital provide 3D molds of feet and hands if possible. So that you can remember every tiny crease. Every intricate detail. Like his crooked pinky fingernail.

I suggest every newly bereaved parent find a support group. It might take going to a few meetings to see if it is a good fit, but go. Surround yourself with people in all the various stages of grief. New grief can swallow you whole. It is so difficult to imagine there is any kind of joy after. The shadowy veil is slowly lifted, and the sun does begin to show itself. Even just a little.

There will always be gray days. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, special moments that you should have shared. Seeing people who have lived it, survived it and often times flourished because of it makes the journey almost bearable.The road to healing is bumpy. It is riddled with turns, roadblocks, and dead ends. But each obstacle teaches you something else. Something about resilience, empathy, forgiveness, and grace .

About Jennifer Haake

Jenn and Derek Haake reside in the St. Louis area with their three daughters. Jenn and Derek have been married for 20 years and enjoy St. Louis sports, supporting Share, and whatever other adventures abound. Jenn is a parent companion with Share. She found Share when her son, Charlie, was stillborn in 2010. J. Volunteering for Share is a family affair. Derek serves on the board of directors for Share while the girls can always be found passing out water and helping out at the Walk for Remembrance and Hope.

The Resentment in Grief

Mon, 27 Feb 2023 21:58:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

It’s been 6 years since our firstborn, our son, was stillborn, after struggling with infertility and suffering a miscarriage previously.

Since then we have brought home twin girls, for whom we are immensely grateful.

However, despite the joy of our daughters, the pain remains from our journey to parenthood.

In the four years that it took for us to bring home living children, I watched as others in my life went on to have multiple pregnancies that ended with the birth of multiple , healthy, ALIVE, babies.

Even after “beating infertility”, aka having children, I still struggle with the families who seem to pop out baby after baby. The “fertile Myrtles” still hurt my heart.

The people who just naturally have twins, when mine are a direct result of the fact that we had to struggle and sought medical intervention.

In addition to seeing people get pregnant easily, what they are pregnant with can be incredibly painful. Unless you are a fellow loss mom or an empathetic friend, finding out that others are having boys, since losing our son, is a dagger to my broken, mama heart.

Hearing talk about having a son to carry on the family name is devastating.

It hurts to see others have, not what I want, but what I SHOULD have.

I should have a boy here.

My husband had his boy to carry on the family name, but he died with no explanation.

Why isn’t our son here when others get to keep theirs?

I resent the fact that I wasn’t one of those fertile people who get to keep their son.

I resent that I had to do so much more than most (and yet, also less than many others who struggle with infertility) to have my children.

I resent that my son died, and I have to live with the pain of that loss for the rest of my life.

While the saying goes “happy for them, sad for me”, I can honestly say any happiness I feel for them is overshadowed by the overwhelming sadness I feel for myself, my husband, and our experience.

Can I put on a brave face and send wishes of “Congratulations” and “we are so happy for you”?

Sure, I can.

But when I’m alone, do the tears freely fall over all we have lost on our journey?

100% they do, and that is okay because I carry a weight most people will never understand, and the happiness of others can be a blatant reminder of that.

She has documented her journey from the beginning of her infertility struggles on her blog, Doggie Bags Not Diaper Bags . She is also a co-founder of The Lucky Anchor Project , an online resource for loss families that houses an Etsy store whose profits are donated to loss family non-profit organizations. Sharing her journey has helped her cope and she hopes it also helps others who are walking on this road of life after loss.

What Grieving Parents Wish Everyone Else Knew

Mon, 27 Feb 2023 20:17:00 GMT

By: Michelle L. Cramer

I’ve been doing bereavement photography for 15 years, working specifically with families who have medically fragile children or who lose a child at birth. Because I am not the type of person that can just walk away from someone in their hardest moments, the photography services I began providing so long ago easily morphed for me into ongoing support, too. This also eventually led to me obtaining certification in grief recovery.

What I’ve observed over such a long time working with these families is that society in general doesn’t know how to handle them. The cultural norms for how we respond to grief do more harm than good. Changing how we approach someone grieving has become an unexpected passion of mine. Repeatedly, families I serve have expressed a desire for society to have a better understanding of what they need. And the reality is, each of us will grieve tremendous loss at some point in our lives; having the right support to get us through is critical.

Grief is Uncomfortable

One of the first things I hear from someone grieving is that they refrain from mentioning their loss, apologize to others if found crying, or downplay their grief because of how uncomfortable it makes other people. Parents who have lost an infant child don’t share pictures because it’s too hard for others (meanwhile, the pictures are all they have). They notice that no one mentions their child’s name for fear of upsetting a grieving parent, but all they want people to do is acknowledge their child existed.

Though few will admit it, being present with someone grieving makes us uncomfortable because we want to take their pain away, fix it, and make them feel better so badly that we can’t stand to say and do nothing. Grieving parents then temper their grief for the sake of others, which often leads to further emotional harm.

Those wishing to help grieving parents would do better to meet them in their grief. Acknowledge the pain they are feeling without trying to make it better or bring relief, because you can’t. Most grieving parents just need someone to be there for them in the midst of it.

Throw Away Expectations and Timeline

It will get easier with time is something grieving parents often hear from those attempting to support them. The implication, then, is that over time it won’t hurt anymore. But this is not reality. In fact, grief has no timeline. It never leaves us, we just learn to build life around the scar that will always remain. Even years later, grieving parents will be ravaged by unexpected tsunamis of grief. They need to feel safe to experience that with those they care about.

It’s also important to understand that everyone grieves differently. There should be no expectations on a grieving parent in how they process that grief, unless they are harming themselves or others. Rather than trying to correct their approach, we should meet them in their dark places and hold them until they can stand on their own.

Platitudes are Not Helpful

The most common things to say to a griever are far from helpful in any fashion. I’m sorry for your loss has now become vacant and meaningless to most – grieving parents often tell me that this phrase feels more like others are using it to segway out of the uncomfortable conversation about a child that died, and their lack of understanding in how to handle a grieving parent.

There’s a reason for everything may actually be true, but saying it to a grieving parent isn’t helpful. It is using logic to address an emotion, which will never work. If a grieving parent knew the exact reason that their child died, and could see how this would have a ripple impact on the world with positive outcomes, would that “purpose” make them stop grieving and missing their child? Not a chance. Reason and logic have nothing to do with it.

It could be worse minimizes the parents’ grief, implying that their child wasn’t all that important. At least you have/can have more children indicates that the child they lost is replaceable. Even if they do have more children, that does not replace the child that died and do not make the grief go away. If anything, the grief remains ever present as their other children grow, milestones serving as joyful moments and gut-wrenching reminders of what the child they are missing will never experience.

You deserve happiness again leaves grieving parents feeling guilty, wondering why their child didn’t deserve it. And even let me know if you need anything leaves it up to the griever to figure out what they need and take initiative to ask, both of which can be impossible in the midst of grief.

What is Truly Needed

It’s not platitudes and magic words that bring healing. It’s not logical explanations or perspective. What grieving parents need is simply for those supporting them to be honest: I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to help. But I am here, in whatever capacity you need for as long as you need me. Change the phrase let me know if you need anything to an action-taking statement of how can I help? This indicates that you are fully engaged and committed to doing whatever that grieving parent needs, right here, right now. Most of all, give grieving parents space to grief however they need to for as long as they need to, without analysis, platitudes or attempts to fix it. Be the solidity when they are faltering; gentle arms to catch them when they fall so they don’t shatter all over again.

About Michelle L. Cramer

Michelle is the founder and executive director of On Angels’ Wings , a nonprofit organization that seeks to improve the mental health and wellness of families with medically fragile children, or who have lost a child at birth, through free therapeutic photography and grief recovery services. Michelle is an Advanced Certified Grief Recovery Method Specialist, and author of Unshattered Grief: Helping others through loss without breaking them… again . She resides in Springfield, Missouri with her husband of 20 years, their two teenage boys, and a menagerie of 12 pets and 75 houseplants in their urban home.

Get Your (Toxic) Positivity Out Of Here

Thu, 16 Feb 2023 16:12:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

Ok, ok, ok. I know that sounds rude, but just hear me out, ok? We all have that one friend, coworker, family member, mentor, what-have-you that always wants you to “look on the bright side.” You know exactly who I mean. The “glass is always full” person. And honestly, we all need to have someone like that in our lives. We all have our ups and downs and often times it’s that person who can help pull us out of the trenches when we can’t do it ourselves. These people are absolutely necessary to help balance us out (especially if you’re like me and tend to trend toward the negative).

But not everything in life needs to be balanced. If you’re reading this, then it’s very likely that either you, or someone you’re close to has experienced the traumatic loss of a child. I dare you to try to find the positive in that. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

It’s impossible. And it should be. There is literally no light at the end of the tunnel. No pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or whatever else you want to call it. It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t have to. Life isn’t like that.

Do you remember when you were in school, and you learned in science class that “for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction” (or something along those lines)? I disagree. In life, there is death. Opposite? Yes. Equal? Not at all.

Often times when we’re grieving, we are reminded to be grateful for the things we DO still have. That’s where the “toxic positivity” usually makes an appearance. “Well, at least….” Once you’ve said “at least,” you can stop talking. I’m no longer interested in what you have to say. Harsh? Maybe. But that’s the reality. There is no “at least” when it comes to the death of my baby. “At least you know you can get pregnant.” Yes. I did get pregnant. Twice, in fact. I still have ZERO living children.

I do believe that there are times when a positive mindset is absolutely the way to go. I know walking through life with a dark cloud around your head is not going to bring much joy to you, or anyone around you. I know that generally, people with a positive mindset tend to work hard and achieve the things they want in life. And I do think you can “fake it ‘til you make it,” so to speak. If you’re not feeling super positive, apparently you can pretend that you are and it will actually MAKE you more positive. This is a real thing.

But you cannot “positive” your way to a pregnancy. You can’t just manifest enough positive energy to get pregnant, no matter how bad you want it. Trust me. I tried. In addition to all of the fertility treatments, I tried as hard as I could to remove every single negative thought from my brain. I really, truly did. There is not enough “good juju” in the world that could have saved my precious baby from dying. That’s not how the world works. Because if it did, we had enough people praying for us that I would have had more children than Nick Cannon (sometimes you have to have a sense of humor).

I say all of this to say, don’t feel bad if your mind takes a dive into the negative sometimes. You can’t always turn lemons into lemonade. There is nothing happy, positive, or wonderful about losing a child or struggling with fertility. I will never see anything positive about it, and that’s fine. You don’t have to pretend to be happy and you don’t have to put on a smile just to fake it. Allow yourself to be happy IF you are truly feeling happy. And allow yourself to scream every four-letter word you know if that’s how you’re feeling.

If I’ve learned anything in the three years since we’ve lost our baby, it’s that there is a time and a place for positivity. Sometimes we don’t want to look on the bright side. Sometimes we want to just be in the depths of our grief and not feel like we’re dragging anyone down with us. Other times we do want to grab the hand that’s extended to us so we don’t drown. It’s a matter of surrounding yourself with the right people. The people who can read you like a book and know when to let the sunshine on you, let the rain fall on you, or hold your umbrella over you.

About Lindsey Dell

Lindsey is a mother to 2 angel babies. She lives in Cottleville, MO with her husband Nathan and their 3-year-old Wheaten Terrier, Louie. They are still hopeful that they will have their rainbow baby one day.

A Brother to Remember

Mon, 30 Jan 2023 15:40:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

Raising little, living siblings of an older brother who isn’t here is complicated.

We have always been very open with our girls about their older brother, Asher, who died before they were born. They know of him and his place within our family.

One time while having a dance party, my daughter went over and picked up Asher’s ashes. I asked her to put them down, because obviously that was nerve wracking, and she said “But, I’m dancing with Asher.”

Be still my heart! Cue the tears!

They know him….so much so that they even incorporate him into their play.

I’m sure some may think we are doing a disservice to our daughters by sharing with them about a sibling who died before they were even born, that young children shouldn’t know about that their older sibling’s ashes are in their parent’s bedroom.

“Kids should be kids and they should be sheltered from the hard stuff in life”.

I disagree.

These girls deserve to know about their brother.

They deserve to know about the person who completely changed their parents. We raise them differently because of Asher’s life and his death.

They deserve to know that life is heartbreakingly beautiful; that there is pain and sadness, in addition to joy and happiness.

Not sharing their older brother with them would be like denying his brief existence in this world and that is something I will absolutely NOT do.

Asher lived and THEN he died.

He was here and his sisters have a right to know that.

It’s unfair that our daughters have to carry their older brother in their hearts, instead of Asher carrying them in his arms.

It’s unfair that our daughters have to dance with Asher’s ashes, instead of him.

However, it would be more unfair to keep a huge part of our family from them, to hide the pain and the joy that their brother brings to all our lives.

Raising them to openly speak about the brother they carry in their hearts is one of the hardest, heartbreaking, uplifting, and proudest responsibilities in my life.

Remembering Carson

Wed, 25 Jan 2023 12:29:00 GMT

By: Amanda Crews

In March of 2017, at 37 weeks pregnant, I heard the crushing words, “Amanda, I am so sorry, but there’s no heartbeat,” as I lay on an ultrasound table within my obstetrician’s office. Visions of changing diapers, sleepless nights, late night feeds, milestones, and the life we had planned came tumbling down. How could this be? How could this happen? It left me confused and filled with grief.

After my labor and delivery, we pulled out of the hospital in our Honda CR-V, with an empty car seat in the back. When we arrived home, we entered into a quiet stillness. Our world had stopped. We had no other children at the time. My body ached from a hard labor. My arms ached for my seven-pound baby. My heart ached for Carson and the fact that he was no longer with me. How could I move forward? How could I find joy? How could the only memories I would ever have with him be left to kicks and movements within my body and a few short hours in a hospital room?

I wanted more. More time. More kicks. More movement. More Carson. But there I was, at home, no longer pregnant, and no longer dreaming of a life that could be with him. There would only ever be life without him.

Another stillbirth mama that I became friends with after our loss told me about weighted memory bears. I looked into a couple of organizations who made them, but the wait time was pretty lengthy then. (However, now you can browse Etsy and other sites to get one created pretty quickly.) Then, though there weren’t many other options, and I couldn’t wait. I needed to have something to wrap my arms around that could remind me of Carson. So, I went to Build-a-Bear, and I bravely shared our story. The woman working said she couldn’t help me with the weighted part, but I could purchase an empty bear and buy the weighted beads at a craft store. I did that. As I was checking out, I mentioned that I had a recording of Carson’s heartbeat from one of my Non-Stress Tests. As I did this, she excitedly put her finger up, and darted to the back of the store. She came back with a box that recorded sound, and right there, she showed me how to record Carson’s heartbeat from my phone onto the box. That night, I stuffed our bear to the perfect weight of 7 pounds 1 ounce, exactly what Carson weighed. I sat on the couch and laid it on my chest, closed my eyes, and remembered him, in the hospital room, upon my chest.

When I think about memories with Carson, I know I will never have any more than I’ve already had: first butterfly kicks, strong elbows and feet poking internal organs uncomfortably, and our time together in the hospital after his birth. Those are gifts from his life that I will treasure forever. However, our Carson bear helps us incorporate him into our day-to-day living. It’s a physical reminder to my now children that they have an older brother in heaven. They love our Carson Bear, who usually sits on our mantle and is sure to attend all of our family photoshoots. He’s a physical reminder that someone is missing. Though my sadness and grief have evolved over the past almost six years, on the really hard days, when I pause for just a moment and the grief comes crashing in, I pick up our Carson Bear, and I remember. I remember his heartbeat tucked within my body; I remember the aches and pains of my first pregnancy. I remember the hope I held onto while in labor that he’d come out crying – that the machines were wrong. I remember his little body on mine. I remember his 10 perfect fingers and 10 perfect toes. I remember the kisses I laid upon his little face. I remember. In your remembering, I encourage you to do what works for you. Regardless of the remarks from others on what you should or shouldn’t do or what your grief should or shouldn’t look like, do what helps your heart. Be gentle with yourself, but always allow yourself to remember. Your baby’s life, regardless of length of time, was a gift to you, and you were created to be his or her mama.

About Amanda Crews

A New Year

Tue, 17 Jan 2023 16:40:00 GMT

By: Lauren Hearne

It’s a time to reflect on the past year and plan for what this new year will bring and make lists/goals/resolutions/etc. I always loved the idea of a new year and the hope of what that may bring and a chance for a fresh start. I always loved the idea of making one – five- and ten-year plans, reflecting on things I have accomplished, and putting that “check mark” next to those items.

I have lived my life according to list and check marks. I did everything in this arbitrary order that we’ve been told to live life by:

College – check.
Adult job – check.
Girl meets boy – check.
Girl and boy get engaged – check.
Girl and boy get married – check.
Girl and boy buy home – check.
Girl and boy have baby – pause…. you’ll have to wait a year of trying after an early miscarriage and then be fortunate enough to have a baby in 2017
Girl and boy wait to try for a second (because society also thinks it’s appropriate as soon as baby #1 is born to ask when baby #2 is coming) – 16 wk. miscarriage in 2020, stillborn in 2021

Having a baby wasn’t just a check mark that I could check off, which brings me back to the new year.

Lists, goals, 1-5-10 year plans are all a joke. I have a few other choice words but decided that wouldn’t be appropriate. We can do the things in order, we can plan all we want, but if like me your past year(s) reflection didn’t end with a baby in your arms how do we continue to pretend or plan knowing that this year may end the exact same? It’s heartbreaking, its disappointing, its full of pain but it’s not a reflection of you or who you are.

You are so much more incredible than you could ever know. You’ve known love and pain like no other. You have the gift of empathy that can’t be taught. You have suffered and every day you still show up. You show up for you. You show up for all those babies you’ve longed for, some you may have held in your arms or your hearts.

So even if your year isn’t how, you wanted it to look, don’t forget to recognize how much you have changed, grown, and showed up every single day. Our life isn’t a pretty highlight reel we can throw together; its full of good and the ugly, the joy and the sad, everything and all the in between.

It isn’t just an easy check mark.

If you are feeling like me in the start of this year, I just wanted you to know you are not alone, but I am damn proud of you for how you showed up!

Lauren lives in a camper and travels the US with her husband, Tom, and daughter, Olivia. Lauren and Tom have two angel babies, Noah and Carter, and travel in their honor. They have two dogs who also road warriors, Frenchie and Rocky, who were born around the same time as both of their babies. They’ve learned that life is short, so go out and live your big dreams.

The Scrabble Pieces

Tue, 17 Jan 2023 15:45:00 GMT

By: Ashley Loehr

Everyone grieves differently — Woman, Men, Doctors, Nurses, Grandparents, Aunts and Uncles. Everyone has a different way to grieve. As we complete the second year and second Holiday Season without our daughter Ava here on earth, we reflect on the things we did differently and the same. Since the day that our daughter has died, we have had a healthy baby boy that has entered our family. He will celebrate six months here with us very soon. Our daughter will celebrate her fourth birthday without her sister here. There are so many moments that make me sad. There are so many things we will miss about Ava not being here with us. The daughter we had to say hello and goodbye to all in the same day.

Like every day we wake up, she isn’t here, and we try to honor her and preserve her memory in the best way possible. Some days that includes speaking about her, grieving her, but also some days that means keeping it all too ourselves and not sharing about her. Every day is different. Grief means we loved someone. To love someone so deeply makes you want to honor them. Honoring your dead child is so personal and so sacred — it is unique to us and unique to anyone else that has lost.

This past year brings many memories and first and seconds for us. Ava was born in the spring of 2021. This past year we had her first birthday. That day we anticipated would be very hard, and it was. A month prior to her birthday we all talked as a family and decided that we wanted to honor her by donating to the hospital that we had her at. We thought about small things that helped us along this journey and still continue too. We had planted flowers to honor her birth month. We donated flower seeds for the birth month, we donated books about grief and honoring our time with our child. We had old friends, new friends, colleagues, and family all help us donate a large quantity of books to the hospital. It didn’t bring her back, but we placed a sticker in each book in honor of Ava. That way all the good that we could do or small comfort we could bring would be in her name. I have heard of other families doing this. Other baby loss families I know, donate time, items, medical supplies, etc. to hospitals or places that can help families like us. We all know it doesn’t bring back our child, but we all know the help and good that can come of it.

The past year we included Ava where we could. We bought a white pumpkin during October, so she could have her own pumpkin. We have continued to bring Ava Bear to all the pictures that we take as a family. We hold Ava bear, we keep her in the living room to snuggle her. We have Ava’s stocking hung by the fireplace along with our other children that are here on earth. She has special ornaments hung on the tree. I recently flipped through a book that I made the month after she died. It was a book I made with all the pictures of before, during and after her birth. It was her story in picture form. Those pictures are a huge keepsake to us. It allows me to see her when she was alive, remember her the way we want to remember her. Alive, breathing and surrounded by love. I can see that she was alive. I know that I held her — because somedays it feels like she wasn’t. Somedays it feels like the memories are fading or slipping away. Which is a parent’s worst fear. Memories change over time. We reshape them in our heads. So, when I revisit the book, I can remember that day the way it was.

We have so many things we cherish in our home that remind us of Ava. We have her hospital blanket she was wrapped in with the outfit we chose for her. I bought a duplicate of what she was laid to rest in. We have a wooden box that plays music from her memorial mass. We have cards, donations, ribbons and anything that has to do with our daughter saved. I have notebooks of information prior to delivery I will hold forever. I have a funeral tag still in a bag that I can’t let go of. There are so many things that will just be too hard to let go of. But what I have learned is we don’t have too.

There isn’t a specific way to grieve.

So, what we want to do is right.

It is right for us.

We have pictures hung on the wall. We have a wall of all the names of our family on the wall in scrabble and Ava is there. My husband created our scrabble wall. He made Ava’s three squares. It was a project during our grief that he completed. He got to cut the wood that made the square and then paint the letters for us and hang these on the wall. Her picture is hung on the wall, and you can see it at almost every angle of the house. That way I can look at her every day.

It is so very hard to preserve every scent and feeling and every touch from that day. We hold on to it for dear life. It brings so much sadness but so much joy. Joy that we held and spent time with our second daughter Ava. Joy that I got to meet my daughter alive and not dead, because it was not a guarantee she would make it here alive. She is our second daughter, our middle child, our second girl, a niece, a great niece, a great granddaughter and granddaughter, sister. She has so many names other than as our daughter calls her “our Ava”. This year we haven’t decided what we will do for her birthday. Likely something similar to last year. But I do know whatever we do – we will celebrate her. We will visit her at her grave – make her a cake – sing her happy birthday and remember her.

About Ashley Loehr

Ashley resides in St Louis, Missouri with her husband of six years, and is mom to three human children and a brown lab mix. Their daughter Ava, watches over her 4-year-old sister, her new baby brother and their family in heaven. Ava passed away shortly after her birth on April 17th, 2021, due to a rare skeletal Dysplasia called Thanatophoric Dysplasia.

Everyday is different as Ashley tries to move forward in the seasons of grief, while honoring and keeping her daughter Ava’s memory alive. Every day presents a new challenge of being a mother to two children on earth while longing for my child that is in heaven. Sharing bits and pieces of their story throughout this process has been healing but has also brought comfort to others, as they continue to say Ava’s name.

A Life Without Children: When Plans Change

Mon, 09 Jan 2023 19:09:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

I’ve struggled lately. It’s no secret (well, maybe it is but I feel like I wear my emotions on my sleeve, so my face usually says it long before my mouth does). Holidays can be a wonderful and joyful time of year. It can also be very sad and painful (not to be a total Debbie Downer, but it is what it is).

I remember Christmas three years ago. We had just found out we were having a baby girl. So many of the gifts we received that year were centered around our baby and we were overjoyed. We had gotten everything from adorable outfits to diaper bags, you name it. It was probably one of the most fun (and sobering) Christmases I’ve experienced (I’m Jewish and did not really celebrate Christmas very often until I met my husband. However, after we met, it came to be one of my favorite parts of the year). I say it was sobering because it’s one of the first times I truly realized that life would no longer be all about us, but we would be responsible for a child and making sure she felt all the same joy during the holidays that we were feeling that year.

One of the most exciting things about being pregnant, especially during the holidays, was just knowing that the following year, you would get to do all those things you love with your baby. Family dinner? She’ll be there. Birthday party? She’ll be there. Attempt to stay up until midnight for the New Year but fail miserably and fall asleep by 9 p.m.? She’ll be there.

The thing is…she’s not here. All of those hopes and dreams were stripped from us on February 18, 2020 when our daughter died. I hope that sounds dramatic because it’s supposed to. That’s quite literally what it feels like when you lose a child. Everything you had spent months planning and wishing and hoping for is gone.

We started planning to try to conceive again shortly after the loss of our baby. Were we ready? Probably not. Are we ready now? Maybe more so than before but still not sure. But we foolishly expected to get pregnant again quickly because medically speaking, there was no reason why we couldn’t. We were unsuccessful. We recently (like in the last two weeks) finished our fourth round of fertility treatments. After the third unsuccessful round we had decided we were done with fertility treatments (narrator: they were not done with fertility treatments) .

Earlier this year, after our third round, we took a break. I wanted to let my body (and our bank accounts) heal. I’d like to say that everything is healed, but that’s not true. This past fall we essentially started the IVF process over with a new clinic, new doctors, and new hope. We did every single procedure and process that was recommended for us because we knew for sure this was really the last time (narrator: this really was the last time ).

After receiving the news last week that we had zero viable embryos, we gave up. We had to. We discussed before this final round that after this, we would truly be at peace knowing we had done everything we were willing and able to do (narrator: they were not totally at peace ).

What happens now? Your guess is as good as mine. We made it through the holidays, but I can’t say it was easy. We’re sad. Where do you go when you’ve put (quite literally) all your eggs in one basket? Sure, we have tons of things we want to do with our lives. As soon as we found out the process had failed, we immediately started discussing all the things we wanted to do. We made plans to travel and do all the things we had put on hold for the last three years. I will admit that there is some relief in not having to stick myself with needles, wait for nerve-wracking phone calls and lab results. However, despite all the anxiety and unknowns during the IVF process, the one thing that kept me going was hope. We had hope.

What do you do when the hope is gone? What happens when your plans change? I wish I could tell you but I’m still navigating this myself. I think we went right from sadness and disappointment to making travel plans as a way to ease the pain.

How do you go from making plans for the future that are centered on having a baby, to making plans for the future that do not include a baby?

That is something I have not fully grasped yet. Here’s what needs to happen:

I need to stop thinking and planning and doing and just sit with my feelings.

But that’s uncomfortable and I don’t want to. I know that once I actually allow myself to feel what I’m feeling, the real healing can begin. But I’m not ready.

In the meantime, I make myself feel better by reading blogs and posts from other people who are going through similar fates. Not because I’m happy to see anyone else going through this.

But there is something very validating about knowing that what you’re feeling is “normal” for the situation you’re in. So, here I am, validating your feelings. Having to change your future plans on a dime is not easy and if you’re not sure where to go next, that makes two of us.

About Lindsey Dell

The Love Doesn’t Stop

Wed, 04 Jan 2023 15:14:00 GMT

By: Marie Kriedman

When I experienced a miscarriage, moving forward was the last thing on my mind. I was so enmeshed in my grief that I wasn’t sure how to get through one single day. My focus was my family and how we were going to survive this crushing new reality. We had already opened our hearts and loved the baby that we would not be able to keep.

Time passed, and the sun rose each morning, whether or not I thought I could face the day. Treasured keepsakes are an important reminder that my daughter is still a valued member of our family.

Every morning, I wake up and see an adorable gray baby elephant with pink wings, engraved with her name. This sweet gift sits on a bookshelf in my bedroom and was given to us by a dear friend to celebrate what would have been Olivia’s first birthday. It sits next to her urn, a small and delicate pink, bronze box.

The keepsakes remind me that I have work to do, to honor my baby girl. I write because it is my outlet and a way to process my grief. I write to honor my daughter. I am currently working with a publisher to complete a sequel to my first book, Saying Goodbye to Olivia . I love holding “her” book in my hands and I hope it may help other families explain a miscarriage to young children.

Moving forward wasn’t a conscious choice. It happened naturally, even though it required a great effort. Focusing on my book gave me a concrete outlet that I desperately needed. There are days where I have to remind myself to be engaged, so I can live rather than exist. Other days, laughs and happiness come more naturally and without the pangs of sorrow. The tears have slowed down, but I’m not sure they will ever stop.

I miss my daughter every day. For now, I take each day as it comes, some with tears and others with a smile. I take solace in my children’s silliness and joy, my husband’s embrace, and knowing we are all together for every step forward or backward.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as a freelance writer for more than 20 years. She founded Write Away K and is a children’s book author. Marie and her husband are graciously permitted to live in a house with their cats. They are also parents to two children and one angel baby. Please visit BooksbyMarie.com to learn more.

You’re Entitled to Your Opinion

Mon, 21 Nov 2022 16:25:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

I am not naïve to the fact that many, who have zero understanding of this type of loss, judge the way in which I handle the loss of my firstborn child. I know it because I use to be one of those people. I use to be a person who subscribed to the cliché that “time heals all wounds” and that “grief ends”. I use to wonder why someone was talking about their deceased loved one years later.

Geez, shouldn’t they be over it by now?

But then my son died…inside of me.

We were in the third trimester.

We had his room ready.

He had a name.

He was born.

I labored.

I pushed.

I held my fully formed, lifeless son in my arms.

I said goodbye to him on the same day that I first held him.

I lost a lifetime with my son.

Because of that, the grief I feel will last a lifetime.

As his mother, it is my job to make sure that my child is not forgotten. I accomplish this task in various ways i.e. talking about him, being an open book about how the loss of him has impacted and will continue to impact our lives, holding his picture in family photos, doing good deeds in his memory, working with my own and various other organizations to help fellow loss parents, etc.

I know from the outside, to someone who hasn’t experienced this loss, it’s “concerning” and “off-putting”.

“He didn’t even live outside of her. It would be sadder if he lived for several years and then died.”

“It’s been 5 years. Time to move on.”

“It’s terrible, BUT it’s also really common.”

I know that it makes others uncomfortable. I know that they judge and think I’m “stuck” or not “moving on”. However, it’s quite the contrary. I am moving FORWARD and I am doing so WITH my son. I have incorporated his all too brief existence in this world into my life. My son has given me purpose and I’ve accomplished a lot of things that I am incredibly proud of him in his memory.

While I would hope that being an open book would change your mind about my grief, you are entitled to your opinion.

You’re allowed to judge something you know nothing about firsthand.

That is your right as a human.

However, I am not required to listen to your opinion.

I am not obligated to hear your opinion and simply be okay with it.

Words hurt and once they are said, they can’t be taken back.

They can’t be forgotten.

Remember that the next time you judge a griever and feel compelled to verbalize it.

Eighteen

Mon, 07 Nov 2022 16:01:00 GMT

By: Autumn Purdy

“… I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,

Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;

The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—

The loss of beauty is not always loss!”

From “November” by Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

I awaken from a vivid, haunting dream and remorsefully remember: She’d be 18.

I am walking in the woods and stop short when I see her golden silhouette, delicate features, and magnetic smile. Immediately I recognize the girl before me. In an intensely visceral, intuitive way that only makes sense to a mother, I know: she is my daughter.

She’s a stunning young woman, glowing, a vision to behold. Her image transfixes me. My heart leaps and I am breathless. I ache to embrace her, speak to her, and walk beside her. Before I am able to outstretch my arms, use my voice, or fall in step beside her, my daughter turns to me and holds my glance with tender eyes and a warm smile. She acknowledges me with a nod and a toss of her golden hair then runs out of the woods and toward the light through the trees. Gone from my sightline. Gone from my approach. Gone, once again.

Weeping, I collapse on the rocky path and stare intently, willing her to return while blinking back hot tears. Weeping for the failed chance encounter. Weeping for what could have been. Weeping for losing her all over again.

My real-life tears end my dream state and I remember: She’d be 18 . I lie awake, meditating on this astonishing fact, brewing fresh tears that blur the ceiling above me. In the stillness of the early morning, I yearn for all the days we lost so many years ago. I am desolate and left with an ever-present aching for her light, her love, her life.

Reliving the heartache is as piercing as the day I began to miscarry and the tears are as profuse as the moment I called my husband on that terrible day when the bleeding began. I allow myself to surrender to the bittersweet mixture of dream and reality, to experience the loss of my first child all over again–yes, even eighteen years later. The truth is, miscarriage is a haunting kind of loss, an unusual type of grief. I can choose over and over again to let her go but she remains a part of me and always will.

I find I have been wondering, pondering, and questioning all these years. Until this recent dream, I never dared to be so bold in the present and form her in my mind. So maybe my subconscious knew what my heart finally needed. Comforted by the vision of my beautiful child, I am affirmed by my faith and the belief that, one day, she and I may meet again. For now, I remember what we endured and that is enough. Although I never held her hand along the path in a glorious wood, I carry the memory of my first pregnancy and, now, the dream of her with me along every path I go. I may have never spoken words of praise or sung a song to this child but, at any time, I can whisper the name we chose for her: Agnes Elizabeth . I may never have embraced her on this earth or in my dreams. Though, I will always hold her in my heart and feel the loss of her deep in my bones.

The Hardest Part

Wed, 19 Oct 2022 18:27:00 GMT

By: Artis Granville

The hardest part is everything. Everything hurts the same.

If I had to choose what hurts the most my dear, it’s you not being here for me to call you by name.

For now, when I call your name my child it is in remembrance of you,

For I refuse to let the whole world forget that your tiny footprints were once here too.

Artis M. Granville is an African American author, poet, and mother. Artis is a South Chicago, IL, native with a fiery passion to raise awareness about Pregnancy and Infant Child Loss in minority communities, with a particular interest in positive bereavement strategies and emotional support resources. She lost her son at 22 ½ weeks of pregnancy and through the grace of God, inherited the gift of poetic expression, which has been therapeutic in mourning the loss of her son Aidan. While this experience has been both tumultuous and disheartening, Artis has a heavenly bond with Aiden. Her heartfelt emotions are expressed through poems, captured in a journal, which serve as timeless memories and conversations between mom, dad, and baby. Her journal can be found at https://www.amazon.com/author/its_okay_mommy_daddy_ag Artis’s mission is to keep Aidan’s legacy alive by encouraging grieving parents to create new resources that will help keep the cycle of resources overflowing for grieving parents globally.

New Holiday Traditions

Mon, 03 Oct 2022 09:00:00 GMT

By: Kendra Salgado

My life is so much more different now than I ever expected, and the holidays are no exception. After finding out I was pregnant in May of last year and subsequently being pregnant the holidays the rest of the year, I never thought I would have to experience them without my son, Julian.

Holidays are supposed to be festive, joyous, filled with love, family, and traditions. But what do they look like when our baby died? How do we include and honor him?

The holidays so far this year have been difficult for myself and my husband, Daniel. While they have not felt joyous, but there has still been a lot of love for our son. Easter was the first holiday since Julian died and was born silently. He would have been two months old so obviously he wouldn’t have had an easter basket with candy, but there would be no easter pictures, and no celebrations, just sadness and an aching heart wishing I could spend the day with our baby and make fun easter memories. I felt like a bad mother because I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, I just knew I couldn’t do what I wanted for my baby. A special person that has been helpful for my healing journey suggested for next year to get easter eggs to decorate for Julian. That idea helped me come up with ideas for later holidays on how to include our boy.

For Mother’s Day I wrote a letter to Julian and told him how much I loved him and missed him, and I was so grateful to be his mommy. Very few people recognized my motherhood that day, but I chose to honor Julian still because he made me a mom. I got Daniel a card for Father’s Day and acknowledged his fatherhood and the love he holds for our son. Fewer people acknowledged him that day than me for Mother’s Day, but by recognizing him it acknowledged Julian and that he existed, so it felt right to do. For the fourth of July we chose to do fireworks still this year. We didn’t get to experience them with our should have been five-month-old, seeing his reactions to the bright lights and the noise, instead I decorated around Julian’s urn with themed lights and pinwheels. We associated monkeys with Julian, so we picked out a special firework for him with a monkey on the package and lit it for him.

In preparation for fall and Halloween, we planted pumpkin seeds and a sign next to them reading “Julian’s Pumpkins”. We tended to those pumpkins and nurtured them with the love for our son and watched them grow. Once they were ready, we picked them off the vine and once again, surrounded Julian’s urn. Tending to the pumpkins daily and growing them specifically for him provided an outlet for my need to care for Julian. It warmed my broken heart and was very healing, probably the most healing thing we have done for him so far. Later Daniel picked up a stuffed pumpkin to place in our arrangement too, which we will have for future Halloweens now for Julian.

While I don’t know what we will do for Thanksgiving or Christmas yet, and I don’t feel the usual anticipatory joy for those holidays or have a desire to celebrate, we will still find special things to do for Julian. We can’t celebrate and spend the holidays with him the way we envisioned and want so badly to do, and the way things “should have been” will tear us apart on this journey if we let it. So, we hold Julian in our hearts and carry our love forward making new holiday traditions he is a part of, and it brings some light to the darkest of days.

About Kendra Salgado

Kendra and Daniel currently live in Clarksville, Tennessee, and are the proud parents of their son, Julian, who was stillborn just days before his due date in February of 2022. They hope to bring awareness to pregnancy and infant loss and help other families heal by sharing their story.

Coping with Miscarriage

Wed, 28 Sep 2022 19:52:00 GMT

By: Sierra Dean

After I miscarried, my first thought was, “How long will I be sad?” The answer: as long as you need. Everyone’s experience with miscarriage is different and valid. I’ve experienced several miscarriages, but each one took a certain toll on me, whether emotionally or physically.

You have a right to your feelings.

You may feel grief, sadness, anger, guilt, or fear. These feelings are normal and valid. You might be surprised how intense your emotions can be after a miscarriage.

There’s no right way to grieve a pregnancy loss — you are allowed to process it in your way and at your own pace. Your feelings will change over time; they may even differ from what others have experienced with miscarriage. It’s also okay if you don’t feel any of these things right away — that’s normal too!

It’s okay to grieve.

You are not alone in your grief. It is normal to feel sad, angry, and guilty when you lose a pregnancy. It’s also normal to feel numb or scared. Your feelings will change over time as you cope with the loss of your baby. It’s important to give yourself permission to feel whatever emotion you are feeling at any given moment.

Let go of the “shoulds.”

It’s okay to feel the way you do. You can’t control the way you feel, and it’s not productive to try. You also don’t have to pretend to be happy when you’re not, or strong for other people. It may seem strange at first, but if a friend says, “I’m so sorry,” or “It’s okay,” then just say: “Thank you.”

That’s all it takes for them—and for YOU—to know what they’re feeling is appreciated.

If someone wants advice on how they should handle their miscarriage (it happens), share your own experiences with them and ask them what their experiences were like as well before giving any advice.

Take care of yourself physically.

Physical and emotional stress may be related, so it’s important to take care of both. For example, physical activity can help you feel less emotionally stressed. And feeling emotionally better can help you sleep better at night, which in turn helps your body stay healthy and strong.

Express yourself creatively.

There are many ways to express yourself creatively. Journaling is a good way to release your emotions and can help you connect with others who have experienced miscarriages. You could also try creating art, music, or dance if that’s something that resonates with you.

Writing poetry or creative writing can be another way of expressing how you’re feeling and may help bring more clarity to the situation at hand. Doing drama and acting out characters in a play can also give people an outlet for their emotions without having to put themselves in any real danger of upsetting anyone else involved in their lives (e.g., mom, close family member, or friend).

Observe a ritual that feels meaningful to you.

A ritual is something you do to mark the end of a cycle, and it can help you process your feelings about a miscarriage. When you choose to observe a ritual for your miscarriage, follow these steps:

~Decide what form will best fit into your daily life and make sense in light of any existing traditions or religious beliefs (or lack thereof).

~Remember that rituals don’t have to be elaborate—in fact, they’re often more powerful when they’re simple and meaningful only to those participating in them. Some examples include lighting candles at sunset each day until all are gone; writing letters expressing gratitude toward people who’ve touched our lives; spending time alone during certain hours every day; creating art honoring what was lost; making donations in honor of our unborn baby’s life; reflecting on how far along we were when we miscarried; listening carefully each morning for signs from above about what happened since our last appointment/test results were released…the list goes on!

Talk with others who’ve had miscarriages.

If you are grieving a miscarriage, it can be helpful to talk with others who have gone through the same experience. They may share their feelings and experiences with you, or they may provide advice on how they were able to get through their miscarriage. Talking about your experience is an important part of healing and learning more about what happened.

It can also help to talk with people who have had different experiences than yours. Some people may tell you that they felt relieved after miscarrying; others might say that they felt devastated by the loss of their pregnancy. You don’t need everyone in your life to understand exactly how you feel—but it can still be comforting if some do!

It’s okay to take time to grieve and heal after a miscarriage, but your emotions are valid no matter what they are.

Coping with miscarriage is a process, not a destination—it will be different for everyone. You may feel like you’re stuck in the same place week after week, or you might notice progress over months or years. That being said, it’s important to know that whatever stage you’re at on this journey is okay and normal.

It can be difficult to find support after a miscarriage, but it’s important to reach out and talk about this experience with others who have felt similar pain. This is a good way for you to validate what you’re feeling and get some helpful tips from someone who knows what you’re going through. If there are people in your life who don’t know how to handle such news, then they probably aren’t worth talking to anyway. Take care of yourself by doing things that make you feel better—such as spending time with family or friends or taking up hobbies like reading books or watching movies (or even binge-watching TV shows!).

About Sierra Dean
Sierra Dean is a full-time entrepreneur who loves assisting authors in creating Best-Selling books and extra income streams. When she started the entrepreneurship journey, her goal was to help people learn how to express themselves through another outlet, which was writing.

In 2017, she began helping others write and share their stories with the world. As people wrote their stories, she found that they were healing as well. As a Publishing Coach, Sierra strives to make sure all authors are able to add Best-Selling Author to their bio. To get I touch with Sierra, email sierra.dean@deandiaries.com or www.deandiaries.com

The Unfairness of It All: Infertility after Loss

Wed, 28 Sep 2022 18:58:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

Warning: what you’re about to read is very raw, real and new. Does anyone else think “Advanced Maternal Age” is the biggest farce on the planet? I mean, it’s not a farce because it’s very real, but WHY?

Let me back up a little. In the spirit of transparency, I have to say that I never really wanted kids. I know people who knew early on that their dream in life was to have children. That was never me. Ever. As I got older (and still very single), I changed my tune a little bit. I had decided that IF I ever got married and he wanted kids, ONE kid would be my limit. I never felt like my life would be any less fulfilling if I didn’t have kids (a concept that I’m now struggling with but used to fully believe).

My twenties and thirties were awesome. I started running marathons, made tons of running friends and traveled to different cities/states to run. Running through a city is such a wonderful way to see it and I truly was loving life. I lived alone and just felt like I could truly be happy this way for the rest of my life. I knew there was a tiny part of my life missing because I did know that I wanted to get married one day.

Fast forward to 2017. Shortly before my 35 ^th birthday, I met my husband. Because we were both a little “older” (it’s all relative), we both knew what we wanted in a partner and by 2019 we had bought a house and gotten married. We had the “kid” discussion early on and I knew that my husband wanted to be a father. And I knew he would be a wonderful father. So, we compromised. We would have one child (because it’s just that easy, right?).

Six months after our wedding, we saw those two pink lines for the first time. I woke him up at 4:30 in the morning to show him. We were beyond excited. The happiness was short-lived, as I miscarried just a few days later. I was sad. Very sad. I had a lot of mixed feelings and wasn’t sure what to do. In my head, I had decided that since I had been so wishy-washy on having kids, this was God’s way of truly making sure I wanted this. I did.

A little over a month later, we saw the two pink lines again. We were surprised and thrilled with how little we had to wait for it to happen again. We got to do all the things parents get to do. We had many ultrasounds, a little gender reveal “party” (just family), the social media announcement, and everything else. We had received TONS of gifts from our friends and families, who were so excited for us.

February 18, 2020, at 21 weeks pregnant, we were told our daughter had no heartbeat. There were many days, weeks, months and now years of grief and sadness that followed. But we were sure that because we had gotten pregnant so “easily” twice before, it would happen again. WRONG.

After trying for a year, we still had not gotten pregnant. My OBGYN referred me to a fertility clinic. Ridiculous, right? I don’t have fertility issues. I got pregnant twice. I made the appointment anyway. Full disclosure: I absolutely LOVED my fertility clinic. The doctors and nurses and all of the staff were so incredibly comforting and caring and absolutely everything you would ever want in a medical treatment center.

Enter “Advanced Maternal Age.” A concept I had never really thought much about. When I was pregnant, I was considered high risk for reasons other than (and including) my age. I was 37 years old when I originally got pregnant. Now, two years later at 39 years old, pregnancy seems impossible, or at the very least, out of our reach.

Three failed IVF attempts (the latest of which we just got the results of this week) and we’re no further along in our journey to have a child than we were before. As I said before, I LOVED our fertility clinic. They truly were amazing, and we fully believe they tried everything they could (and so did we) to make this happen. I know they would continue to treat us as long as we wanted, but everyone has limits and we have hit ours. We are drained. Physically, financially, emotionally, and every other “ ly” you can think of.

In some weird ways, I’m a tiny bit relieved to be done with the countless needles, appointments, phone calls, and anxiety of not knowing what to expect. I am sad, however, to not get to see the medical team anymore. That’s how much I loved them. Obviously, I am sad that our efforts seemed to be all for naught (a fact that you don’t have the luxury of knowing until you go through the process). I was never diagnosed with any actual fertility issues. There is no rhyme or reason as to why we never did get pregnant again. I have my own theories, but they are based strictly on my anxiety and not on medical fact.

Now, on the cusp of turning 40, I have lost most hope. 40 is not old by any means but it is about as “Advanced Maternal Age” as you can get. I’m sad that I couldn’t give my husband the child he so desperately wanted and deserved. I’m sad that I couldn’t give my parents their first grandchild. I know they would have been the most amazing and involved grandparents and it breaks my heart that they may not get the chance.

I know NO ONE blames me. I know that. And no matter how many times people say it, I know that. It’s hard to accept the fact that your body just refuses to do something it was designed to do. (I know there are other options for having children and we have had those discussions). Most of all, it feels like punishment for having not met each other until “later” in life. How is that fair???

We have to find peace in knowing that we truly did everything we possibly could. We have to figure out how to move forward with plans that do not include a child. We have to do things for ourselves and our health and just be there for each other.

I’m generally a “everything happens for a reason” person, but I will never know or understand the reasons behind anything we’ve gone through. I have to make peace with that as well. For now, we are going to focus on ourselves, spend time with our fur baby and all of our family and friends. They are truly one reason we have been able to get up after being knocked down time after time. As far as living a fulfilled life without children, I do still believe that (mostly). I know that we still have tons of things we want to do and may now have the opportunity to do so. And who knows. Maybe “Advanced Maternal Age” won’t get the best of me.

About Lindsey Dell

In the Blink of an Eye

Thu, 15 Sep 2022 17:45:00 GMT

By: Artis Granville

I squirmed in the salon chair endlessly. “What’s wrong son?” I asked as I gently rub my tummy. I was now 22 weeks and 6 days along in my pregnancy. I was expecting a baby boy. “Are you hungry?” The stylist asked. “No, my baby is uncomfortable today.” I replied. It took approximately one hour for her to finish braiding my hair. I paid for my services and waddled out of the salon doors.

As I headed to my car, I recognized a subtle pain pulsating in my lower abdomen. Hmph. “Braxton Hicks contractions”, I mumbled. I decided to stop for something to eat as I made my way to my mother’s place to enjoy dinner with family. When I arrived, I sat next to my niece at the dinner table and sat my phone on the table face up. I complained of the sensation as I attempted to enjoy my meal, but then decided that I should time the frequency of the sharp pains.

I should note that I successfully carried a child years prior to carrying my son Aidan. I should also note that she was extracted via emergency c-section, therefore I was never privy to the feeling of contractions nor labor pains.

I noticed that the sharp pains were getting closer and lasting longer. My fiancée is an over the road truck driver and he had just made it home from a long road trip. I decided that I wanted to rest with him so I began to head to his house assuring my mother that I would call her if needed. When I arrived at his home, I could no longer bear the pain that was emanating from my abdomen. I could see he was visibly tired, so I decided I would go to the emergency room alone. He was reluctant of my decision but relented and stayed behind. I assured him I would be okay and left to seek emergency care.

When I arrived at the hospital, I could barely walk inside. A woman could see I was troubled, so she accompanied me to the triage desk. I was given a wheelchair in which to sit, while I waited on the hospital staff to escort me to the labor and delivery floor. All the while, I never thought that the worst was ahead of me. Having carried a perfectly healthy child through a full-term labor, the events that occurred next were the furthest from my mind. In fact, my remembrance of those moments is almost movie like. For even as I recall the moments leading up to what would become one of the most traumatic memories of my life, thinking of them is almost like watching it happen to someone else.

When I was first admitted to a room, the nurse practitioner came into my room and attached the machine to listen for the baby’s heartbeat. His heart was beating at exactly 147 beats per minute as per all the previous visits. She gave me some medication to slow down what seemed to be premature contractions and left the room to speak with the doctor. When she left the room, I noticed the pains were getting stronger, so I called my mom in fear. She contacted my fiancée and they both journeyed to the hospital.

When the nurse returned to my room, I advised of my pain level, and she decided to check the heartbeat once more. This time, there was nothing. My baby was no longer moving, and she informed me that I was in fact in premature labor. She told me that it was a strong possibility that if they could delay the labor, my baby boy would not make it. I couldn’t fathom what she was telling me.

My body temperature rose, and I was in total and utter disbelief. Just as the next strong contraction burst through my body, my fiancée walked through the door. Although the nurse had told me the worst-case scenario, my mind still had not begun to brace for the worst. I informed my nurse that I needed to use the rest room as she followed closely behind me to ensure my safety. I finished my business and headed back for the hospital bed. As I climbed onto the bed, I felt an overbearing sensation that caused me to push as though I was relieving myself. I looked down and brownish fluids emerged from between my legs while the nurse stood at the foot of my bed. My water was now broken. My eyes enlarged and began to fill with tears. She told me that the chance of baby surviving was not good considering that I was now officially 22 1/2 weeks pregnant.

I glanced at the clock, and it was approximately 6:48 a.m. Before long, I was being whisked from the room I was in and onto a delivery table. When the doctor came into my room, he instructed the resident doctor check my cervix. As soon as she placed her hand in my birth canal, she looked at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen and said she could feel his legs.

She instructed me to push, and even in that moment, I still believed that he would make it.

I bore down with my fiancée’s hand clutched tightly and in the first push I felt a pop in my pelvis. He was officially out and there was no sound. No nursery chime bells to announce his arrival, nor the tiny coo of a helpless baby that was just separated from the warmth of his mom.

My boy was gone.

Within the blink of an eye and just as soon as he entered the world he had immediately exited, and he had taken a part of my heart with him.

A Walk With Grief

Thu, 08 Sep 2022 10:48:00 GMT

By: Amanda Crews

Grief is catching. After five and a half years of showing up unexpectedly, it continues to do just that.

I bent down to pick up the dirty laundry in the corner of our bathroom that somehow landed next to the hamper and not in it. With three children in our home, four and under, dirty laundry sprawled across the house is recurring. As I picked up the last pair of pants and dropped them into the white hamper, it caught me. In the form of brown shoes that I had taken off my one-year-old, grief overtook me.

Brown shoes that I had received at our baby shower for Carson, our first born. He would have been five in March, or maybe it sounds better if I say he should have been five in March. However, instead of celebrating a fifth birthday with a big balloon and gifts, we celebrated his life and what would have been with the traditions we have in place. My kids and I made a rainbow-colored birthday cake, decorated by them. We ate some, and then when we finished, we smashed it all over each other’s faces, and my husband and I laughed to fight back the tears. Our children don’t understand the sadness, because it is masked with fun and celebration, because that’s how we want our Carson to be remembered by them. He’s the big brother that was never able to be.

He never got to wear the shoes I had imagined him stomping through green grass, mud puddles, and away from me to find mischief. As I looked at the shoes, I remembered the woodland themed animal wrapping paper they came in. I remember holding him close to my chest in the hospital, putting my head to his. I remember not knowing when the right time to say goodbye was, because there would never be a right time. I remember singing You Are My Sunshine and trying to take in every piece of him: his tiny hands, his button nose, and his tiny little toes, perfectly created and shaped. I remember coming home to an empty house. I remember the expectations, hopes, and dreams that died in me that day. It all came rushing back. Five years of grief, five years of distance, so far, yet so close. I still don’t understand how two worlds exist for me: my heart filled with love and happiness from my three toddlers I have the privilege of raising in one, yet the other brimming with sorrow for the what could have been but never was.

Wherever you are in your journey, be gentle on yourself and allow yourself to meet grief, the familiar, uninvited friend who visits unannounced. In the midst of life and chaos, she reminds me that Carson was mine, that he was real, and that he is still loved.

About Amanda Crews

The Old Me Died When My Baby Died

Thu, 04 Aug 2022 09:00:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

As human beings, I believe that we all go through stages of life. I believe that some of them are pretty standard for everyone (puberty, adulthood, etc.). I also believe that there are many things that happen to us in life that change the stage that we’re in. It changes the way we look at life and how we remember specific moments in time.

For example, I wholeheartedly believe that experiences, whether joyful or traumatic, can lead us to remember our lives in different phases. My life will forever be divided up into three phases: Pre-pregnancy, During Pregnancy, After Loss. Here’s how this works:

Friend 1: “Hey do you remember when we did (insert activity here) in August of 2019?”

Me: “Oh yep, I remember. That was right before I got pregnant for the first time.”

Friend 2: “Hey do you remember that race we ran in December of 2019?”

Me: “Of course! That was when we had just found out we were having a baby girl!”

Friend 3: “Man, 2020 has been terrible. Covid really ruined a lot of things. I really want to go out and do (insert activity here).”

Me: “I lost my daughter in February. I don’t want to go anywhere at all. Ever.”

These are mostly hypothetical conversations, but you get the idea.

I’ve written about my pre-marriage life before. It was wonderful. Tons of running, traveling to different places and running, lots of friends and a fairly busy social calendar. Now, let’s be honest. I have never really been much of an extrovert (except probably when I was MUCH younger). A friend of mine and I used to joke that our “fun-meter was on red” when we had too much social time. That really was the best way to describe it. No matter how much fun I had, my “fun-meter” always needed to be recharged at some point, which usually meant just hanging out at home alone and watching trash tv.

After meeting my husband in 2017, some of those things changed. Not a ton, but some. I didn’t run as much (not his fault…I was burnt out). I still saw my friends regularly and would still travel every now and then. I am extremely lucky and grateful that I have had the same friends throughout this entire time. Even more grateful for my husband, who has been an angel through everything (and for the most part doesn’t judge my trash tv).

Here’s the problem. While it is never spoken about, it feels to me like there is, and will always be, an expectation for things to always be how they were. People want things to go back to “pre-covid times.” And while I agree with some of that, there is one important detail. THE OLD ME DIED WHEN MY BABY DIED.

Yes, you read that correctly. The old me died when my baby died. It’s exactly what it sounds like. The me that you read about above no longer exists. On the outside, I am the same (plus a few pounds). On the inside, I don’t even know anymore. The me that used to love running, traveling, and hanging out with friends is gone. Enter new me. Still runs sometimes, doesn’t travel much, makes plans with friends but often cancels for any myriad of reasons. New me is always afraid to give the real reason for cancelling plans because new me thinks old friends are tired of hearing about how sad new me is. New me thinks that old friends want me to be the me that I was pre-pregnancy. In reality, I would venture to say that old friends just want new me to be happy and maybe leave the house to see them every once in a while. But new me has a “fun-meter” that goes to red MUCH faster than old me. New me has a massive (theoretical) hole in my heart that can never be filled. Old me had a life with amazing friends and family and a husband who all made my heart completely full. While the amazing friends, family and husband still remain, old me does not. New me wants to stay home most of the time. New me doesn’t want to try new things because there is comfort in old things.

I am just a few days shy of turning 40. There are days when I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing in those 40 years. Motherhood does not define you, but baby loss might. Realistically I know I am no less of a person in my 40 years because I have no earth-side children. But new me sometimes forgets and has to be reminded by old me. Old me wants new me to know that it’s ok to cancel plans if my heart just isn’t in it. Old me wants old friends to know that I love to be included in plans, but please don’t take offense if the day comes and new me doesn’t feel like going. New me wants old friends to know that sometimes old me is trying to make a comeback. New me asks that old friends (and family) just continue to stay by my side while the battle between old and new plays out. Old me asks that you be gentle with new me, because the old me died when my baby died.

About Lindsey Dell

When Words Hurt

Mon, 01 Aug 2022 15:33:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

While scrolling on Facebook over the weekend, I saw a post from Still Standing sharing one of the articles I had previously written.

Even though I probably shouldn’t, I always read the comments on any of my articles. This one had a large number of comments which intrigued me. Upon reading through, I realized why.

“This is an absolutely horrible experience but does NOT need to be on social media. Sickening.”

This comment was the culprit and caused a myriad of responses from people chastising the writer for her words while expressing their support of grieving online.

Reading through the rest of the responses there was a follow up from the originator.

“I am not nasty but what did mothers do before the advent of social media? I lost 2 babies way before social media. When my husband died, the last thing I would have thought was to take a picture of him on his death bed and post it. That is just me and everyone has a right to their opinion.”

This was the first I have ever seen a comment like this in regard to something I had written. I’ve seen other comments where the reader misconstrues my words, which is frustrating, but I never respond because it will likely fall on deaf ears. However, in this instance, I responded.

“I am very sorry for your losses. Everyone is allowed to grieve differently, as you stated in another comment. It’s very easy to keep scrolling and avoid posting a comment that attempts to shame someone for sharing the aftermath of an experience they had no control over. While you feel that it is something that doesn’t need to be shared publicly, I respectfully disagree. As the author of this article, my son, and our experience with him is valid and worthy of sharing, just as my living daughters are. We have built a beautiful legacy in Asher’s name, and I will never hide him.”

My response was very civil, given the fact the woman used the word “sickening” in reference to my child and my experience. However, I feel the need to write a more lengthy response. Thus, I have written the following open letter.

To the woman who used the word “sickening” in reference to my life :

First, let me say, that I am truly sorry for the loss of your two children and your husband. I am very sorry that you know this pain and are a part of the club that no one wants to be a member. Life can be so very cruel.

Because you know the pain of losing a child, I am baffled by your disgust and callous use of the word “sickening” in regards to another bereaved mother sharing her truth.

My only guess is that you lost your children during a time when you were told that you don’t talk about such things. A time where many mothers never even got to hold their child after they were born. If that is the case, I am truly sorry that was your experience. I am sorry that you were made to feel like you couldn’t share your children with others, that their all too brief lives were too painful and, to quote you, “sickening” to be shared openly with others.

However, simply because that was YOUR experience doesn’t mean that you need to perpetuate it for others.

After others started to call you out on your horrific choice of words, you mentioned that “everyone has a right to their opinion”, which is certainly true. However, if you have a problem with the way someone is openly sharing, you can simply scroll past it, move on instead of commenting in an attempt to shame someone for grieving differently.

Nothing about sharing my beautiful son or our grief over the loss of him is “sickening” .

What is sickening, is the fact that we have to live the rest of our lives without him .

What is sickening, is the fact that people like you attempt to shame parents for openly talking about their deeply loved and missed children.

Thankfully, it seems that people like you are the minority.

Times are changing.

Hospitals are encouraging parents to take photos with their children, as mine did when I wasn’t sure that I wanted any. How grateful I am for them now, despite your opinion otherwise.

There are devices that allow families to have more time in the hospital with their deceased children.

There are thousands of non-profit organizations designed to honor babies while supporting parents through their grief journeys. Parents are no longer packing up the memoires of their deceased children into a box and placing them on a closet shelf, never to be openly discussed ever again.

I am proud that my son is still very present in my life, despite his physical absence. Sharing the very limited photos we have of him helps to remind me (and others) that he existed. He was here, if only briefly. My husband and I have helped other loss families feel less alone simply by sharing our story. We have created an amazing legacy in our son’s memory, and we will continue to nurture it.

Nothing about any of that is “sickening.”

Frankly, the only thing sickening here is your choice of words and your need to share them .

Wishing you all the best (and the ability to pause before posting such comments),

Amy Lied

A fellow loss mama

The Purple Blanket

Tue, 28 Jun 2022 15:24:00 GMT

By: Jessieca Dingler

Blankets are associated with comfort and warmth, especially those that are handmade. Each stitch so carefully woven to form a wave of colorful hues that we enjoy. Most hospitals have an inventory of crocheted blankets to give to the families of babies who have passed, but I never expected a simple crocheted blanket to leave such an impression.

When Madelyn was born, she was placed in the most beautiful, crocheted blanket woven with hues of purple. She was gently placed in that blanket as she lay there-born still, but still born. Madelyn looked so perfect in that purple wave of comfort as if she were napping, but she was very much alive in Heaven.

After holding her for a short while, it was time for the funeral home to pick her up and it would be the last time I would see my sweet baby on this earth. As much as I want Madelyn here, I was able to keep that beautiful blanket. That blanket remains in my hope chest today, along with several other special items that were for Madelyn. Do I look at it every day? No, but I do think of it every day as I always have Madelyn on my mind.

Just as the blanket was woven with such love and care, Madelyn wove a special stitch into my life. She was made with such care and love that I am thankful she knew for 30 weeks as I carried her. Madelyn never knew anything but comfort, warmth, and love – just as blankets bring us the same feeling.

The purple blanket was carefully woven by a stranger that had no idea how much comfort it would bring my broken heart. The hues of purple highlighting the beautiful sites Madelyn must be seeing now, and the warmth her memory brings to my heart. That purple blanket will forever hold a symbol of hope that I will get to see Madelyn again one day – and what a beautiful day that will be.

About Jessieca Dingler

Jessieca is married to the love of her life, Drew and they have a daughter, Madelyn in heaven. They have a lab, Sadie and a cat, Holly that they greatly enjoy having around. Jessieca enjoys outdoor activities such as gardening, running, and drinking coffee on the porch. She also finds joy in cooking and making homemade goods like soap and jams.

Jessieca is very humbled to share the story of Madelyn with you. Madelyn Grace was born still on November 14, 2018. This loss not only brought the difficult waves of grief but reinvented the woman who everyone knew beforehand. Jessieca not only endured loss, but horrible postpartum depression that lingered for quite some time; however, she is thankful for the Lord’s Grace during dark seasons. As painful as it may seem, Jessieca believes that sharing her little girl and the things that help her through each day is an honor. Jessieca loves to share their story in hopes that others find encouragement through the stormy seasons of life – especially in the realm of infant loss.

Reviving Joy

Mon, 20 Jun 2022 20:41:00 GMT

By: Jessieca Dingler

Three and a half years ago, our daughter, Madelyn Grace was born still. I was 30 weeks pregnant and did not have the textbook pregnancy – we constantly received a mixture of news “Your tests indicate no abnormalities” to “There is something wrong with your baby.” My heart was heavy during my pregnancy with this rollercoaster of emotions, but I was still having a baby, so I tried to remain joyous.

My baby shower was a blessing as our sweet Madelyn received so many gifts and it was a time that I finally felt like we were on the mountaintop – it was really happening, Madelyn was almost here and she was so loved. She had all these new gifts to be brought home, too.

In the middle of my baby shower, however, I suddenly felt weak. I took a break from opening Madelyn’s gifts and ate something because I felt so bad. I finally got oriented to my normal self and finished opening the gifts. It was such a blessed and happy day, but I still felt off. The next day, I started having some pain in my abdomen and sincerely thought it was round ligament pain. I continued having this pain, so I called my doctor Monday morning and they wanted me to be seen if the pain continued. So I went to my doctor, alone, because we did not think it was anything to worry about. What I thought was a normal day turned into a nightmare.

The fetal doppler did not pick up Madelyn’s normally strong heartbeat, so I was immediately put in line to have an ultrasound. The ultrasound did not pick up a heartbeat nor any signs of life. I had to stare at that screen in complete silence. I walked back into a patient room and my doctor opened the door with a somber look and spoke the most horrific words I had ever heard in my life – “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dingler, your baby no longer has a heartbeat.”

That’s when all my joy seemed to dissipate – my baby had died inside of me.

I was induced, endured seven hours of labor, and gave birth to our lifeless Madelyn Grace. I was in complete shock when I was holding her. I was hoping she was going to start crying and she was going to be fine, but she was lifeless. We got several photos of her (that my husband and I decided to keep private) and then she was carried away by the funeral home attendants.

It would be the last time I saw my dear Madelyn on this earth. We had her funeral and I just wanted to go home afterward. I did not want to be around anyone, I did not want to talk, I did not want to do anything but get my Madelyn back.

Fast forward to today, I still struggle to find joy. It has been nearly four years since Madelyn was born, but it has been four years of heartache that I cannot explain to anyone. The day Madelyn died was the day my joy died, too. I am expected to find my joy and conform to all the happiness that everyone else has, but it is not that easy.

Just as when a human heart is revived during a medical emergency, it is not as strong as it once was. That heart must be monitored, and it may need additional support to remain viable – reviving your joy is no different. I am always keeping busy finding new things to do that make me happy and this is very helpful in my healing. There are moments where I am happy and have revived some joy, but it is certainly not the same as it was before Madelyn passed.

Keeping my heart guarded to my surroundings and finding the little things in life that bring a smile has been the best medicine. It takes work to revive your joy and it has taken me nearly four years to understand that concept. I am thankful of my progress, even though it has been small, teeny-tiny steps, but I am indeed, reviving my joy.

About Jessieca Dingler

TRITE ISN’T TRUE

Mon, 16 May 2022 18:54:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

It’s been over 5 years since we lost our son, Asher. Around his 5 ^th birthday, I went back to the very first blog post I shared about our son, 9 days after he was born. The post ended with these words “I know there was a reason that God took our son, only time will tell what that reason was.”

Looking at that sentence all these years later makes me cringe. I despise it.

Quite frankly, I’m shocked I even wrote it given the fact that while I was in the hospital, holding my deceased son, I vividly remember saying that “I can’t believe that God took my son, that He did this to us.” If I had allowed myself to believe that I wouldn’t have come out of the hole I was in.

Yet 9 days later, I wrote that sentence implying God did this for a reason.

I have no idea why I wrote that. The only explanation I can think of is that I wrote it for the myriad of people who expressed the trite expressions to me after our loss that “everything happens for a reason” and that “it’s all part of God’s plan.” I heard it so much I wanted to believe it was true.

What I’ve learned since is that trite isn’t true.

“This was all part of God’s plan.”

Oh, okay, so God planned for me to struggle to get pregnant, seek intervention, have a first trimester miscarriage, only to get pregnant naturally immediately after, to then have that baby die within in me? That was His plan? To kill my child?

When you see it written out like that, how can you believe that God planned all that pain for one person?! I refuse to believe that. God walks with me through the pain but didn’t cause it.

“ Everything happens for a reason. ”

No…nope…. no. There is and NEVER will be a reason that my son had to die. There will never be a purpose to this pain. Yes, I have turned this pain into some good. It has made me a more compassionate and empathetic person. It has made me more outspoken. It has made me a support for other loss families. However, none of those reasons are acceptable reasons for why my son had to die.

Over the last five years, I’ve learned that these trite sayings offer no relief to the person hearing them. They are an attempt for the speaker to make sense of a terrible tragedy but these tragedies, these losses, don’t make sense. Nothing about losing a child under any circumstances will ever make sense.

Reading my words from 5 years ago and seeing these trite expressions echoed back to the world saddens me because I know now that they aren’t true and I’m saddened that I ever believed them to be, given what I’ve outlined above.

Asher didn’t die because God planned it.

Asher didn’t die for a reason.

Asher died.

Period.

His death doesn’t need to be explained away with a purpose or seen through rose colored glasses. His death is devastating and that is all it has to be.

How to Cope with the Unexpected Death of a Child

Mon, 16 May 2022 18:41:00 GMT

By: John O’Brien

The heartbreak that accompanies the loss of a child is unmatched and deeply rooted, but when the child dies due to someone else’s negligence, the impact on the family can be devastating. While it may seem impossible to recover from such a tragic event, it can bring comfort to know that you are not alone. Numerous channels have been created by those who’ve endured this journey before you and are available to help you receive the support needed to carry on.

Don’t Give in to Anger

Grieving parents grapple with a host of emotions after the unexpected loss of a child, and often, anger is one of them. It is not uncommon for anger to be directed at a “perceived” fate, their spouse, other family members, or even oneself. Replaying events and groping for what could have been done differently is a tireless activity. Yes, thinking about what was taken from you by someone else’s negligence – the love, the future, the joy – may understandably make you angry.

These emotions are natural for grief, but we want to encourage our readers not to allow anger to keep them from seeking comfort. In fact, seeking comfort brings us to the next step: Avoiding isolation.

Avoid Isolation and Seek Comfort Among Your Friends

No one should rush a grieving parent from the alcoves of their grief process. There is no set time to reach out for help – so perhaps the best thing to do is constantly perform a self-examination: Is the grief becoming unbearable? Am I taking care of my necessities? Are my negative thoughts or emotions too heavy for just me to carry? Have I tried speaking with someone that can help shoulder this emotional burden?

Many have found a foothold forward by allowing family and friends to reach out to them to offer comfort. Although no one can precisely know what your loss means to you, heartbreak is universal, and empathy can be the key to allowing someone who hasn’t experienced your loss to still help you carry it. Sometimes, what makes the difference on a hard day after losing a loved one, is finding someone who simply is ready to take the time to listen to you.

If, however, this sort of help in your own friend or family group is lacking, then professional care can be the next helpful step.

Request Professional Care When in Need

Friends and family members want to empathize and be supportive, but they too can feel overwhelmed with how to offer practical help. This is when therapy can prove highly beneficial, as it teaches you various coping mechanisms, gives logic to emotions being felt, and can give guidelines that will help manage your feelings.

Therapy group sessions can be a genuine gold mind to someone exhausted from grief. Meeting others who have had similar circumstances, losses, or perhaps grieving patterns can help you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Everyone grieves differently, and the traumatic loss of a child can affect your relationship with your spouse or with your other children. Some have opted to seek counseling as a family or include loved ones in a session. A tragedy may have caused a rift in your family, but it doesn’t need to be permanent.

Strengthen Your Family Bonds

Everyone feels a child that is missing from the family unit. There is now someone missing from the car rides, the dinner table, and so many other ways. Seeking comfort from each other while grieving can be a difficult challenge but can also be the most rewarding.

Learning to lean on each other can bring much-needed comfort and strength throughout the sorrow in the household. Even if your child is lost physically, it does not mean that they will not remain part of your life and continue to exist in your heart and thoughts. Keeping their memory alive through a shared family tradition might be just what your family needs in terms of stability and connection.

Don’t Neglect Yourself or Your Regular Activities

Trauma can generate severe health consequences: chronic stress and physical symptoms, such as stomach and chest pains, headaches, and muscle cramps that can develop into long-term ailments.

Mourning can turn mundane tasks like getting out of bed and eating into overwhelming endeavors. Therefore, it is vital to make a sustained and gradual effort to regain your strength and the former routines and hobbies you enjoyed before the loss of your child.

Also, try adding exercise as a means of helping you cope. When it comes to stress brought on by trauma, our bodies often manifest the “fight or flight” response; biochemically speaking, it is prepared for strenuous effort. Physical exercise will help you use up the extra sugars and fats in your blood caused by stress, thus helping restore your body’s healthy balance.

Above All: Let Yourself Grieve

Grief is not something you get over, but you do learn to live with it. Still, anyone who has lost a child in death should hear this phrase: “Let yourself grieve!” Be patient with yourself. Let the tears come when they need to, and don’t be surprised if, months or years later, you suddenly face strong emotions equal to what you perhaps felt in the initial days or weeks. But if you keep taking things one day at a time and seek help when you need it – you can recover. In the end, you may find what you have experienced will make you more sympathetic and understanding to others who have to cope with a similar loss.

About John O’Brien

John founded the Elk Grove-based firm, the O’Brien & Zehnder Law Firm, in 1996, practicing personal injury. He is recognized throughout the California legal community as a zealous and effective advocate for individuals who’ve been catastrophically injured or who have lost loved ones due to the negligent actions of another. Besides aiding each client in seeking justice through the legal system, his team helps them get into grief counseling, if appropriate, and other types of counseling when warranted. They also help them achieve closure by honoring their loved one’s memory and fighting to hold bad actors accountable. John has witnessed how helping survivors focus on something other than their grief can be very cathartic.

That Pearl of Great Price

Mon, 02 May 2022 09:05:00 GMT

By: Elise Donovan

The following is an exert from Elise Donovan’s new book The Pearl of Great Price: A Year of Birth, Death, and Awakening. This book shares the story of the loss of her daughter Carly, and the journal entries of the year following her loss.

Twenty-one years ago today, I birthed my lifeless daughter…and an awakening.

It is early on the morning of July 4. I am sitting on my porch, listening to the birds sing the day into being, and I am thinking of the multitude of ways her death has spun me out of my comfortable orbit over the years. I awoke thinking of Carly, as I always do on this day. It is never a given on how I will feel on her birthday-her death day. The early years were hard because the pain was so fresh, and I was worn out by the effort of trying to create a family. I was desperate to fill that space her life had made in me. Some years were made easier by the chaos of family plans. Parades and cookouts and trips made it a challenge to grab a minute or two to myself, and I have never been one to ask for public acknowledgement of her existence. For many years we use to honor her birthday by dropping children’s books off at a hospital, but that faded out as our living children’s lives got busier and we began to travel over the holiday.

These days, her birthday has been made poignant by watching my surviving children grow and thrive, especially my daughter. She doesn’t know that she is sharing a lot of events with her sister, but I cannot help but picture them, so much alike at birth, side by side, getting their licenses, going to prom, clumped on the sofa with friends, laughing. My son turned twenty a few days ago, away from me, camping in some remote canyon, surrounded by friends. He is a truly content, solid, humble, loving, and kind human being who has enriched my life beyond words. He healed me of the worst pain. And yet I cannot help but wonder: Would he be here if Carly had lived? What is the nature of souls? Was he waiting for the right time? Would any of our children have shown up in our lives anyway? It is not a fruitful line of questioning, but then so many pockets of questions were opened by Carly’s death, questions I likely would not have pondered otherwise. I have become very comfortable with unanswerable questions.

I have become very comfortable with unsolvable problems. That is the awakening. The gift in this ever-evolving experience is that I can be my suffering, and with those who suffer, and allow the suffering. I Have observed that this is not easy for many people. We have short attention spans for discomfort, and we escape from those unpleasant emotions before they have told us what they need us to know. It would not have been easy for me to stick with what is had I not been tempered in the fire of grief.

The story of this book is parallel to my emotional journey. Twenty plus years ago, I was trying to develop as a writer. I was in graduate school when Carly died, but as I always had, I kept a journal of what I was experiencing. But I was not writing my thesis. I came clean with my advisor, and she asked to see the pages that I had been producing. Every bone in my body rebelled. I wrote for insight and to make light of things and to be smarter than my experience. I had been left broken and exposed by the side of that road. Reluctantly, I showed her my journal, pages as raw, messy, and unsophisticated as I felt. As I was. She sent them to her agent, and I was stunned when he said he wanted to represent me. Wait, my mind protested. It’s stupid, it’s a mess. It’s just a sad, pathetic diary. It was not “my best work.” But it was real, and those who read it felt something stir. I surrendered to the power of Carly’s story and decided to let it be what it was going to be. And I began to think that maybe it could help others get through what had been such a desolate and lonely place. Naively, I began to hope.

Forty publishers sent me thoughtful, personal notes about how moved they were by my words, but no one wanted to put their money behind them. I could not help but take these rejections personally; it felt like Carly was being spurned. All I could think was that another product of mine was stillborn, another hope that could not live outside of my mind and heart. After a while my agent gave up, and after musing over how cruelly poetic this all was, I put the manuscript in a drawer.

Over the past twenty-one years, through friends, women who have lost babies have requested the manuscript, and I have shared it. My hope is that it kept them company in their grief; they tell me it has. It is not so much the death of children that challenges the heart, it is the aftermath. It is everything that surfaces after your expectations have imploded. It is the endless questions about the meaning of the death, your life, and what you are supposed to do now. What do I do with all this emotion, this desire, this space I had opened to make memories?

And so today as a twenty-first birthday present to Carly, I am putting her story out into the world myself. There is so much to celebrate. My husband and I are a unit of strength after twenty-three years of tests and challenges. Many couples cannot weather the death of a child. Fortunately, we have, as well as a host of truly trying times I could never have anticipated. I came back to myself after a year of real despair to build a life and a family-I know others who have been lost to depression or addiction and never regained their strength or got a chance to make that family. I’m one of the fortunate ones. Despite terrifying, high-risk pregnancies, and my second daughter being profoundly ill until she was three, my children are thriving. Just the other day, I was watching a baseball game in my town, and a new acquaintance and I were talking about parenting styles. She admitted that she is more permissive than she might have been since her first baby, a girl, died immediately after birth. I gently touched her arm. “Our first daughter died too,” I responded. We locked eyes. So much was transmitted in a few seconds.

About Elise Donovan

Elise is a writer, editor and educator. After many years of teaching literature and creative writing at the college level, she combined her long-standing meditation practice with her interest in emotional development and has taught mindfulness and meditation curriculum publicly and privately for the past fifteen years.

Elise especially enjoys helping people launch their stories as an editor and ghostwriter. She has a particular interest in essays and creative non-fiction, and among other awards, is a recipient of the National Catholic Journalism Award.

She serves on the board of several progressive educational institutions, in the US and abroad. She loves to read mystery novels and explore new places through hiking and cycling.

Elise, her husband, and three children reside in Massachusetts.

Hope in Hard Times

Wed, 27 Apr 2022 17:31:00 GMT

By: Anna Waters

I hung up the phone and my mind registered shock.

“The baby is gone,” I said to myself.

“What will I do now?” I asked God.

“Trust Me,” He replied.

It was my last attempt at pregnancy and a very unusual circumstance, indeed. I knew that I was too old to try again, and it was my fifth time attempting in vitro. This baby’s death meant I had to not only say goodbye to her but also to any chance at having another baby.

As the door to motherhood closed as gently as it had opened, I looked back on all that had happened for almost two decades. Years of trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant without assistance, starting at the age of thirty.

Seeking doctors, receiving tests, poking, and prodding. For three, long years. Sleepless nights. Constant worry. Uncertainty looming. Drowning in my doubts. I heard words like stage IV endometriosis. Polycystic ovarian syndrome. Hashimoto’s thyroiditis. Obesity on the BMI scale, as well as my own scale. The need for surgery, after surgery. Then, more tests.

Was there a mute button for all the chatter?

Or maybe, fast forward?

My curiosity was on more hormone shots than me. I felt it coursing through my body at every bend in the road. Wondering where the road would lead next. Wondering when a baby would come. But then, as the years passed, wondering if a baby would come.

“Would exercise, nutrition, or prayer, fix any of this?” I asked God. “Maybe I am being punished for my past, and there isn’t any fixing it?”

“Trust the process and keep praying…” came His reply.

Finally at age 33, six beautiful blastocysts were created through the in vitro process. The first two, the perfect ones, were implanted just before my birthday.

During the famous two week wait, my husband and I planned, dreamed, and hoped and desired the lives of these two little ones that were tucked firmly in their mommy’s tummy. We saw the parenting journey unfolding before our eyes. We saw them rise up and move through the stages of childhood into the adults they were meant to be, to one day fly the nest. All in the span of fourteen dreamy days!

The wait was over! I remember that day clearly. I was standing in a nursery parking lot, surrounded by the beauty and fragrance of magnificent flowers, anticipating the day I would be standing in a different type of nursery.

“You’re not pregnant,” the doctor told me, plainly.

“What does this mean?” I asked him, as the questions came tumbling out, one after another, alongside my tears.

I took a year off to grieve and work on my body. I lost forty pounds. Ate healthy. Had another surgery to remove endometriosis and discovered polyps in the process. Prayed and wept, a lot.

Then it happened one summer day. After lots of bed rest, pineapple, and prayers – the in vitro worked! And my body felt biologically different.

I dreamed vibrant dreams. Saw and did things I’d never seen before in dreamland. It was terrifying and wonderful all at the same time.

During the day, my body felt invincible. I believed in miracles! Prayers worked! And for the first time in my life, I was thankful to be pleasantly pudgy.

But then, the words subchorionic hematoma entered the picture. And for thirteen long weeks, I wondered if the growing clot of blood in my uterus would grow bigger than the baby and take her life. Thankfully, another miracle – the baby squished the blood out. I felt massive relief.

They say that husbands develop sympathy pains during their wife’s pregnancy, and I thought it was cute that my husband started to get really tired, have back pain and stay in bed a lot too. But then, it wasn’t funny anymore. Because he slept for a week at a time through Christmas. And had blood issues too.

Turned out he was pregnant too –his belly was filled with tumors.

Five days before my beautiful girl was born, my 36-year-old husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Giving birth became the bridge between death and life. Our girl gave us light in an otherwise dark situation. God’s miracle.

Years later, with the last of the embryos, during the fall season I got pregnant again. Then had a miscarriage. But I didn’t give up hope. Instead, I prayed and wept. A lot.

For Christmas three years into the cancer journey, my husband gave me one last shot at a baby. A few months later, with one of three embryos working, our new baby girl was a confirmed pregnancy on my birthday. As was the news that the chemo treatments were no longer working.

What a day!

My husband lived to see her grow up for one year. He worked full time the nearly five years for which we had prayed. And he died on the day of my second daughter’s one year birthday.

The three remaining embryos remained frozen until years later, when I was ready. I prayed and wept for God’s timing. I knew I wanted all the children God gave me, and that included babies that would come after my marital status changed. That day came soon enough on a fall morning.

Praise God for a confirmed pregnancy! But shortly afterwards, a few days later I got the call that every mother dreads.

This was where God asked me to “Trust Him” even though my fertility journey ended when the nurse gently hung up the phone on that cold, October evening in a grocery store parking lot.

It seemed like yesterday that my pregnancy journey began 16 years ago. Five attempts at in vitro. And two live births who are now 10 and 6 – both cute as buttons, even still. And yet, it seems like it began moments ago.

For anyone reading this, don’t quit. The motherhood journey hasn’t ended, don’t give up. There is hope around the corner. I’m living proof of that, even in the most dire circumstances. Grief and gratitude can co-exist. You never know what miracles await you!

Trust God, trust the process and keep praying.

About Anna Waters

Anna Waters is an author, speaker, young widow, single Mom of 2 beautiful children, and loves the Lord. You can find her writing at http://whenlovestays.com or on Facebook and Instagram at “Whenlovestays.” Her book titled When Love Stays, is due out Fall 2022, to help the grieving navigate multiple losses and complicated grief. When she isn’t writing or speaking to encourage others about getting through their loss, grief and shame, she’s reading voraciously, throwing pottery on the wheel, engaging in self-care through exercise/nutrition and taking her kids on new adventures.

The Unfairness of It All: Infertility after Loss

Wed, 20 Apr 2022 09:00:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

About Lindsey Dell

Stillborn Still Loved

Wed, 06 Apr 2022 16:17:00 GMT

By: Hailey Ricks

This is an excerpt from a recently published book Stillborn Still Loved by Hailey Ricks. It tells the story of the loss of her daughter Laurelai, and the pain and loneliness that comes with baby loss. Through her words and journaling she gives the reader permission to acknowledge their grief and find healing.

A crucial part in understanding your grief is triggers. Everyone has triggers. They are a normal part of life. However, typically when talking about triggers when it comes to pregnancy and infant loss those triggers can get tricky. Why? Because most of the time the things that are triggering us are things that “normally” wouldn’t bother us or are things that would bring us joy before our loss. Your best friend getting a positive pregnancy test.

Trigger.

Seeing a post on social media about a baby being born.

Trigger.

Passing the baby section at a retail store.

Trigger.

Being invited to a baby shower.

Trigger.

These are all things that trigger grieving parents and the worse part of it is that we don’t want to be triggered by those things. These aren’t things that would get under our skin before we lost our babies. We would leap for joy when our best friend announced her pregnancy. We would be so happy that a baby was a born. We would smile as we passed the tiny onesies in the store. We would be excited to attend a baby shower. The truth? It upsets us. It breaks our heart. We feel jealousy, bitterness, maybe even anger. And that makes us feel even worse because those are things that we feel shouldn’t trigger us. We feel guilt and shame for having negative thoughts about a positive moment in someone else’s lives. And it’s not fair. Not a single part of losing our baby is fair. There are things that trigger us that are easier for us to understand like when someone minimizes our loss or is just being unkind. The sad part is, even then sometimes we leave the conversation feeling crazy or confused about what someone said to us. I didn’t realize that there was such an uncomfortable expectation in the air when it came to baby loss. The first time I heard someone say, “At least you know you can get pregnant.” I wanted to punch them in the face. I was so angry and so confused. I was hurt and felt so alone. We hear statements like that all the time.

“At least you have other kids.”

“At least you can always adopt.”

“At least you didn’t know your baby.”

Those at least statements are coming from a place of someone else trying to not only make themselves less uncomfortable but also to comfort you. The problem is that it doesn’t comfort us. It minimizes our loss, our feelings, our baby’s life and in the end disconnects us even further from everyone and everything.

Being self-aware about your triggers is not only going to help you see your grief as a whole, but also help you manage them. Remember, there is absolutely nothing wrong with how you feel. Whatever your grief looks like to you is normal for you. You have every right to have the feelings you have, and I don’t want you to feel shame, or guilt, or any negative feelings about your grief.

About Hailey Ricks

Hailey is a mother, wife, author, poet, and advocate for pregnancy and infant loss. She has made it her mission in life to support other grieving parents, spread awareness and break the silence attached to pregnancy and infant loss. Her belief is that your baby matters no matter the gestation, stage, or age of loss. Her hopes are to end the stigma attached to pregnancy and infant loss and to make her readers feel less alone. She is also the founder of the Stillborn Still Loved Foundation. Her book Stillborn Still Loved is available on Amazon and her website www.StillbornStillLovedFoundation.org

Longing For My Twins

Wed, 06 Apr 2022 09:01:00 GMT

Anonymous

I found out I was pregnant with twins on a Tuesday. I went alone to the first appointment because my husband needed to pick up our son from daycare. Besides, everything was going to be ok, right?

In the ultrasound room, the tech told me that it was twins. I heard their hearts beating. I was scared, shocked, cautious, happy. My husband and I started making plans, seeing our new future with our precious little ones. By Thursday, we had built an entire life together as a family of five.

I was preparing to teach class when the bleeding started. The ultrasound at the emergency room revealed two heart beats. One was weaker than the other, but there were still two. Two babies. Twins. That was the first time my husband got to hear their heart beats, in the emergency room, with me covered in blood. There was nothing to do except wait.

Monday’s ultrasound showed one heartbeat. My angel baby was now referred to as tissue. “Vanishing twin,” they called her. But she didn’t go anywhere. She was still there, next to her twin, inside me.

Subsequent ultrasounds were painful and empty. The ultrasound pictures weren’t proudly displayed on the refrigerator; they were tucked away in dresser drawers. How was I supposed to be pregnant and grieve at the same time? I was afraid that feeling sad would take away from the joy of still being pregnant. I was angry that I didn’t understand why my baby had died, but I told myself that I needed to try harder to be excited about still being pregnant.

Then I entered my second trimester. Maybe the second miscarriage wasn’t going to happen after all. I allowed myself to feel the slightest bit of excitement for our family of four.

At sixteen weeks, it was time to learn the gender. I was going to my appointment alone because of COVID restrictions. There had been no bleeding, no pain, so surely that meant my baby was fine, right? I asked the ultrasound tech to please write the gender in an envelope so that my husband and I could find out at the same time together. She happily agreed.

Then the ultrasound began. The tech kept changing the angle of the probe, zooming in, clicking, zooming out, trying different settings to get the right angle. Finally, she turned to me and didn’t need to say anything to convey what had happened. She held me while I screamed. My baby didn’t have a heartbeat.

What did I do to deserve such a painful ending to this pregnancy? Was I not happy enough? Should I have asked different questions at my check-ups? Why didn’t the doctors see this coming? The answers to my questions didn’t matter, but that didn’t stop them from coming.

I was not ok. I drank. I phoned it in at work. I cried. I was not a mom, wife, sister, or daughter. I was a blurry, shadowed version of myself.

It took many months of therapy, many walks outside with my husband and son, and support from my family and friends to regain focus. And yet, I am not who I was before. From the moment I heard their hearts beating, my babies became a part of me.

I am still angry. Pregnancy seems easy for some people; why wasn’t it for me? As the two-year anniversary of the loss of my twin’s approaches, I find myself feeling sad, guilty, longing. I have learned that missing my babies doesn’t mean that I don’t love my son and his little brother. It has taken work to accept all of my feelings. I am learning how to make space for our babies, James, and Annie, and to honor them. The pain isn’t always raw, but it’s always there. It will always be there, right next to the love that I have for my children, each and every one of them.

Woven Together by Dreams that Never Could Be

Tue, 29 Mar 2022 11:00:00 GMT

By: Amanda Crews

I’ve mulled around a number of things that I could say or write to offer words of encouragement, and every time I thought I had something, it failed me. I had no words. There was a block. As I reflected in that space and tried to move the heavy load, it just wouldn’t budge. And it hit me: sometimes there just aren’t any words. There aren’t any actions either. I am here to tell you that is OK.

Our son, Carson, would have turned five on March 18th. As everyone was celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day, wearing green, drinking green beer, and catching leprechauns, I awoke to a stillness at 37 weeks that stopped my life.

Although I knew of pregnancy loss, I never thought it could happen to me. But here I am, five years later, grieving two babies who couldn’t stay with me. Carson was here and then he wasn’t. I cradled him in my arms and sang You are my Sunshine , trying to soak in every sweet detail of his little round face and 7-pound body. While our sweet Lucy didn’t make it but ten short weeks of pregnancy before she was gone. Never to be seen, held, or even touched. These children have changed me deep within, down to the very cells that flow within my veins.

I used to think silence was uncomfortable and awkward, but I now understand the power it holds. The power in not saying:

“I’m OK or good.”

“Everything is going to be OK.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“There’s a plan.”

These things may be true and are meant to be affirming statements, but sometimes just land wrong. It’s OK to not have words. It’s OK to sit in the silence and to let it overtake the conversation, room, or space. I no longer try to force words. It lends itself to trouble. However, I let the silence say, “I am here. With you. For you.” Leaning into the hard, and I will respect that nothing I say or can say will alleviate an ounce of grief that you or I feel, but we are doing this together.

When we met with a couple of friends who had lost their daughter three months before we lost Carson, they offered a helpful analogy. They said at first it feels like you’re on an island, isolated and alone. But when you stop and look up, you begin to realize that you are not on an island, but a peninsula, and others who have also lost a child are right there with you. Their feet planted on the ground and their hearts turned towards heaven longing for a child that is no longer here. That has been true for me. If you’ve lost a baby or a pregnancy, know that you are not alone. There are others who have gone before you, and there are others who will follow in our footsteps, and though we are not the same, nor are our stories, we stand here woven together by the dreams that never could be.

About Amanda Crews

Saying Goodbye to Olivia

Tue, 22 Mar 2022 09:00:00 GMT

A Story of Loss and Hope

By: Marie Kriedman

I suffered a miscarriage unexpectedly at 14 weeks. My husband and I were at a complete loss. Setting aside my personal pain, the single hardest thing I had to do was tell our children about the miscarriage. I fumbled my words and halted and tried again, and finally managed to break the news.

I channeled that conversation, and many others that followed, into a children’s book; Saying Goodbye to Olivia . This book is meant to be read as a family, and helps parents explain a miscarriage to children. While sad and sweet, this story reassures young readers, encourages open communication, and also inspires kids to find their own way to honor family members who have passed.

A miscarriage is a complex, emotional bombshell and this book recognizes that the entire family is affected, which can be scary for children. Several topics are explored, including what a miscarriage is, why mommy and daddy are sad, and how the family will move forward together.

If your family finds itself needing this book, perhaps you are going through something similar. I am so sorry for your loss, and I wish you peace as you heal.

About Marie Kriedman

Marie started her journalism career as a copy editor and paginator for a newspaper. She eventually left the newspaper business and has continued as freelance writer for more than 20 years. After a second trimester miscarriage, Marie and her husband struggled to tell their young children about why the baby would not be joining their family. She channeled that conversation, and many others that followed, into a children’s book. To read more about Marie or about her book Saying Goodbye to Olivia visit https://www.booksbymarie.com/

Ava’s Love

Tue, 15 Mar 2022 18:37:00 GMT

By: Ashley Loehr

We had a very normal, uneventful pregnancy until we found out at 20 weeks that our baby girl was not growing in the way that most babies do. We were devastated as the doctors seemed very worried and we went through a series of MFM (maternal fetal medicine) specialist appointments with two different large hospitals in the St. Louis area to find a second opinion or better news than what we were given. We were told our child would have a limited life if she was born alive. We were told she had a high risk of stillbirth and or would likely not live very long. I did all the research in the world that you can do as a mother to see if my child could live or what her life would be like, only to find out that not many children with Thanatophoric Dysplasia are currently living. This was the most devastating thing to learn as a mother. After praying and hoping for this baby, in a pandemic no less, we were going to lose our child.

After months of medical research and scans it became clear that we needed to celebrate Ava while we had time with her. This is just something we take for granted. Most normal pregnancies we celebrate, and we are joyful. But when you know, your baby is not going to live long it is so difficult to share. All the questions and reactions are difficult to endure. We were already grieving. Someone had recommended a book to me that helped us on this journey. We met with specialist regarding care for Ava when she was born. When the time came to meet Ava, we choose to seek comfort care for our daughter so she could have as much love and peace while she was with her family here on earth and to this day this was the best decision we could have made for our daughter.

As the pregnancy progressed. We found ways to include Ava in our everyday lives. Our young toddler would pick foods for mommy to eat so Ava could enjoy them. We would go to the park often for fresh air and I dreamed of Ava being able to play which was terribly painful as I watch my daughter play with my belly growing. We all read to her while she was inside me which I am so thankful for because I did not get to read to her when she was outside of my body breathing. We spent an evening taking maternity pictures that I cherish, and I wish I took more pictures of her while she was growing inside of me. My husband would talk to her every night just like we had with our other daughter while I was pregnant.

We named her almost immediately when we found out. I had planned to wait until she was born. But things change. We named her Ava which means “life or bird”, because we wanted her to live so badly. My husband picked out her middle name Halia which means “in remembrance of a loved one.” I wept as we agreed this would be her name. It was beautiful and perfect for our little girl.

The day came and it was time to meet Ava. April 17th, 2021 – which I picked because the day they chose was too soon for me to let her go even though I would never be ready. The day Ava was born was so terribly hard. I was happy and excited to meet my daughter, yet terrified and sad knowing that I would lose her shortly after. How do you prepare for that? Well, I will tell you — it doesn’t matter how much you read, listen to, etc. Nothing seems to prepare you for this kind of love and loss. We prayed with our priest, we hugged our loved ones and our toddler daughter and headed into the operating room. I almost had a panic attack watching them struggle to strap on the heart rate monitors to listen to Ava which was not in my plans; and to my surprise my doctor was sure to tell the nurse to just let it be and we would start. Once Ava was born, she cried, and it was the most beautiful cry I could have heard. I cried because I didn’t know If she would come out breathing. I was elated that our Ava came out alive and crying. I was nervous and excited. I didn’t know what to do because we didn’t know how much time we would get. They gave her oxygen and helped clean her up as we had the priest baptize her and my husband and I took turns holding her. I remember touching her face so gently and looking at her long brown hair just talking to her and telling her that I loved her. I was very shaken and cold from the medications for the anesthesia, so it was difficult for me to hold her. This was not easy for me because all I wanted was to hold her, but it was hard to do on an operating table.

When the operation was completed, we left to go to a bigger room with our family around to meet Ava. We have pictures of all the love that was surrounded around her. That’s all I ever wanted for her was to feel as much love as she could while she was here. I was holding her and touching her realizing she had started to fade. The nurse checked on her and explained that her heart rate was lowering quickly and promptly handed her back to me to spend as much time as I could. Not long after- although at the time it felt long, because time moved slow- the doctor and nurse called her time of death while my husband held her. We just heard what we knew was coming. Our daughter just died. We knew she likely was not going to live a long life. It doesn’t make it any less painful. Our daughter who was born breathing and crying and grunting just died. Died in my husband’s arms while the physician and nurse that delivered her listened to her heart slow and stop to tell us that she is no longer living. Our daughter is dead. All I can do is stare, cry, everything was a blur.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with Ava. This time I cherish. We tried to memorize her. We took pictures with her and of her to remember her every day. She laid next to me, and I held her all that I could. The hardest part was giving her body to the nurse and saying our final goodbyes even though we had just met her. The nurse brought back the blanket without my child. No mother should have to do this.

We have pictures all over our house of Ava and our family. Her name is written on the wall in scrabble pieces like the rest of our family. We have her baby blanket locked away in a plastic bag that we hope keeps the smell forever, although we know it won’t. We have a beautiful wooden box that holds her flowers from her funeral, and so many things that remind us of her. It plays the song that was played at her funeral, Over the Rainbow, that now means so much to us. We have flowers and daisies that we planted alongside trees that were gifts to us. We get to watch these grow. We think every day how we included Ava in our day. Some days are harder than others. We were blessed to have Ava in the springtime and grieve in the summer months as we spent a lot of time in nature. Watching the birds and butterflies all summer long. Animals always have had a special place in my heart, but I could now explain to you what each animal means. Because when you lose your child, you look for every single sign that you can find that she is with you.

Sunlight, reading, and planting saved me this past summer. Along with the spunky 2 1/2 year old that kept mommy and daddy going every day. These are just some of the small things that helped us. We find something special to do on the 17th of every month. Sometimes it’s as simple as spending time together or visiting her grave. Most days were terribly hard to move through – this was and still is a traumatic time in our lives. There is anger, sadness, the ‘why our child,’ happiness, laughter, bitterness, and just any emotion you could think of sometimes in a 1-minute time frame. Somedays I could have forgotten to eat or shower. As time moves forward different things help us grieve. Somedays it helps to avoid the feelings and others it feels amazing to talk about Ava and just weep. We have learned through this season that keeping our daughter’s memory alive and that day that we got to meet her are so important to us. She is big part of our family. She is my our second daughter and a little sister to our 3-year-old, and soon to be a big sister to a baby boy. She is a grandchild, a niece, and cousin. Ava taught us the greatest thing that cannot be taken from you. LOVE. This is something no one can take from you, as I have said or read at this point, I’m not sure — Grief would not exist if it wasn’t for the love that we had for Ava.

About Ashley Loehr

Ashley resides in St. Louis, Missouri with her husband of five years. I am a mom to our soon-to-be three human children and brown lab mix. Our sweet Ava watches over her 3-year-old sister and our family in heaven and the little boy growing inside me. Ava passed away shortly after her birth on April 17th, 2021, due to a rare skeletal Dysplasia called Thanatophoric Dysplasia. Every day seems different and we try our best to move forward in this season of grief while we honor and keep Ava’s memory alive. It is challenging to be a mother to one child in heaven and a child on earth while hoping for the next healthy baby that is soon to come. Through sharing bits and pieces of our story throughout this process it has been healing but also has brought comfort to others and helps keep us saying Ava’s name.

Folded Paper Hearts; an Epiphany

Tue, 15 Mar 2022 09:06:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

Epiphany: A moment when you finally see or understand something in a new way.

Maybe you, sweet girl, just like myself, trudged through the ups and downs of infertility and pregnancy loss, enduring many years of confusion, hurt, and the questioning of, “why me?” Perhaps you are reading this, and you are still confused, you are still hurting, and you still want to know from the depths of your being, “why me?” Have you found yourself asking,

“Why can’t I carry a child?”

“Why do I have to go through all of this pain?”

“Why did I lose yet another pregnancy, another baby I longed to meet?”

“ Why oh why me? ” (Emphasis added because, well, I’ve asked more than like, twenty times.)

Metaphorically speaking, when I found myself asking these questions in the midst of the pain and the struggles, I felt as though I had a paper heart. A folded paper heart. The little pink paper heart that a giggly girl made in class on Valentine’s Day. But then a spunky little boy snatched it and crumpled it, folding it in ways only his little hands could think of. I was broken, and I was oh so bewildered. Seriously girls, bewildered is a low-key word for my confusion. Honestly, I think the word higgledy-piggledy might rank a bit higher to my bewilderment during those five years. Yes, higgledy-piggledy is a word, it’s even defined in Merriam Webster as confused and disordered. It makes me think of pigs, I mean have you ever seen a group of pigs when they are riled up? It is a disordered mess of mud, smells, and utter confusion…just ask my sister-in-law.

All joking aside, I want to tell you, yes you , the girl who is reeling from a pregnancy loss, whether you were five weeks or thirty weeks, that these trials and the wounds they leave behind can lead to beautiful destinations. I don’t know where you are on your journey, but please, take a sip of your favorite coffee, savor it and savor the following words: Don’t lose heart. That crumpled up pink construction paper of a heart? It can be straightened back out. Will the crumples still be visible? Of course! But those crumples tell a story, and they led to my very own sweet epiphany, just as they may lead to yours.

As I’m typing this, I’m in the midst of my sixth pregnancy loss. Six losses all in six years. Here’s the sweet buttercream icing on the cake though: after five losses, five years of asking, “ Why me?”, five years of tear-soaked pillowcases, gut wrenching prayers, doctor office visits and all things ‘infertility and miscarriage’ entails, I found myself holding my very own son that I carried, a true miracle.

I don’t know the reason for our miscarriages or losses. The pain will always find a spot in my heart, but all of my crumpled areas led to my miracle. The sweet epiphany is that the timing of everything led me to the very thing I wasn’t sure I would ever have. I had to endure five painful miscarriages, but I learned the fragility of pregnancy and how much of a pure blessing a child is. As I yet again go through my sixth loss, and the all too familiar feelings, I have to remind myself to not lose heart. I can promise you, from my own experience, that we never know when a miracle is right around the corner. Your miracle may come in a different way than mine, or it may be similar, but keep your faith, keep your hope, and always, always remember, you are not alone in this.

Epiphany + Folded Paper Hearts; A moment when you finally see or understand why your heart had to bend, fold, and receive crumples. [Throughout Infertility, Miscarriage, or Stillbirth]…or other trials you have endured.

About Nikki Grayson

Nikki and her husband endured years of repeated miscarriages, infertility, and the loss of their son Hunter at 16 ½ weeks pregnant. Her sixth pregnancy resulted in their rainbow baby; a sweet and very loved little boy. Aside from being a nurse, Nikki has a heart that longs to reach out to others who are struggling with pregnancy after loss and precious Mamas who are hurting after the loss of their baby. Nikki wrote a book during the weeks after losing Hunter called Teardrops in Hunter’s Hollow. The words and pages are meant to be a safe place for women to know and feel they are not alone, with glimmers of hope along the way.

Celebrating Charlie

Mon, 14 Mar 2022 16:37:00 GMT

By: Jennifer Haake

How do we celebrate the little boy who never took a breath? I wish I could give you all the answers. Every family has their own traditions and finds what they are comfortable with. How do we celebrate our boy?

Each fall we take family portraits. Since Charlie passed away, we have held a sock monkey in our photos. At this point one of his sisters designates herself as the Charlie monkey keeper. For his birthday we gather at the cemetery with cupcakes, candles, and balloons and sing a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday. We attend the Angel Ball and the Share Walk for Remembrance and Hope and designate those our Charlie Days! I like to include his sisters whenever possible. As they have gotten older, I have found they do their own things to include their brother.

And lastly, for a boy who never took a breath, he has been remembered by friends and family all over the world. Each time they travel to a beach they will write his name in the sand and send me photos. He has had his name written in the Maldives, Hawaii, Florida, California, Ireland, Greece, Bora Bora, the Bahamas, Texas, North Carolina, South Carolina, Australia, Oregon, and the Canary Islands, to name a few.

Charlie would be 11 ½ today. It took me a long time to figure out the best way to make memories with him without him. I understand from one grieving mother to another grieving mother that part of the loss so profound is the worry that he/she/they will be forgotten. So, what do we do? Some suggestions: include your baby(ies) in your family photos via a picture/stuffed animal/frame with their name printed, have a birthday party and let there be cake! Commit to acts of service in your baby’s honor (I volunteer for Share when I can), get a tattoo, fundraise, adopt a child at Christmas that is around the age of your child, or find something that fits you and what you can manage. Celebrations of your babies are as unique to you as your grief journey.

About Jennifer Haake

Jennifer is a parent companion with Share. She found Share when her son, Charlie, was stillborn in 2010. Jennifer lives in the St. Louis area with her husband of 17 years, Derek, and their three daughters. Volunteering for Share is a family affair. Derek serves on the board of directors for Share while the girls can always be found passing out water and helping out at the Walk for Remembrance and Hope.

Growing Together

Tue, 08 Mar 2022 20:09:00 GMT

By: Cathi Lammert

As my husband Chuck and I grieved the death of our son Christopher we discovered even more how important our relationship was to each of us. We had so many ups and downs while intensely grieving him. Even today 39 years later, Christopher is still missed and always loved.

As a couple we were fortunate to spend many years with other couples and/or one of the partners in the relationship at the Share support group meetings. Challenges, questions and growth during the grief journey with your partner were a main topic of discussion. These golden nugget suggestions of Growing Together are the result of our own personal thoughts and the numerous bereaved parents’ ideas shared with us to have healthy relationships over the years. I wrote this piece a couple decades ago when I was the Share Executive Director. Recently, I was asked if this could be shared once again online. I hope these suggestions help you in your healing, both individually and as a couple.

Your relationship as a couple is so important. Let it take precedence over others.
When a baby dies, the grief affects both of you at the same time. Therefore, your partner may not always be able to respond to you because he/she is trying to cope with their own grief.
Each of you experienced the death of your baby but your grief will be different. You had both shared and individual (different) hopes and dreams for your baby. Sharing your lost dreams can give you some insight into each other’s feelings.
Each person in the relationship will grieve in individual ways. Learning to understand your partner’s expressions of grief may take some time and may be difficult. Sometimes we work through our grief more in actions than talking.
Words or answers are not always needed; just your listening ear may help.
Remember that it takes time and communication to maintain a healthy relationship.
Difficulties may arise in the best of relationships. This may be the first time you struggle with major differences of opinions. Keep working at communicating your emotional and physical needs.
Your partner does not need to be your sole supporter. It is OK (and helpful) to share with someone close to you or a support group during this difficult time.
Reading bereavement materials may help validate your feelings. It can also be a great source to initiate a discussion.
It is OK to reach out for professional help, it is not a sign of weakness and is actually very common following the loss of a baby.
There may be stresses on your intimate relationship. Communicate your feelings openly. Remember, human touch can be healing but may not indicate a readiness for another pregnancy.
Each of you may need some privacy with your feelings. Respect and give each other that space.
You may feel differently about the choices regarding memorializing your child. Talk about your differences and try to work out a compromise.
You are not the same person you were before your baby died. It may take time to accept and understand the new person.
Each of you will search for a meaning of your loss; one or both may turn to faith or spirituality, one or both may not.
Your baby has given you many gifts, exploring those gifts may warm your heart. This could be new connections of support, friendship, strengthened or relationships.
It is okay to enjoy life again. Your baby does not expect you to be sad all the time. Sharing laughter and tears together helps you to heal. Search for some relaxing things to do; it may help give you new perspective.

Chuck and I hope as you grieve your precious baby together you will find peace and hope and perhaps these ideas can give you some guidance and support. If you have any other suggestions that helped you on this journey please feel free to share them. If you are struggling in your grief or your relationship, please reach out to the Share office. The support and resources that they provide are invaluable.

About Cathi Lammert

For nearly four decades Cathi has been involved in the perinatal bereavement field. She has combined her experience as a bereaved parent since the death of her son Christopher at 4 days old with her professional obstetrics nursing career in her work. She served as National Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support’s Executive Director (1992-2013) and Pregnancy Loss and Infant Death Alliance (PLIDA) Founding Co-President, then another term as president and additional terms as a board member. She has been involved internationally in the perinatal bereavement field as an author, conference planner, consultant, contributor to position statements and articles, educator, not for profit management, support group management and most of all as a parent advocate. She believes the cornerstone of her commitment to this especially important work is time she has been privileged to spend with those who lives are touched by the death of a precious baby. They have been her best teachers.

Going Back to Work After a Loss

Tue, 08 Mar 2022 19:21:00 GMT

By: Brooke Taylor Duckworth

Eventually, many grieving parents find themselves in the difficult position of going back to work after some time off. Having spent the weeks that should have been maternity or paternity leave coping with the sorrow of not holding our baby in our arms, we have to maneuver our way back into a weak imitation of our former selves, at least sufficiently enough to make it through a day of work.

Here is a list of suggestions for making that process a little easier. Obviously, every workplace is different, and specific advice would vary hugely depending on what kind of work you do, but I hope you find something helpful here.

1. Ask for what you need.

In a perfect world, everyone would have a boss and coworkers who were compassionate, intuitive, and understanding. Unfortunately, that’s not always the case. You may need to draft a letter explaining what happened so that your story gets told on your own terms.

Even if everyone has already been informed, you may want to go ahead and e-mail some of your coworkers before you return. People will be concerned and most likely they won’t know what to do, so let them know what would be most helpful for you. Keep in mind, the go-to reaction is probably avoidance because people don’t want to upset you, so you might want to say something like, “Although my grief is very intense, I find it helpful and healing to talk about my baby. Please don’t be afraid to ask about him/her.” Alternatively, if you don’t want to discuss your child at work, you might say, “I appreciate your sympathy and concern, and I thank you for respecting my family’s privacy at this time.”

2. Start slow, if you can.

If you can go back to work part-time at first, do it. Start back on a Wednesday or Thursday so you don’t have to face a full week. I was lucky to go back very part-time at first, just three days a week for a few months. While some parents welcome work as a distraction, the process of grief is so exhausting that full-time work can feel almost impossible for a while. Talk to your boss about shortening your days and leaving early for doctor appointments. Things that qualify as a “doctor’s appointment” when you are grieving are: therapy, massage, acupuncture, restorative yoga classes, and actual doctor appointments–my therapist or OB would have written me a note for any of those, had my workplace required it.

3. Take a memento with you.

I wore a bracelet with my daughter’s name on it every single day. No one ever asked me about it, but I knew it was there. If you have your own desk area, you can display a photo of your child, or a special print that represents him or her. You can carry photos in your bag and just share them with people when you feel comfortable. One mama I know carried her baby’s tiny hat in her pocket as a secret link to him. Similarly, wearing a personalized necklace that you can tuck inside your shirt or a ring with an engraving on the inside is a way of keeping your baby close to your heart in a private way (Etsy has tons of options at every price point).

4. Practice your speech but expect the unexpected.
Be prepared to bump into someone who knew you were pregnant but doesn’t know what happened. Prepare in advance what you will say to make that encounter slightly less stressful for you. Don’t feel like you have to apologize for sharing your tragedy, and don’t feel like you have to make it sound like you’re doing just fine now.

If asked about my pregnancy, I would say, “Actually, we lost the baby just before she was due.” Depending on the person and the conversation, I might elaborate on that and share Eliza’s name, but often that sentence was all I could choke out without dissolving into tears. Usually that person would say, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Then I would nod and say, “Thanks. It’s been really hard.” And then I’d change the subject (or excuse myself to run to the bathroom and cry.)

Keep in mind that no matter how thoroughly you prepare, something will catch you off guard. Someone will say something unintentionally hurtful. Someone will gleefully announce a pregnancy, and their good news will feel like a kick in the teeth. These things happen. Expect they are going to happen and know that you’ll make it through.

5. Remember, it’s okay to cry.

It’s great if you have an office where you can close the door for privacy. Hopefully there’s at least a conveniently located restroom where you can go when you can’t hold back tears, but it’s completely okay for you to cry–even if people can see you. You are a bereaved parent whose baby has just died. No one should expect you not to be upset. Be gentle with yourself. I cried in front of my boss (twice), various co-workers, and I almost cried in front of a well- meaning student. It happens. We are all human. Every tear you cry now is one less tear you’ll have to cry tomorrow.

6. Drink hot beverages.

I carried a hot drink with me everywhere. The warm liquid helped to relax my throat when it was choking up with sobs, but it also gave me something to look at and something to do with my hands.

7. Bribe yourself.

Going back to work is HARD. Promise yourself something small to look forward to. Buy yourself chocolate–the really good stuff. Keep it in your desk drawer. Treat yourself to a soft sweater that can keep you warm in winter or keep off the chill of air conditioning. Wrap up in a new scarf and let it feel like a layer of protection. Promise yourself that when you get home, you’ll watch another episode of Friday Night Lights on Netflix (Coach Taylor won’t let you down, although there is a pregnancy storyline one season). Subscribe to a new podcast. Pick up take out Chinese food after work. Buy a pint of gelato. Get yourself a new pair of running shoes. Watch kittens on YouTube. Give yourself a little reward for making it through the day.

8. Phone a friend and check in with online support groups.

It’s always helpful if you can check in with another loss parent—a “grief buddy” of sorts. This person doesn’t have to be on the same timeline as you, although that worked wonderfully for me. But whether it’s your best friend from childhood, your mom, your spouse, or another parent who has lost a child, put that number in your phone and text them whenever you need moral support. Create a thread at Glow in the Woods and check in with people there. E-mail people who write blogs you connect to, or who have stories like yours posted on Faces of Loss. It’s always nice to have someone say, “I’m sorry” but it is enormously helpful to hear someone say, “Me, too.”

9. Remember that it’s normal to feel like work doesn’t matter.

It’s hard to care about anything at all when the center of your world just died. Focus on your priorities at work, and don’t worry too much about not being invested in what you’re doing. I personally found that eventually teaching came to feel like a bit of a respite from grief, and it was helpful for me to feel competent at something again. I ended up starting a new teaching job nine months after Eliza died, and it was a great move for me (though I still cried in my office every day). Other people discover that they are eventually ready for a new job and a fresh start, or a complete career change that allows them to pursue a different kind of work they find meaningful. Give yourself plenty of time.

10. Be gentle with yourself.

Cut yourself some slack. The goals of your first week back at work are simply survival and self- preservation. Everything else can come later. If you get caught up in a project at work and don’t think about your baby for several minutes at a time, don’t feel guilty about that. At the same time, if you can’t focus on anything because you just keep thinking about your baby, that’s completely understandable. Work will get easier with time, or it will become clear that you are ready to make a significant change. Keep breathing and just take it one day at a time. You’re not alone in this.

About Brooke Taylor Duckworth

Brooke is a writer, educator, and academic living with her family in St. Louis. She has a Ph.D. in English literature and works in higher education. After publishing academic articles on Victorian novels early in her career, Brooke turned to writing and blogging in her personal life to process her grief after her first daughter, Eliza, was unexpectedly stillborn. Brooke is now raising three little girls and spends her free time practicing yoga, playing card games, and reading novels, as well as continuing to write essays and fiction. Her first book, Unimaginable: Life After Baby Los s , was published in February 2021.

Grief Makes Us Sensitive, and That’s Okay

Wed, 23 Feb 2022 18:46:00 GMT

By: Michelle L. Cramer

Our senses are very powerful. They can be deeply tied to seasons in our life or traumatic moments and, most often, the negative associations are far more powerful than the positive ones. Dr. Elizabeth Palazzi, a psychologist in Pennsylvania, says, “Grieving takes longer than anybody ever has the patience for” due, in part, to emotional setbacks. Those setbacks can often be triggered by sights, sounds, and smells. Dr. Palazzi adds that it can take from two to five years before a griever can come across those memory triggers without them causing a negative response.

And even then, much later, triggers will still happen without any warning. Just when you think it should be time to move on, something wakes up in you out of nowhere, causing a storm of grief to swell again. These are called emotional setbacks. They occur when a song on the radio triggers a memory of a first dance together. When the smell of antiseptic suddenly transports you back to the hospital room during those final days. When the soft feel of a blanket reminds you of the blanket you swaddled your baby in the day he was born still.

In the professional psychological world, these are called involuntary autobiographical memories (IAMs), which are memories of significant importance that pop up out of nowhere, triggered by cues in one’s surroundings, with research showing that 30-50% of those cues are sensory/perception based. IAMs often occur without a deliberate attempt at retrieval, and frequently during undemanding everyday activities (like eating, walking, or driving). They are estimated to occur an average of three to five times a day and up to three times as often as voluntary memory. IAMs can be associated with positive or negative memories, but for the sake of our discussion, they are the catalyst for emotional setbacks for a griever.

Ariel had polymicrogyria — she was born with extra ridging in her brain and several gene mutations that caused her to have frequent seizures and she passed at just three years old. For years, every time she heard the rustling of leaves, Ariel’s mom Liz would be overwhelmed with grief again. “I spend all of fall trying not to sink back into the darkest points of my grief journey,” Liz told me.

Music is the most powerful sound that we know that affects our emotional state, said Julian Treasure in a 2009 Ted Talk on the four ways sound affects us. “Music is not the only kind of sound, however, which affects your emotions. Natural sound can do that too,” Treasure goes on to say.

This brings to mind a social media post I’ve seen frequently in recent years around the 4th of July holiday. It often depicts a veteran and a lawn sign asking for the neighbors to be considerate when shooting off fireworks. Because the booms immediately trigger his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and painful memories of being deployed and in the thick of battle.

According to an article from PTSD UK, individuals with PTSD can often develop difficulties with sounds such as an exaggerated startle response, fear of sound (phonophobia), aversion to specific sounds (misophonia), and a difficulty in tolerance and volume of sounds that would not be considered loud by normal hearing individuals (hyperacusis). It’s important to inform loved ones of your sound triggers – such as the sound of a baby crying because your stillborn daughter never cried – so that they can be accommodating and aware of your grief needs.

Often, negative IAMs are associated with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Dr Ali Mazaheri, of the University of Birmingham’s School of Psychology and Centre for Human Brain Health, confirmed through a 2017 study that a symptom of (PTSD) can be heightened sensory sensitivity. And the development of PTSD is not strictly limited to extreme events, like the terrorist attack on the U.S. in 2001. PTSD can also develop due to significant loss, specifically the loss of a loved one.

Smells link to memories so easily because of the brain’s anatomy, said Harvard’s Venkatesh Murthy, Raymond Leo Erikson Life Sciences Professor and chair of the Department of Molecular and Cellular Biology. Smells are handled by the olfactory bulb, the structure in the front of the brain that sends information to the other areas of the body’s central command for further processing. Odors take a direct route to the limbic system, including the amygdala and the hippocampus, the regions related to emotion and memory.

PTSD and can also trigger negative IAMs based upon visual triggers. Lisa’s father committed suicide when she was three years old. She remembers waking up to the flashing lights of the emergency response vehicles. “To this day [more than 30 years later], when I see lights flashing at night from emergency vehicles, I feel anxiety,” Lisa said. “I don’t enjoy driving at night partially because of my fear of having them fly by me.”

For Kris, noticing the clock exactly at 12:06 AM is a trigger. It was the exact time she looked at the clock after her daughter Adisan was born blue and unresponsive — Adisan was diagnosed soon after birth with Spinal Muscular Atrophy. Twelve years later, Adisan passed away at exactly 12:06 AM. “She came and left at 12:06 — a moment of joy and of sorrow,” Kris said.

And some grief triggers aren’t so much sensory, as they are tied to events. Birthday and holidays are obvious triggers and many grieving the loss of someone will create memorials for those situations to help ease the pain. But some just gut punch out of nowhere. My friend Riley gives a few examples:

“Like the time when I was in Toys-R-Us a couple years ago and a mom called for her little girl, Gabby. I had to turn around to see the cutest curly blonde-haired girl giving her mom attitude. And I thought to myself, ‘Yep, my Gabby would have been just like that too,’ as I tried to pull myself together. Or when I was watching a girl’s ministry awards ceremony at church and the 3rd-5th grade girls started their presentation. I suddenly realized that Gabby should be up there.”

To someone who has not experienced substantial loss in their life, it may seem silly and even odd that the sounds of leaves rustling, the sight of ambulance lights, or the time on the clock could cause depression, anxiety, or grief to well up. And it may not even be a consideration for someone outside the grief to help their grieving loved one avoid these things. Instead, many try to tell grievers to push past these sensory triggers or overexpose themselves to sensory triggers in order to “get over it.”

But it’s not like jumping out of an airplane to get over your fear of heights (which I personally think is counterintuitive, but it does bring home my point). Over exposure to these sensory triggers that bring back negative memories make the grief swell inside again. Because grief never leaves, it just becomes a livable part of our existence. It’s important for those outside the loss, who care about someone grieving, to be sensitive to what may trigger them. Often, because IAMs get in the way, you may not know what your triggers are initially. But you will learn. Find people that create a safe space for you to discuss your grief openly with them and share your triggers. That way you have someone looking out for and advocating for you when you may be unable to.

About Michelle L. Cramer

Michelle is the founder and president of On Angels’ Wings (OAW), a non-profit organization serving Missouri that seeks to improve the mental health and wellness of families with medically fragile children (regardless of race, ethnicity, class status or orientation) or birth loss through free therapeutic photography and grief recovery services. Michelle has been a professional writer, editor, and photographer for 15 years. She recently finished her first book on helping others grieve without causing additional harm, which she is currently working on self-publishing. Michelle and her husband of nearly 20 years have two boys, eight different animals in their urban home, and an affinity for hiking and all things sci-fi and rock-n-roll.

Continuing Our Love

Wed, 23 Feb 2022 17:23:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

It’s been five years since we lost our son, Asher. Since then, I have very openly talked about him and how the loss of him has affected every facet of my life.

Losing my son changed me and I’m very vocal about that fact.

I can only assume as time has progressed that people are tired of hearing me talk about it. I’m sure people see my posts on social media, roll their eyes, and think “oh god! Another post about her depressing life asking for sympathy.”

Actually, let me rephrase that, I KNOW for a fact that many people feel that way, some of which have said it to my face.

So let me be clear….

I don’t want your sympathy.

I am not an open book about my life so that you feel pity for me.

I don’t want you to look at me and think “that’s the mother who lost her son, how sad.”

I want your EMPATHY.

I want you to read about my experience, “put yourself in my shoes,” imagine the unimaginable, and understand how losing a child, at any age or gestation, permeates EVERY aspect of your being.

I didn’t lose a pregnancy.

I lost my firstborn child.

I lost my son, who I desperately wanted and worked very hard to conceive.

I held his lifeless body in my arms for the first and last time on the day he was born.

I lost out on a lifetime of memories we should’ve made together.

I WILL NOT move on from it, no matter how much you wish I would.

My son is not something to move on from.

PERIOD.

He is my child.

I can tell you what I will do though…

I will move forward WITH my son.

I will carry him with me for the rest of my life.

I will continue to say his name.

I will continue to hold his photo in our family photos, so his place in our family is ALWAYS acknowledged, regardless of how others feel about it.

I will continue to share our experience to help others understand the gravity of a loss like this and that it’s okay to talk about it, to help other loss parents feel support and validation, and to, selfishly, continue my child’s legacy.

I will ALWAYS be Asher’s Mama.

It is something I can never “move on” from and it is something I would NEVER want to.

If you find it annoying that I continue to talk about my son or if you think that I’m doing it to seek sympathy from others, consider yourself lucky that you don’t know this grief firsthand and take a second to try to understand how consuming it could be for someone who does.

Two Years Later

Tue, 15 Feb 2022 16:49:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

I’ve never had a great memory. I tend to remember a few very specific but random things from way too long ago, but I can’t remember what I did yesterday. As long as I live, I will never forget anything about February 18, 2020. I was 21 weeks pregnant with our first child, a precious baby girl. I had a doctor’s appointment that morning. I remember what I was wearing. I remember what my husband and I talked about in the car on the way. And I will never forget the moment I heard “there is no heartbeat.” Nothing in life can prepare you for that moment.

It’s been two years since that day, and I’d love to be able to say that I’m doing ok. But that is not the reality. You see, I don’t believe that we ever really become “ok” with losing a child. I think we become a little bit more comfortable with the discomfort of the sadness and grief that have been part of our lives for the last two years. We learn how to push through the grief in order to function in our everyday lives, whether it’s raising other children, work, etc. We find ways to try to do the things that used to bring us joy in our lives, hoping it will fill the void. But it doesn’t.

I’ve struggled with a lot of feelings the last two years. For two years now we’ve been trying to get pregnant again. Deep down you know that you can never replace a child you have lost but for a very long time, you feel like having a child is the only thing in the world that can even remotely begin to help you heal. We’ve been unsuccessful in our journey to conceive again, and I’m convinced it is largely in part due to my anxiety about getting pregnant again. There is no easy way, whether through therapy or otherwise, to convince yourself that you’ll be fine with whatever happens. I’ve tried to adopt that mentality many times over the last two years, but the truth is, I’m not ok with whatever happens.

I struggle with all the “shoulds” that the last 24 months has thrown at me. At what point “should” I give up hope of having a baby? I mean, I am 39 years old. In fertility years, that’s practically 100. Yes, I know the medical field has taken giant leaps in the last several years as far as fertility procedures, etc. But that doesn’t necessarily give me any comfort. When “should” I give away all of the wonderful baby gifts we received and turn the nursery back into a guest room? When “should” I stop feeling guilty if I ever do feel any sort of happiness? When “should” I stop thinking I have to put on my brave face because it’s been two years and I “should” be better by now? I realize in actuality, there is no rule book or time limit on any of these feelings. However, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I “should” be further along in my journey than I am.

One of the hardest parts of this journey is trying to explain and/or justify your feelings to others. People have good intentions, but if you’ve never walked this road then there truly is no way you can understand. You can empathize or sympathize, but there is no other comparable feeling to the loss of a child. People often times say unhelpful things in an effort to “help.” People don’t always understand that a lot of times, we don’t want to go out and do things. Being social, while you think it might make us feel better, is sometimes way too exhausting and more work than we feel like putting in. We don’t want to disappoint our family and friends by missing events, but some days are just too hard to be present in the moment.

I remember very recently a time when I was talking with a friend and referred to “my daughter.” It stopped me dead in my tracks. I’m not a mother. I never considered myself a mother. I have zero living children and two angel children. But that was an incredibly difficult concept for me to grasp. In my brain, you’re only a parent if you actually GET to parent. I did not have the chance. While I know in my heart, I am a mother to my baby girl, I still answer “no” if someone asks if I have any kids. I don’t know when it will feel appropriate for me to say “yes.” Maybe it never will. The guilt of even having those feelings is tough to manage at times.

I know that I’ve made forward progress in my journey to heal because I no longer cry when I see pregnancy announcements. I am able to feel happiness and joy for friends or family that are having children, and it is sincere. I’m able to talk openly with family and friends about my feelings most of the time. It doesn’t mean I don’t go through phases where I don’t want to leave the house. Or respond to texts. Or get out of bed. But generally, people are pretty understanding and don’t push too hard.

If I have any advice for grieving families, or friends of grieving families, it’s this: Give yourself or your loved ones all the grace in the world. Be gentle with yourself and with others. Don’t “should” yourself to death. You deserve to feel happiness but if you don’t feel it right now, that’s ok. Anything you’re feeling is ok. Don’t compare your journey to others because what works for some may not work for you. Try to find things to do in life that you enjoy, and if there are days you don’t feel like doing it that’s ok. Cancel plans if you need time for yourself. Reach out to people you feel comfortable talking to if you need help. Know that you will never be the same person you were before your loss, and that’s ok too. I smile when I see rainbows or butterflies because I know that’s my daughter’s way of telling me she’s there. The world does have a way of sending you signs when you need them but sometimes you have to keep your eyes open to really see.

About Lindsey Dell

FIVE

Mon, 07 Feb 2022 14:15:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

Five….

Five years since I said hello to my firstborn child.

Five years since I said goodbye to that same child.

Five years since I last held my son.

Five years since a part of me died.

February 19, 2022 will be five years since Asher was born.

Five feels huge. Half a decade of living with the grief of losing my son and yet still a lifetime to go.

A lot has changed over these five years. I’ve changed a lot, of which I’ve previously written . Our family has grown by twin little girls. They are now full blown three-nagers and we are so grateful for every little bit of sass they give us (even though in the moment, it’s a bit obnoxious).

While myself and my family have grown over these last five years, one thing has remained unchanged….

Asher is still missing.

We have incorporated Asher into our lives in every way we can. My husband and I wear rings with his birthstone so he is always with us. We hold his photo in family pictures to show his very real place in our family. We sign his name to cards. We have built a legacy for our son by donating Comfort Cubs in Asher’s memory to our local hospital for bereaved parents. We started an organization with our bereaved besties to help other loss families.

We have done all we can to ensure Asher is never forgotten and that he remains a presence in our lives.

However, all of that doesn’t take away the fact that Asher’s physical presence is always missing.

There should be a 5-year-old in our home, who isn’t here.

We should be thinking about kindergarten in the fall, but we aren’t.

Five years in and the ache to hold our son is just as devastating now as it was five years ago.

We lost so much more than a pregnancy when Asher was stillborn.

We lost our very much longed for first child.

We lost a lifetime…his lifetime.

The weight of that fact is always there.

Over the past five years I have gotten better at carrying that weight. It’s just as heavy as it was 5 years ago, but my grief muscles are stronger now and better able to hold up the weight without struggling. (The irony of that fact isn’t lost on me, seeing as I’m someone who does not work out.)

However, there are days where my grief muscles get tired, I can’t hold the weight up anymore and it crushes me, the loss crushes me. Five years in, those days aren’t as frequent as they once were, but they still happen.

At five years into living life after loss, I am unbelievably proud of my son and the good he has done in this world through us. I also miss him with every fiber of my being. I’ve accepted the fact that my life will continue to be a dichotomy of grief and joy, always loving and always missing my firstborn.

Happy 5th birthday, Asher Ray!

You are loved.

You are missed.

You are remembered.

Always.

A Sister’s Love

Wed, 02 Feb 2022 09:30:00 GMT

By: Sophie Stachula

Sophie was recently asked to write using this prompt: discuss an event or realization that sparked a period of personal growth and a new understanding of yourself or others. The following is Sophie’s response.

I remember thinking that once you became an adult, you didn’t cry anymore. I thought only kids cried, when they fell and scraped their knee, or didn’t get their way. Of course, I came to realize that it wasn’t that adults don’t cry; it’s that when they are parents, they stay brave for their kids. I had seen my mom cry over sappy movies, and my dad cry from laughing. But once I had seen them both weep from grief after the death of their child, something changed within me.

I was in second grade when my mom started working at Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support. She was always transparent with my brother and I about what she did at her job. She told us that there were mommies and daddies who needed help because they had lost a baby, and that she was there to help them. She explained to us what miscarriage and stillbirth were in a way that we could understand. I listened to every word she said, always eager to learn more. That first year she worked there, I got to volunteer at the annual Walk for Remembrance and Hope. I remember feeling important because my job was to hand out balloons to all the families that attended. I thought it was so cool how they got to write messages to their babies on the balloons, and then watch them float away in the sky. I loved seeing the sky full of balloons; it was like magic. I looked forward to the walk every year.

I had never imagined that I would have a baby sister, and neither did my mom. I was 13 when my mom announced she was pregnant, and she was 40. I was so excited when she told me the news, but my excitement quickly turned to fear. I knew my mom was old to be having a baby. I remembered the statistic that I heard all the time at her job: 1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss. My mom chose to have hope, even though she knew better than anyone the risk. She was open with me about her worries, but also her joy and anticipation. My mom taught me the importance of sharing how you feel even if it’s hard. I knew how much it helped her to be able to talk about how she felt. She bought my brother and I pink cookies at the gender reveal party and gave my sister a name. Her name was Caroline Claire Stachula, and even though she never lived outside of my mom, we loved her completely.

I had been told what it feels like to lose a baby, but never before did I know the utter pain and heartbreak until I watched my parents cry. Their tears showed so much love, so much heartache, things I was unfamiliar with; I was taken aback. I wanted more than anything to make their pain go away. I wanted to heal the hearts of all the moms, dads, brothers, sisters, grandmas, and grandpas of all the lost babies in the world. It took some time, but my family was able to heal through acts of healing and the compassion of others. Through support and love, remembering together and as a part of the Share community, we found our feet as a family again. Sometimes parents can’t be brave, and someone has to be there for them. Sometimes people need help getting through a tough time. I am now much more mindful of the thoughts and feelings of those around me, and I never hesitate to offer kind words or thoughtful advice where I see a need. That was what helped us. The next time I went to the walk, I didn’t volunteer, but attended as a bereaved sister. I noticed the heartbreak and healing of the attending families for the first time. Watching them release the balloons into the sky was no longer fun, it was touching and tender– magic in a different way.

About Sophie Stachula

Sophie has grown up in and around the Share office, but came to know Share’s mission intimately after the loss of her little sister, Caroline, in 2017. Sophie is an accomplished photographer, singer, writer, and student, and has generously shared her gifts with Share as a volunteer at countless Share functions. She is a great listener and her friends value her for her observant and kind friendship and support. Sophie has a compassionate heart that lends towards caring, and is looking to study psychology and counseling when she heads to college next fall.

Dear Caroline

Tue, 01 Feb 2022 12:15:00 GMT

By: Jenn Stachula

Dear Caroline, my sweet girl,

This is the story of the day you were born.

Oh, how we loved you, immediately and fully and completely, and oh, how our hearts shattered when we learned our time with you had ended. Five years ago, your dad and I clasped hands, and clung to one another as we walked our broken hearts into the hospital to have you; so much earlier than we dreamed, devastated with the knowing that you wouldn’t, couldn’t come home with us. We were so scared; not of having you, precious girl, but of letting you go. I had no idea how I would let you go. When your Aunt Amy died, years before you and your sister and brother were even dreams on my heart, I learned how to hold on close and tight, love completely, cradle those I cherished in the safety of my heart. I never dreamed I wouldn’t be able to do the same for you. I ached to bring you into our family, into our crazy clan and raise you with the love that was already yours. You were a part of me, us, this. Until that day, in the doctor’s office, when that sweet man cried with me when we couldn’t find your heartbeat, I truly believed you’d be safe inside me, and grow completely into the person you were made to be. I’m so, so sorry, I was wrong.

When we entered labor and delivery, I was greeted at the door with a tender hug from a nurse I knew well, one I had trained to care for moms like me. We cried together, and we held on a little tighter and longer. He whispered to us, “I am so, so sorry you’re here. We’ll do everything we can to honor you and your baby. I have asked the most compassionate people to be here and help care for you and your baby girl.” We walked together to the room where we’d start the process to meet you.

A young, clearly nervous nurse I had never met stood close beside my bed. The tears glistening in her eyes were held back by bravery, a tender brave front that just cut me to my core. I looked at her and gently asked, my words trembling, “Have you ever done this before, helped a mom like me?” A single tear slipped out as she replied, “You are my first.” Tears slipped from my own eyes as I grasped her hand and said, “I’ve never done this before either. We’ll learn together.” I asked her name, and she replied, “It’s Amy.”

My heart swelled, and for a moment, I felt the Universe and all that had been, all I dreamed would be, collide within me. She shared your Aunt Amy’s name.

I knew then, my darling baby, that you would be in good hands. Seven hours later, you were born into her hands, Nurse Amy’s, and she held you, cared for you with every bit of reverence you deserved. I will be grateful for her for the rest of my life.

Dad and I held you. We cradled you in our hands, still clasped together, you between us. I marveled at how tiny you were, and how much your little fingers and toes and body had grown perfectly but were just so achingly halted. Interrupted. But just perfect for as long as your heart had beaten.

I wondered then if when your heartbeat stilled, it had swiftly joined mine, to grow my heart ever more. It was your brother that later said, “She grew our hearts, Mom.” That you certainly did, sweet girl. I feel that every day. I carry you with me every single, beautiful day.

Your dad and I stayed with you, wrapped you in pink and satin, in a tiny wrap I had seen made by hands that knew what it was like to hold a baby so briefly, and dream of holding every day. We stared at you and felt the dream of you running and playing with your siblings slip away. We held fiercely to one another as we pondered how to let you go so quickly from my body to our hands, from our lives to your resting place. There are no words but one to describe those moments: sacred.

When they came for you, too too soon- it would forever be too soon- to take you to the funeral home, I wept every tear I hadn’t realized I’d been storing up. I trusted those funeral home boys, those well-dressed, too young, so serious boys who came for you, to hold you all the way there, to keep you in kind, safe arms. They promised, and we watched you leave.

The next moments (were they hours?) were a fog, and all I felt was empty, achingly empty without you, and ready to fill my arms with our little, ever-altered family. We were discharged and given papers to sign, papers I had designed years before for moms just like me and given brochures from Share that I had helped edit and write with love knowing who would be reading them. I never then dreamed I’d be one of the mothers I’d held in heart when I held that pen. I signed, smiled, thanked, hugged, cried, dressed, and then clasped your dad’s hand yet again. Together we walked out the hospital doors, ever changed, and reentered our life, ever more for having had you. As briefly as you shared this world, my darling, you rocked ours with such great love.

I will love you, hold you in heart, and spend the rest of my days teaching your siblings the lessons you left behind: to love as completely and fully as you are able; to hold on tight, and let go when needed—the same lessons my sister taught me. To keep an open heart and mind even when it feels pain will close you off forever; to seek the light within the dark, because that’s how joy is sought and discovered. And you, sweet Caroline Claire, were named for Joy and Light, the very same gifts you brought to our lives. Ever will you be our reminder to embrace those gifts wherever we find them, every day of our lives.

Love you forever,

Mom

About Jenn Stachula

Jenn is honored to be the Social Media Manager and Support Group Leader for Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support. She has been a supporter of Share her entire adult life, and has been working with the organization in various roles since 2011. Jenn enjoys writing, hiking, traveling, and spending time with her family. As a writer, bereaved sister of Amy, and bereaved parent of Caroline, Jenn strives to give an honest, yet warm voice to both grief and love, and the ways they weave together in our everyday lives.

My Hope

Tue, 25 Jan 2022 16:00:00 GMT

By: Sara Bright

6 months ago, we lost Hope.

My husband and and I were married for 5 years. We shared a 3-year-old together. We were going our separate ways and decided a separation was best for us. This was such a dark season for me, and I felt lost. I felt like I didn’t know what my future held for me and my toddler.

One day I was separated from my husband learning how to be a single mom for the first time in my life. The next I found out I was pregnant. Her name was going to be Hope. Hope was not going to glue our broken marriage back together. She wasn’t going to save us.

However, she did give me the strength I needed to make it out of a dark season.

I was going to keep going…and I was going to make it for her.

Hope shed a light on a future I once saw as impossible to obtain.

God doesn’t promise the absence of heartache, but God does promise to always be with you.

When I found out I lost Hope I was alone. God gave me the strength to get through the most heartbreaking experience I’ve ever been through. I knew I had to be strong for myself and my toddler or I was not going to make it out of the darkness.

Haggai 2 verse 4 “Yet now be strong” “Work for I am with you”.

6 months ago, my face was buried in a pillow screaming the loudest scream that’s ever left my lungs. But I got back up.

Yet now be strong

5 months ago, I sat in the funeral home parking lot crying as I watched a mother deer and baby deer come out of the woods together. I knew then God had my girl with him.

Yet now be strong

4 months ago, I cried as I put your ashes into my necklace so I could carry you with me everyday.

Yet now be strong

3 months ago, you would cross my mind daily. Sometimes it would bring tears to me eyes thinking about the future you could have had. Other times I smile thinking about the strength I gained from this experience.

Yet now be strong

2 months ago, the thought of your upcoming due date started to creep into my mind, and I felt a sense of dread and sadness.

Yet now be strong

1 month ago, I cried as I put your remains in a memory box with dried flower petals from our wedding to symbolize an end of a chapter but also celebrate your due date.

Yet now be strong

Grief is so fluid and comes and goes day by day. Some days I don’t know how I will make it. Those are the days I can feel Hope with me pushing me right along.

Even though Hope can’t be earth-side with me, she got me through the hardest season of my life.

She will forever be my Hope.

My name is Sara and I have a 3 year old named William. We live in St. Louis Missouri. William is my pride and joy, and he keeps me going even when the grief tries to overtake me. Being a single mother and going through a miscarriage is a unique situation. I feel like this experience has helped me grow as a person and as a mother. I continue to grow every day, and the work put towards healing is truly never ending. I would have never made it through this season of life without God, my church, my best friend, my son, and of course , my Hope.

Finding Books as a Writer-Parent Who Experienced Loss

Tue, 25 Jan 2022 12:11:00 GMT

By: Chloe Yelena Miller

I wrote Viable , my memoir-in-verse about a miscarriage and postpartum depression after a second pregnancy, while seeking books on the same subjects. I needed comfort in a culture that is often silent around miscarriage or loss. Thankfully, our overall approach is changing, signaled by more titles published each year and celebrities like Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex, and Chrissy Teigen sharing their stories.

The literary and secular books I read while writing Viable became a list of resources at the end of the poetry collection. I fashioned the list after the memoir The Long Goodbye . Author Meghan O’Rourke looked directly at literature and other writings as a means to mourn her mother. I found her list comforting during an earlier time of loss and hoped that the books I gathered together would help other parents in similar situation, friends of those parents and folks in the medical community, too.

Wanting to get pregnant, I started reading What to Expect Before You’re Expecting . The upbeat tone and exclamation points led me to distrust even the most obvious facts. Once I was pregnant, I wrote the collage poem Pregnancy (published in print and online by Teacher Voice, Malarkey Books, 2020), inspired by this series and similar ones. While these books might be good writing prompts as a way to resolve frustration through poetic-satire, they didn’t ground my experience or support me. I knew I needed facts, but also support and comfort.

At the tail end of my pregnancy, I discovered Origins: How The Nine Months Before Birth Shape The Rest Of Our Lives by Annie Murphy Paul. This scientific research presented through memoir was approachable and made sense. In an NPR interview (2010) , Annie Murphy Paul says, “If I had more time — if we weren’t standing in the aisle of the supermarket, other shoppers elbowing past — I’d tell them that my immersion in fetal origins research made me less anxious about being pregnant, not more. It made me see pregnancy in a new light: as a scientific frontier, and an opportunity to improve the health and well-being of the next generation. Pregnancy isn’t just a nine-month wait for birth, but a crucial period unto itself: a staging ground for the rest of life.” I felt grounded by the text and hope of reliable facts.

I am thankful for Megan Leonard’s book of lullabies (2020) as a way to look back on being pregnant and those early days. In her poem, “I Rely on the Kindness of Other Moms,” I feel the kinship and her own kindness. She ends the first stanza with, “The moms I know are way too busy to give two figs about what anyone else is doing and we don’t miss our old lives or even our old bodies / because fuck we didn’t love our thighs when we were 23 anyway”. We are the community in our bodies, our voices and even the smallest supports, like sharing these poems.

Two anthologies , What God Is Honored Here? Writings on Miscarriage and Infant Loss by and for Native Women and Women of Color (University of Minnesota Press, 2019) edited by Shannon Gibney and Kao Kalia Yang and Unspoken: Writers on Infertility, Miscarriage, and Stillbirth (Life in Ten Minutes Project, 2020), edited by Whitney Roberts Hill and Elizabeth Ferris, have my heart. These books collect the truths no one wants to think about before they happen and can’t stop thinking about after they have. These intimate writings – the poems and the essays – give the reader a place to mourn and connect. The anthologies give the words air and space to read that the writers and readers are not alone.

It was the author-parents who reminded me of my individuality and same-ness with other parents while I was grieving my miscarriage. Their drive to create their own work encouraged me to write and, most importantly, look closely at my experiences and move forward. Finding kindness for ourselves can be difficult. The literature of personal experience can remind us of ourselves.

Chloe Yelena Miller lives and writes in Washington, D.C. Her poetry collection, Viable, was published by Lily Poetry Review Books (2021) and her poetry chapbook, Unrest, was published by Finishing Line Press (2013). Miller is a recipient of a 2020 and 2022 DC Arts and Humanities Fellowship (Individuals) grant. She teaches writing at the American University, University of Maryland Global Campus, and Politics & Prose Bookstore, as well as privately. Contact her and read some of her work at www.chloeyelenamiller.com / https://twitter.com/ChloeYMiller

Joy as a Lifejacket

Tue, 18 Jan 2022 19:17:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

I have cried so much this year

That I’ve almost drowned.

So, when you see me smile

Don’t think I’m no longer in the water—

Understand that my joy is a lifejacket.

~ Elisabet Velasquez

As I was perusing Instagram early one morning, the above quote showed up in my feed. I do not know who Elisabet Velasquez is, but that little poem resonated with my heart in a profound way. I thought about it for days. I thought about times in my own life when this applied, but I also thought about our bereaved parents and how they often feel as if they will never experience joy again after the death of their baby. It made me think about parents who, as they do begin to feel some joy in their life again, feel guilty, like they are betraying the love for their baby in some way.

I do know, though, that seeking out things that bring you comfort and joy when you are grieving can ease the pain of your broken heart. Is it easy to do? No. It most definitely is not; perhaps it will even feel a bit fake at first, like you are forcing it, not really feeling that deep-down-in-your-soul kind of joy.

You may wonder what the point is. You may wonder if you are better off not forcing joy upon yourself. But keep in mind that while you may not need a lifejacket when you are swimming in calm waters, you are grateful to be wearing one when you are struggling and feeling like you are drowning. I have found that the times I am struggling the most are the most important times to find pleasure in something, anything.

It can feel like Mission Impossible to find joy, beauty, and anything fun, especially when you are grieving so deeply. It can take time to get to the point where you even want to find some happy moments because your soul may be so bogged down that you can barely get out of your pajamas and drag yourself to work.

It can be difficult to look for joy and beauty when so many other things in your life seem to be suffering from neglect, when you feel as if you are drowning in grief and sadness.

Try to look at these despairing situations as times when a lifejacket can ease your struggling and keep you from going under. Inviting in things that can bring you a glimpse of joy can help keep you afloat.

You may not believe this, but what starts out feeling forced and fake will become genuine eventually. When you begin to feel true joy again, it will be sweeter because it has been so hard to come by. Does feeling some joy take away the sorrow you feel because of the great loss you have experienced? No. I wish I could say it does, but it does not. However, what that life jacket will do is make life less of a struggle. It will provide you with some moments of cheer during an otherwise bleak time.

“How can I find joy?” you may be wondering.

It is easier to put on a lifejacket when things are calm, so don’t wait until you are struggling to think about what you can do to bring some light and enjoyment to raise your spirits. On better days, make a list you can refer to on hard days.

Spend time with people who are good for your soul. Be picky. This is not the time to force yourself to be around those who bring you down. But friends and family who are good to you and for you ? Embrace them. Cherish them. Surround yourself with them. Take in all the love and support they have to offer.

What can you do that will bring you joy without making you feel anxious or misunderstood? Perhaps you aren’t ready to attend a busy festival or concert, but maybe you can handle coffee or game night with a few close friends who don’t expect you to be back to your old self and are okay if you shed a few tears. Time spent with people you adore, and trust can go a long way to bringing a bit of joy to your life.

Plan a trip. Even if you aren’t ready for one right now, having something to look forward to in the coming months can help. Do you have a place that brings you peace? Whether it be a crowded city or a quiet beach, or a place entirely new to you, think about what will bring your peace and joy. If you enjoy road trips, plan a drive, perhaps through quiet backroads while listening to music you love. A trip does not have to mean a vacation; even a day trip to a restful place close to home can be a getaway for your soul.

If you have an activity you enjoy, make time for it; or find something new to you. If you enjoy baking, make bread, decorate cookies or cupcakes, or whatever else you might like. Or try your hand at a new hobby; it can help calm your heart and mind. You may enjoy yoga or hiking, boxing, or crocheting. It doesn’t matter what you do as long as you find something to do that will challenge your mind and calm you.

Is there something you have been neglecting that bothers you? Have you been neglecting care of your body, your home? If so, make a plan to get back on track. Have you been purposely staying away from those you love? If so, see my first tip. When we know we have things unfinished looming over us, it can deplete our joy and make us feel even worse. Taking small steps toward resolving those things we have pushed aside can make even those small steps feel like big strides.

Finally, when you do start feeling glimpses of joy again, give yourself permission to really feel all of it without guilt. And if your loved ones say you must be okay now since you are smiling and seem happy again, remind them, and yourself, that it is possible to have moments of joy while still missing your baby and being sad he or she is not here with you.

Know that you are doing what you need to do to stay afloat. You may still be in the deep waters of grief but seeking out things you enjoy and feel comforted by will keep you from drowning. Joy can be your lifejacket, too.

About Rose Carlson

Its the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Wed, 15 Dec 2021 17:23:00 GMT

Except when your baby has died. Then, it can be the most awful time of the year.

By: Rose Carlson

As everyone around you goes about their joyful business of shopping and baking and shouting, “Happy Holidays!” or “Merry Christmas!” to everyone they meet, it can seem to you as if there is nothing wonderful about this time of year at all, especially if this is your first holiday season without your precious little one. You may wish you were able to hide away until January, and perhaps you can, but if that isn’t possible, there are things you can do to make the holiday season more bearable, even though it may not be wonderful.

One of the best ways to bring cheer to the holiday season is to find ways to include your baby in your family’s celebration. Doing so can help bring some meaning to the days and make them less difficult. There are many ways to do that, but following are some suggestions:

Purchase a special candle and burn it during your holiday meals. If you are going to someone else’s home, take your candle with you. You may also want to use a candle from your baby’s memorial service or funeral or make your own.

Start a tradition of making or purchasing an ornament each year. If you have a special motif that is meaningful or reminds you of your baby, look for ornaments with that symbol. If you have other children, try to involve them, and ask for their input. Many organizations sell ornaments this time of year; if there is an organization that is meaningful to you, start a new tradition of purchasing one of their keepsake ornaments each year.

Decorate a small tree that is reserved for your baby’s ornaments. Light it with pink, white, or blue lights.

Ask others to perform random acts of kindness in memory of your baby and share with you what they did. Save the letters, messages, or emails in a special box or stocking and read them all together as a family on a special day.

Plant a evergreen tree in your yard and decorate it with lights and bows. Take a photograph of it each year and keep them in a small album.

And everyone telling you, “Be of good cheer”…

When your baby has died, cheer may seem like something you will never feel ever again, certainly not on holidays.

Sadly, when a baby dies, family, friends and acquaintances often do not realize the depth your grief and expect you to “be over it.” They may not understand why you are feeling sad during the holiday season, and they might even be angry or upset with you if you express your feelings of sadness and/or unwillingness to treat this holiday season as every other. Know that those who act as if nothing has changed for you really cannot understand what you are going through, and it is not uncommon for others to assume that celebrating and participating in the usual holiday gatherings will “cheer you up.” It can make the holiday season seem even bleaker when those you care about do not acknowledge your feelings. But, your feelings are valid, and many bereaved parents encounter the same opinions and have a very difficult time celebrating the holidays. Take it easy on yourself and do whatever brings you comfort and peace. It is most important to take care of yourself and your immediate family.

With those holiday greetings…

When your baby has died, happy holiday greetings can feel like a knife to your already wounded heart.

You may not want to send out your usual holiday cards and photographs. That is okay. However, if you do decide to send them, you may want to consider finding a symbolic way to include your baby. Perhaps you have a special stuffed animal or other item you or one of your children can hold in a photograph. Or you can purchase a small stamp or a punch of a meaningful symbol such as a butterfly or angel and add it to the signatures on your card.

Something else that is frequently difficult for grieving parents is receiving cards from others in the mail. It may be very painful when others send cards with photographs of their baby(ies). Other parents may feel offended and upset if family and friends do not send them the usual card or omit pictures of their children. Again, whatever your feelings are, they are understandable, so try not to be too hard on yourself. Try not to be too hard on others as well and realize that they likely are unsure of what you and your family are up to handling. Consider asking a trusted friend to open your cards and remove photos before you look at them if seeing them is too distressing.

There’ll be parties for hosting…

Except when your baby has died. Then, parties that you looked forward to in the past may bring on feelings of dread.

Most likely, the last thing you want to do when you are grieving and longing for your baby during the holidays is go to parties and other festive events. You may not even want to get together with your extended family. However, with careful planning, it may be possible for you to gather with your loved ones while still honoring your need for quiet time away from crowds and merriment. Keep in mind that sometimes, just the thought of spending time with loved ones who are happily celebrating seems overwhelming, but some grieving parents do find being around friends and family and beloved traditions comforting as well. In a time of sorrow, where so much of what you have experienced has been out of your control, participating in things you have enjoyed in the past and spending times with your loved ones may do your aching heart some good.

If you do decide to take part in some of your family’s usual holiday celebrations, there are things you can do to make it much easier on yourself. If you go to another home, decide ahead of time how long you will stay and tell the host so you can leave early if you need to. Be gentle but honest and tell everyone you care about what you are or are not up to doing.

Hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near…

Except when your baby has died. Then, your heart feels broken because your baby is not with you.

While the days during the holiday season can be some of the most challenging times bereaved parents face, by planning carefully, being honest with your loved ones and doing things to nurture your family as well as your spirit, it may be possible to find some moments of joy, thankfulness and peace. Many parents find it comforting to do something for someone else in honor of their baby. It is okay if you are not ready for this, but if you are, the ideas are endless, but here are some things to consider:

Make a donation in your baby’s honor to an organization you feel connected to, or buy a gift meant for the age your child would be and donate it to a women’s shelter or hospital.

Take some time each day away from the hustle and bustle to do something nice for yourself. Write a letter to your baby, have coffee with a friend, take a bubble bath, read a book, or just sit quietly and reflect on the small things you are thankful for, and the gifts your baby’s life gave you.

Do something simple for someone who has been especially kind and supportive. Even something as small as taking a plate of cookies to your doctor’s office can brighten your day.

While it probably does not feel like the most wonderful time of the year for you this year, with careful planning of ways to include your baby in however you do celebrate, you may find that some of the new ways you celebrate become your family’s most treasured traditions.

About Rose Carlson

A December Remembrance

Wed, 15 Dec 2021 15:47:00 GMT

By: Katy Bone

The 2021 Angel of Hope Candlelight Vigil featured an encouraging address by Share parent Katy Bone and her mom, Karen Hart. The following is a transcript of Katy’s words.

Hi, I am Katy. I have two little boys in heaven, and I’d like to introduce them to you. In 2016, I had a miscarriage and that sweet boy we had nicknamed Little Bit. In 2019, my son Barrett was born, and we realized quickly after his birth that something wasn’t right. We never knew how serious it was until we were given his diagnosis. Devastation doesn’t begin to describe how we felt and how we still feel. Barrett died at 28 days young on July 12, 2019, from a rare and fatal lung disease called alveolar capillary dysplasia.

I want to let you know that I’m sorry you’re here. I’m sorry you’ve experienced the unimaginable of the death of a child. I’m sorry you have an empty space or spaces at your table.

We live with this pain every day, and it’s a pain no one really understands. Sometimes I feel completely isolated with this pain I carry every single day. I want you to know I understand and know however you grieve is okay. Grief isn’t linear and grief changes over time.

I wanted to talk a little about hope during the holidays. What do we do when what we hope for is beyond our control? I went to a grief group recently and one idea really spoke to me. We discussed the power of AND – validate the pain: yes, the holidays would be better with your child in your arms or your child at home – and yes, it is okay to feel sorrow in the midst of joyful celebrations. Creating a space for your grief is so important in knowing how to manage it. I miss Barrett terribly during the holidays AND I can enjoy seeing my other children as they experience the wonders of Christmas. Everyone’s AND is different. But that is my example. I can grieve Barrett deeply AND find joy in helping others in his honor. And I also want to reiterate that it’s okay to not have an AND, to not see the joy. Some days I can see the joy and some days are darker and I cannot or don’t want to. I often think if I’m not outwardly grieving all the time that it means I don’t miss Barrett enough. That’s fear. It means what I make it mean. That really spoke to me. Grief and joy can often walk side by side. You can experience grief and joy in the same moment and not negate how badly you’re hurting.

Something my husband and I do to give us more hope during the holidays is to donate to charities. We also have a group on Facebook where we paint and hide rocks to bring joy to others in honor of Barrett. We have a special tree in our room that has ornaments for our babies. These are just ideas of ways to remember loved ones during the holidays.

It’s ok to grieve and again there is no timeline on your grief. We grieve because we love, so as long as we love we will be grieving, and that’s okay. I just know for me personally I wanted to be given “permission” to have joy again and to be able to still hold on to my grief at the same time. This is my grief and I do have the power to hold space for it and to also hold space for my joy.

We hope you know that your grief is validated; however, you choose to grieve this holiday season is okay. However, you choose to celebrate, or not celebrate, is also okay.

We wish you, your loved ones here and the loved ones gone a Merry Christmas.

About Katy Bone

Katy is a wife and momma of 5 sweet babies. Katy and her husband have 2 kiddos at home, and she is pregnant with their fifth baby. Their sweet Little Bit is in heaven, along with their son Barrett who passed away from a rare lung disease at 28 days old. Barrett is forever their hero. Katy strives to do her very best to juggle being a good mom to her living children while carrying on the legacy of her children who are no longer here. They will never be forgotten.

Grief and Joy

Tue, 07 Dec 2021 19:38:00 GMT

By: Karen Hart

Grief came suddenly to me

And she took me by the hand

Day by day I walked and walked

Till I could no longer stand

Each day flowed into the next

And it seemed they’d never change

My heart felt forever broken

And I thought it would so remain

One day as we walked, I sensed another

And I was scared to look and see

Who else was walking next to us?

Who was coming close to me?

And then I looked into those kind soft eyes

Joy had joined our walk

And as we traveled on together

Joy began to talk

She then began to explain to me

That Grief was also her friend

That we could all journey together

As we traveled this new land

At times Grief holds me closely

And I see no hope ahead

But then Joy nudges me gently

reminds me she’s also my friend

And so, we’ve slowly settled in

My two close friends they are

Grief and Joy have taught me much

Both important to my heart.

In memory of all of my angels

About Karen Hart

I’m a wife, a momma, a Mee Maw, a sister and friend. Our first four children went directly to Heaven, before they were born. After attending Share Events we finally felt the “permission” and freedom to give our children names, Phillip, Oliver, Hazel and Timothy. Our four adult children (Andrew, Katy, Rachel and Jonathan) and their three spouses (Michelle, Tyler and Preston) have given us 11 amazing grandchildren. Three of those grandchildren are in Heaven. The subject of miscarriage, infant loss and child loss is dear to the heart of our family, and we seek to make the subject more acceptable for open discussion.

Hope and Healing this Holiday Season

Tue, 07 Dec 2021 11:30:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

The holiday season…

Joyful.

Blessed. Thankful.

Exciting. Magical. Lovely.

Merry. Relaxing. Jolly. Festive.

Giving. Receiving. Wishful. Sparkly.

Hopeful.

These are all typical words used to describe the holiday season. To many, the holidays are exciting, pure and innocent – a time spent showering loved ones with gratitude and gifts. This season is a time set aside for rejoicing together and expressing gratefulness for all of life’s blessings… But maybe your holiday season is influenced by another season – a season of grief.

Unlike the holiday season, which typically begins at the end of October with Halloween and closes with the New Year in January, a season of grief is unending. It is a lifelong journey – a way of life, if you will. A season of grief brings a quite different vocabulary.

Sorrow. Darkness. Emptiness. Loneliness.

Exhaustion. Unending. Shattering.

Indescribable. Excruciating.

Breathtaking.

When you’re grieving, and bringing along this myriad of emotions, the holiday season is different.

It feels different and it looks different. You experience it with an altered outlook on life. If your loss is fresh, that outlook may be tainted with anger, bitterness, and regret. If you’ve been on your grief journey for some time, maybe your view is filled with memories, a bit of sadness or longing, and a desire to make the most of the experiences you have with those you love.

Grief is different for everyone. Just like we are all unique, so is our grief. The way we journey through it is not linear. It doesn’t always make sense, especially during the holidays when everything is so merry and bright. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like there is much to celebrate when someone is missing from the new memories you’re making. It can feel wrong to be joyful without them.

This dilemma of season overlap is all too familiar to my family. My husband and I have lost two of our children – Melody (in August 2017) and Jamie (in May 2018). We have felt pain to the deepest degree. We have experienced the emptiness and heartache that the death of a child brings. So how do we do it? How do grieving parents deal with all the adverse emotions of our heavy burden during the most wonderful time of the year?

Unfortunately, it just isn’t that simple… there is no single answer.

There are so many different things that can be helpful in a bereaved parent’s holiday survival kit. From speaking with fellow angel parents, I’ve learned that the most helpful things to remember are as follows:

As a grieving parent it’s important to be patient and forgiving of yourself all the time, but especially during the holidays. When your child dies, your entire life – holidays and all – have been permanently altered. There’s not a portion of your life that doesn’t change. Any expectations you previously had about this joyful time are not going to be helpful. Instead, allow yourself to move slowly through the things you can handle. It’s going to be difficult, but you will survive this .

I found myself trying to mask or chase away my true feelings during my first holiday season as a bereaved parent.

I quickly learned how exhausting this is. Whether you are inclined to “be happy” or “okay” for your loved ones or for yourself, forcing yourself to not feel sad (or any other feeling you may have) is a hinderance to healing. Each feeling you have, positive or negative, is justified. Something terrible has happened, and you’re allowed to feel everything you feel .

One of the feelings you may experience is guilt .

A conversation I had with my mom about this really stuck with me. She told me that after thirty-three years she still battles guilt about my brother, Wade, while shopping for Christmas gifts. I, too, feel this same guilt while shopping for Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, Easter basket items… You name it. I have two other children I should be choosing gifts for, but instead I take flowers to lay on two tiny graves. I asked her, “How have you handled this guilt for all these years?” She told me that she uses that desire to do something for my brother to help someone else in need. Suggestions she made were to donate toys for a child the same age as our angels or put a little extra money in a donation box or bucket in their memory. Nobody has to know why you’re doing it – it can be just between you and your angel – but this is such a wonderful way to honor a child during the holidays! In the past two years, to help myself deal with the guilt of Melody’s and Jamie’s absence is to have a candle for each of them, especially picked out and decorated for them. We light them at family gatherings from the time we arrive until we’re ready to leave. It’s a visible and tactile symbol for our missing loved ones, so we all can remember them together.

As always, when someone endures a personal loss or trauma, it’s so important to have a support system in place.

For me, this came from all around. Family, friends, church family, friends of friends, and fellow support group members were all there for me in so many ways. Knowing that I wasn’t alone and that I was never far from someone who cared deeply for my family and me was so helpful and encouraging. I always knew in my weakest and darkest moments that I had someone to lean on, and that made all the difference in the world.

The key to survival isn’t the same for everyone. Honestly, there isn’t just one key either .

It’s more like a key ring that is used to help us overcome each individual moment, feeling, or situation that may arise during the holidays. There are so many contributors and triggers within the realm of family gatherings and celebrations that, despite the delight and thrill of it all, an emptiness and sadness still lingers (sometimes painfully). For some, staying busy with friends and family is what’s needed. Being surrounded by those who are loving and supportive can really help carry one through a terribly difficult time. For others, staying home may be more helpful. Support and love are always helpful, but sometimes what’s needed is a bit of peace and quiet amidst the chaos and festivities of the holidays.

Sometimes all you can do is breathe, and that’s okay .

Our first holiday season without Melody, our first angel, is still very foggy. She passed away in August and was buried in September. Through Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New Year we pushed through and did what we needed to do to get by. I dreaded most of what the holidays entailed, which was really disappointing, to say the least. I had always looked forward to and loved the holidays in the past. October through December was my favorite time of year. Pre-loss, this time of year brought so much joy and sparkle to my life as I soaked in the loveliness of laugher, hugs, family, the smells and all the food! It brought family closer and made togetherness a priority for all (which I took for granted for so many years).

As we walked the streets on that Halloween night (2017) with Jace and Kiley, seeing all the little ones dressed up (even my own kids) was difficult, knowing I would never make those kinds memories with Melody. Halloween fell two and a half months after Melody’s death and five days past her due date. The ghosts that haunted me that evening were the “what ifs” and “what could have beens” instead of the usual frights of Halloween.

It was then that I learned that the best survival tool I could use for the remainder of that year, whatever unexpected triggers it may hold, would be to prepare and protect myself. We knew there were many hurdles to clear as we worked our way through that first foggy holiday season, which helped us take time to recognize and acknowledge the difficulties that were in store for us. This insight seemed to help us see that we needed to do something unexpected and unconventional during the holiday season…

We needed to lower our ex pec tations .

Lowering expectations during the holidays may seem a little Scrooge-ish, but it can be a necessary coping strategy for those who are automatically expected to celebrate and make merry, even without their child. Usually, this time of year is riddled with perfect homes and perfect meals, well-groomed families that are picture perfect, lovely decorations, and a beautiful, magazine-worthy feast. For parents who are grieving a child, the extra effort and energy it takes to create (or even just partake in) this amazingly magical atmosphere isn’t always available.

My husband and I usually host and provide the Thanksgiving meal for his family, but with the trauma our family had just experienced a few short months before, we were focused on trying to get our minds in a proper place to celebrate Christmas with our living children. Hosting the family meal that year was just not something we felt we could do. I don’t mean to imply that we were ungrateful or that we didn’t recognize the blessings that we had at that time. Rather, I think we were acutely aware of the many things in our life that we had to be thankful for, despite our loss – or possibly even as a result of our loss. Our family was gracious and understanding of our need to “pass” on that particular holiday tradition and supported us in our self-care.

Their compassion for our need was what helped us see that creating and communicating boundaries with loved ones is also essential to the holiday survival kit for grieving parents.

Telling a family member that you’d love to come to the gathering they’re hosting, but also telling them that you’ll let them know that morning if you’re up for it is completely acceptable. Maybe coming for the meal is all you can handle at once, so you decide to leave early instead of participating in a family gift exchange – that’s okay. Let the season be what it is. Nobody should expect anything more from you than what you can do.

We can do the best we can to put all the pieces back together after such a shattering tragedy, but when one or more of the pieces of your family are missing, a bit of the brokenness and longing remains in its place. Can we feel joy? Absolutely. Can we move forward? Indeed, we can, and we do.

This holiday season, allow yourself to survive in the best way for yourself.

Be patient and forgiving of your struggles when others aren’t. Don’t expect 100 percent, because what you have to offer has changed in so many ways. Decline an invitation if necessary. Surround yourself with loved ones who will encourage and support you during a difficult time, who won’t try to fix your grief, but rather will welcome every single feeling you have. Most of all, do something to honor your sweet angel this holiday season. Do something small, something big. Share it with others or do something private. It doesn’t matter what you do, but it will help fill a little bit of the void you feel. May you find peace and love on your journey, and may you still feel a little bit of magic during his holiday season.

About Kayla Leibner

Kayla is a Christian, a wife, a mother, and a preschool teacher. She and her husband, Ben, have been married for five years and live north of St. Louis with two of their children, Jace (12) and Kiley (4). They also carry two of their children in their hearts – Melody, and Jamie. Kayla and her family have deep and strong roots in their faith and have relied heavily on God and His comfort in their journey of loss and grief. Kayla hopes that her writing would be of help, comfort, and encouragement to families who are suffering this same tragic loss.

Be patient and gentle with yourself.

Allow yourself to feel everything you feel.

Do something in memory or in honor of your child.

Remember you aren’t alone – seek out support.

Their compassion for our need was what helped us see that creating and communicating boundaries with loved ones is also essential to the holiday survival kit for grieving parents.

Those who are unfamiliar with the journey of child loss don’t always realize that we’re not a broken thing that they need to fix. Do we heal? Yes. Does it become more manageable? Yes. However, when our children are missing from our lives there will always be a bit of brokenness inside us.

Honoring Your Child During The Holidays

Tue, 07 Dec 2021 10:30:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

Holidays are difficult to celebrate. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays but after losing our son, the holidays are difficult to celebrate. There’s still joy and excitement, but it’s mixed with sadness. When we lost our son in October 2017, it was right before the holiday season. Looking back, Thanksgiving and Christmas that year are a blur.

The Angel of Hope gathering in December has been a comfort during the holiday season.

I wish grief wasn’t a part of our journey. The Angel of Hope brings peace and support amongst others who have experienced loss. This will be our third year attending. Our first year was raw. It was a month and a half after losing our son Hope and the pain was overwhelming.

Last year, his brick was dedicated and our family was able to honor him in the ceremony. The ceremony has a sense of calm. Ours is tucked into one of our parks in town. It is serene and offers solace. The music and the reading has brought some peace in the midst of the sorrow.

One way I have tried to honor our son at home is at Christmas I write a letter to him and put it in his stocking.

The past two years I have opened the notes and read them. As I write, I try to imagine what he would be like at this stage…getting into the presents, playing with his brothers and experiencing the excitement of Christmas. By writing, I am able to express my thoughts and connect each year with our tradition of stockings.

This holiday season, may we celebrate in our hearts our children’s lives.

May we hold onto the simple things that bring joy. Be grateful for the support we have received through Share. Wishing you a peaceful and comforting holiday season.

About Robyn Busekrus

Holidays are Hard

Wed, 01 Dec 2021 08:17:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

This time of year, and its increased emphasis on time with family has a way of magnifying the holes left by those we love.

This will be my fifth Christmas without Asher. Over the course of the last 5 years, I’ve learned how to make the Asher-sized hole feel a little smaller during this season. My family has modified old traditions and created new ones to include our missing piece. We have learned to do what feels right for our family and what leaves us feeling the most comfortable at the end of the day.

However, the holiday season is still hard, and Asher’s absence is still felt.

I was in my second trimester of pregnancy with Asher during the 2016 holiday season, which has always been my favorite time of the year. That year, since we were in the “safe zone,” I allowed myself to fantasize about what the next Christmas would be like watching my baby boy experiencing the season for the first time.

I imagined baby’s first visit to Santa.

I envisioned him trying a little bit of icing off a Christmas cookie.

I saw him making my favorite time of year even merrier.

I dreamed of a holiday season that never came the following year.

Heck, I envisioned a future that never came.

Because of that, the holidays will always be hard.

They will also be joyful.

They will be both and that is okay.

My favorite time of year will never have the little boy I envisioned here in the way I planned for him to be, and that hurts. However, he is still included in any way he can be and that is joy.

Grief and Joy are always coexisting, this holiday season and every day.

Wishing you all a gentle holiday season.

Rose Of My Heart

Tue, 02 Nov 2021 18:53:00 GMT

By: Rachel Helden

One year. We lost you one year ago today. Where does this leave us now? What has the last
year been like?

Hard, an excruciatingly soul crushing kind of painful. Then we lost your brother a few months
later. Our little dream of a family with a girl and a boy has gone away in what seems like no
time at all. Even though we’ll always love and remember you with every breath we take, it’s not
the same as being a parent who can hold their sweet children. We can only hold you in our
hearts and memories.

Now I’m pregnant again, for the third glorious and terrifying time this year. Your younger sibling
is forming just as you did, and I love the sensation, despite whatever illness or body
tenderness I feel. This time your daddy and I are leaning into the joy of the present moment.
We don’t know what will happen, if you’ll take your first breath in our arms or if we’ll have to
say goodbye before then.

This ache in my heart won’t release. I want to live fully in joy and hope, but today especially, it’s
a challenge for my heart. The accumulated grief of enduring and surviving three miscarriages in
my life leaves me shattered on the inside. Even though I try to glue and piece myself back
together, I’ll never quite be like new or like I was before. They’ve left their mark, and now, I try
to allow Adolyn, Harmony, and Roland to bring a smile to my face because I love them so, and
because I know they want me to continue to live life to the fullest in their stead.

Life is brimming with unknowns, wonder, excitement, heartache, grief, and magic… it’s one big
messy tangle of them all. Maybe, just maybe, the richness of each of these experiences (these
colors) is what makes life so grand, so wonderful.

My heart is with anyone who has lost a sweet baby, no matter the length of time they came to
stay. Their lives are so very real, even today, as they are every day.

“When sorrow holds you in it’s arms of clay
It’s raindrops that fall from your eyes
Your smile is the sun come to earth for a day
You brighten my blackest of skies
You are the rose of my heart
You are the love of my life
A flower not faded
Nor falling apart
If you’re cool let my love make you warm
Rose of my heart”

Johnny Cash, Rose Of My Heart

About Rachel Helden:

Rachel Helden is a photographer from the greater St. Louis, Missouri area. For the past four years she has been working on Free Way: An Adventure Through Loss , an illustrated memoir about a solo road trip she took after going through a divorce and her father’s passing. Rachel’s search for healing took her to all 50 states in the USA, most of our national parks, and twenty other countries. She sees the book as a grief manual, an account of how one person dealt with losing a past self. Rachel is currently working to self-publish Free Way . You can find more information about the project on her website at www.rachelhelden.com and follow her adventures on Instagram at @_photonomad_

Honoring My Past in My Present

Mon, 01 Nov 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

It can be easy for others to see us grieving openly and think that we are stuck in the past.

They see me taking family pictures while holding a photo of my deceased son in my arms.

They see me attending memorial events that honor my firstborn child.

They see me openly speaking about my child like every other parent does, except mine is dead.

They see me giving my daughters weighted bears that are the same weight as their older brother at birth.

“It’s been 4.5 years. Time to move on.”

“She is focusing on the past and not grateful for the children she has.”

I’m not stuck in the past.

I am honoring my past in my present.

I’m acknowledging my firstborn child, the child that came before I was graced with two living daughters.

I’m honoring his rightful place in our family.

I am preventing the “mom guilt” I feel when I don’t acknowledge my first child.

I am keeping my son’s memory alive.

My son, physically, only existed in the past.

I know that.

I’m aware my son is no longer alive.

I’ve accepted that fact.

However, Asher is still very much present.

He is the reason I cherish every single moment with his little sisters, even the difficult ones.

He is the reason I am a more empathetic person.

He is the reason I am better able to advocate for myself.

He is the reason so many loss parents leave the hospital with a weighted teddy bear.

Asher’s name, his brief life, is doing so much good in this world.

He doesn’t simply exist in the past.

He exists in our present and our future.

Always.

Pink and Blue Awareness Project

Fri, 01 Oct 2021 08:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

As we all know, October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It’s a month that many of us didn’t know about until we joined this club, that no one wants to be a member of.

It’s an important month for us to bring awareness to our losses, our children, and to let others know that it can happen to anyone. It’s something that affects many, even if people don’t always talk about it. We are not alone in our losses, and this is our time to really share that with others.

It’s also a wonderful time for others to show their support for grieving parents by participating in simple events, like the Wave of Light and the Pink and Blue Awareness Project. Both of these are very easy things others can do that speak volumes to those of us who are living life after the loss of a child.

Cooper’s mother, Jen Chappell, started the Pink and Blue Awareness Project back in 2017. That year she made bracelets for her friends and family to wear during the month of October as a way to honor her son and all babies gone too soon. Those few bracelets turned into 400!

Since then, the project has just continued to grow with over 24,400 bracelets shipped out in 2020. This year even more are projected to be sent out!

This project has grown into a collaborative effort amongst many loss parents who donate their time and effort to the cause. Loss parents from all over make the bracelets and send them into The Cooper Project. People sign up for bracelets over the course of several weeks. The bracelets and associated items are packaged up into large boxes, which are then sent to shipping coordinators, other loss parents, who assemble and ship out 500 orders. Each envelope includes a large card with the names of all the children being remembered by parents who have donated their time to the project.

Participating in the Pink and Blue Awareness project is one way in which I help bring awareness during Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. For the last two years, I’ve been a shipping coordinator for the project. I love packaging up each envelope and seeing the addresses to people all across the country. I love seeing the names of loss mamas that I’ve personally connected with on the address labels. I love seeing my son’s name and the names of so many other children whose parents I’ve connected with on the remembrance card each year. I love taking time out of my life to do something in my son’s and so many other children’s memories. It truly brings me joy.

However, you don’t need to be directly involved in the creation and shipping of the bracelets to play a role in the project. Simply sharing the posts that bracelets are available to order is an easy way to help spread awareness and get the word out that this project even exists. It’s also a great way to subtly let others know a simple way to support you and your grief.

This project is an amazing example of how impactful loss parents can be. Through the work of many, this project has exponentially grown in 4 years. I know it will only continue to grow bigger and bigger each year because of the wonderful, grieving parents working behind it.

True Friendship

Tue, 14 Sep 2021 18:23:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

Three agonizing weeks had passed since the stillbirth of my baby boy, when two invitations arrived in my email inbox…both for baby showers.

*If your chest feels like it has fallen into the pit of your stomach at reading that first sentence, you know how I felt. *

The initial thoughts came fast – a mix of confused emotions.

“Jon, what should I do? Both Andrea and Betsy invited me to their baby showers. I’m not sure I’m ready to go to ONE shower so soon after losing Kuyper, let alone TWO.”

“I know,” he said. “We should be having a shower for Kuyper right about now.”

I let the invitations sit a few days while I thought them over, giving myself space to breathe. One thing kept coming to mind, “They invited me.”

While some had ignored me in the weeks since Kuyper’s death and funeral and others seemed to run for the hills when they saw me coming (as if stillbirth were somehow contagious), these ladies cared enough to invite me. If Andrea and Betsy were scared that I might cry or not be able to handle going to a baby shower so soon, it was not the biggest factor in their decision to send me an invitation.

“They are willing to include me. This is love. This is true friendship.” I concluded .

The words of Romans 12:15 became my guiding principle as I considered these things. “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”

“These friends have mourned with me in the days since Kuyper’s death. Now, I want to rejoice with them.”

Yes. Maybe. No.

The evites no longer loomed.

“I decided to respond to Andrea and Betsy’s invites with ‘Maybes’.” I told Jon. “I am planning to go but if I am having a bad day…well…I want an out.”

The Saturday of Andrea’s baby shower came first.

Mentally pulling myself together, I prayed, “God, I want to go to this shower today. Give me courage. Help me, so I can rejoice with Andrea.”

With pretty hair bows neatly arranged in a pastel pink bag, I entered the restaurant where the shower was taking place. A waitress led me past the main seating area to a large private room. As I drew closer, I could see that most everyone had already arrived. Apprehension began to squeeze at my neck and chest.

“What if no one really wants me here? What if my very presence is seen as a downer or bad omen? What if Andrea was just being nice?” The thoughts swirled but I had no time to retreat or act on them.

Just then, Andrea saw me through the glass door. Tears filled her eyes as she rushed over to me and wrapped her arms around me.

“You came!” she said, wiping the tears from her face. “It means so much to me that you came despite everything you are going through.”

Being seen. Being loved. Mourning with those who mourn. Rejoicing with those who rejoice. Moments like snapshots I will treasure for life.

I took my seat among the twenty-some other women there that day, one among the many welcoming a new and precious life into the world.

*Lest you think me stronger than I am, let me tell you the rest of the story. *

Betsy’s shower came quickly, just one short week later. Friday had been a hard day and I awoke in a similar state of intense grief that Saturday morning.

“Today is not a good day for courage and boldness.” I thought. “Today is a day for staying home, eating cookies, and taking care of myself.”

I texted Betsy my regrets.

And like a true friend, she said, “I understand.”

Dear Mama, these early days following the loss of your sweet baby are hard ones. Ordinary things like baby showers and family events can become looming mountains we feel unfit to climb. Remember to take care of yourself. Be courageous when YOU are ready. Take time for yourself when YOU need it. Keep true friends by your side, the ones who rejoice with you in joyful times and mourn with you during the grief-stricken ones. No race towards normalcy exists. Baby showers, gender reveals, birthday parties and the like can wait. Everything in your own time.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie is a nurse based in the Midwest. Her and her husband have been married for close to a decade. She has three spunky girls and one sweet little boy in heaven. After nine months of hyperemesis, hemorrhage, and pre-term labor, her first pregnancy resulted in a full-term baby girl. Kuyper, her second child, was stillborn during his second trimester in 2013. Her third pregnancy concluded six weeks early resulting in a NICU stay. Although, still complicated and high risk, she would describe her fourth and final pregnancy as a redeeming experience.

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annmarieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Friends. Forever?

Tue, 14 Sep 2021 18:04:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

The Intertwining of Friendship, Grace, and Honesty

Guilt. It hit me like a powerful gust of wind; it wrapped around me like a neatly packaged gift, overly taped and sealed with a bow. See, what led up to this guilt was something that I never thought would happen, so at the time I didn’t think I would come face to face with this.

When my husband and I decided to try for a baby, I had no idea what the future had in store for us. For the next five years, my faith was tested numerous times. I stumbled and fell time and again with each loss I endured, but I always picked myself back up and continued to find even a slight glimmer of hope. After my fourth consecutive miscarriage, I was really struggling. When my first cycle of in vitro failed, I was heartbroken and when I lost my son at 16 ½ weeks pregnant via my second cycle of IVF, my heart not only felt broken, but completely empty. My journey to have a baby consisted of five losses, an ectopic pregnancy that left me with only one fallopian tube, multiple surgeries and many doctor visits. I grappled with anxiety with each new pregnancy, hurt with each baby shower invitation that showed up in my mailbox, and the fear that I may never have a child.

While in the midst of everything, I never would have thought that one day I would feel guilty of all things.

The seed of guilt was planted in me right from the beginning of my battle, I just didn’t know it yet. I missed baby showers, I skipped out on conversations that involved parenting struggles, and I fell out of touch with friends who were having babies so easily. My heart was breaking with every loss I endured, and I was trying to do what was best for me at the time.

The seed of guilt sprang forth after I had my son. Having a newborn IS hard, but I felt that I couldn’t confide in those around me. I couldn’t reach out to others who had children because I wasn’t there for them. When I needed advice, I didn’t feel as though I could turn to them. It was so hard for me to open up and let my guard down. How could I step out and ask them questions I had as a new mom, when they couldn’t ask me because infertility was an uncomfortable barrier between us? And to take it even further, I felt guilty for even feeling that I needed to talk to a friend because I had wanted to be a mom so badly. Satan was trying to feed me the lie that I was wrong for needing help, that I should keep any struggles I had to myself. The more we long for a shoulder to lean on, the more Satan will interfere with lies that tell us we should act as though everything is fine.

One morning, after my first real cry since I’d had my son, I took a few minutes to read my devotion. The words were sweet as honey, it was as if God was keeping that one page for me to read on that exact day. It was simple really, yet jam packed with a powerful weapon I needed to fight my guilt. That weapon was the ability to be real with others, to tell the truth and to be honest. I didn’t have to act as though everything was just fine because I felt I couldn’t reach out to others because of the past. I needed a helping hand, and I knew my family and friends would be more than happy to guide me. They stuck with me throughout everything, and they were willing to listen. As I opened up to them, I realized the sweetness of being able to talk to a friend mama to mama. After all, I had longed for these conversations, to have heart to heart talks about our sweet babies.

We see that scripture states: Therefore, each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor, for we are all members of one body (Ephesians 4:25). Our ‘neighbor’ might just be our friend who is overwhelmed and struggling with her little ones, and she wants to tell you, but she needs us to be real with her first. Our ‘neighbor’ may be that family member who, on Facebook, is telling the world she is okay, but deep down, she’s wrestling with a broken heart. We all have a battle we are dealing with in different areas, and it’s more than okay, God makes it known that we will have struggles. We need each other, and God wants us to help each other out.

I decided I would start that day, that I could be honest despite the guilt. The guilt was a seed that Satan had planted, and I had to fight back. I reached out to my friend, met up with a family member who had small children, and reached out to my husband. I had to work at it to dig up the seeds that had grown, but with God’s help it was easier than I had thought it would be.

Mama to Mama, we opened up our hearts to one another. With each honest and real word, I spoke the walls they had put up came down also. It’s difficult for us to feel vulnerable, but vulnerability is what it takes to be real with others. So, despite the emotions or feelings that try and hold you back from those heartfelt conversations, push through them. “Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of a friend springs from their heartfelt advice” (Proverbs 27:9).

If you are suffering under the weight of guilt, anxiety, or fear, just remember that you don’t have to walk through your struggles alone. That friend we feel the nudge to reach out to may just need some honesty to allow her to open up also. I challenge you to do just that and wait and see the amazing blessings God will bring forth.

About Nikki Grayson

The Life We All Envisioned: Suffering the Loss of a Grandchild

Mon, 06 Sep 2021 12:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

When we lost Asher, we weren’t the only people who felt that loss. I know so many who cried with us and mourned the loss of our son. For many of our friends and family, we were the first people they were close with to experience such a loss and it hit others hard. Now, two years later, so many still remember our boy and reach out to us on the hard days, even Asher’s grandparents.

Our parents take the time to touch base with us; to focus primarily on our grief as Asher’s parents. But what about their grief?

Since having Asher’s little sisters, I have been able to watch our parents be active grandparents to our daughters. I have watched my mother go through my old baby clothes and lovingly bring them for my daughters to model.

I’ve seen my parents get out my old rocking horse and beam with joy as they held each granddaughter on the horsie.

My mother-in-law never visits empty handled. She often comes with little outfits for the girls. She went through Hubby’s old books and brought them for the girls to read. I’ve seen at least one set of grandparents every weekend since the girls were born because they love spending time with their granddaughters.

They dreamed of doing all of these things when they learned of their first grandson’s existence 4 years ago. That opportunity was ripped away from them on February 18, 2017 when Asher’s heart stopped beating.

Living life after losing a child hasn’t just been hard on us. It’s been excruciating on our parents.

Not only did they have to watch their children experience the unimaginable, and be unable to ease our pain, but they also lost their grandson. (For my parents, it was their first grandchild.)

It was a double whammy for our parents.

Two years ago, I saw as they looked at me in the hospital with tears in their eyes, knowing I had to go through the pain of labor only to never hear my child cry. I remember both my father and my father-in-law being very concerned about the physical pain I was experiencing. They couldn’t control the emotional pain I felt, but they wanted to be sure my physical pain was managed. I watched as our parents held their forever sleeping grandson in their arms, memorizing the beautiful face they would never see again. (My biggest regret is that I didn’t force them to take photos with Asher so that these moments were always preserved.) I watched as they tried to hide their emotions from us. As they tried to push their feelings aside to be “strong” for their children.

I watched as the life they had envisioned for all of us was taken away.

Now, I can see the brief flicker of pain on their faces as they smile with joy at the granddaughters in their arms. I can see the pain of the missing little boy in their lives. They try to be strong, but I see it. I see it because I feel it too.

I’ve witnessed them be such hands-on and involved grandparents. Honestly, it simultaneously warms and breaks my heart.

Seeing them with our daughters is a reminder of what we ALL missed out on with Asher. These little girls have brought so much joy and love to all of our lives. They brighten each day with their gummy little smiles, but their existence doesn’t erase the pain that we all feel over the little boy who will forever be missing.

I know our parents miss Asher as much as we do and that their hearts still break for the pain that their children will always feel, no matter how hard they try to hide it from us. I see it and I want them to know I acknowledge it.

Just The Right Friend

Wed, 01 Sep 2021 19:41:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

I wrote this letter to my “just right friend” because I felt it was long overdue. It was so far past time to let her know that I recognize and am so grateful for her devotion and loyalty to me even in my most difficult times. If you are a bereaved parent, it is my hope and prayer that each of you also has a “just right friend” because I honestly don’t know how I would have made it this far on my journey without her! If you are here because someone you love is grieving their child, be this friend for them. Be what they need when they need it. Help your grieving friend feel that they’re never alone.

Dear Friend,

I needed to take just a minute or two to tell you what I’m thinking. There are so many things that I want to say, but I am struggling to find just the right words. Life has not always been kind or beautiful, but instead at times painful and harsh. Nevertheless, you’ve always been there – being just the right friend.

When I had to say goodbye to my babies you were there, strong and unwavering. You never ceased to put yourself on my level, and you continue to meet me right where I am each and every day. You have seen me at my worst and loved me still, knowing that part of the “old me” was still inside somewhere. Though I’ve transformed into a new version of myself, you love every part – the calm, cool and collected, but also the traumatized , tattered, and torn.

Thank you for being just the right friend while seeing me in my pain and hearing my silent cries. Even when my tragedy was in the past for others, you were still a listening ear. You never left, but instead you remained by my side as I continued to heal. Whether my steps moved forward or backward, or even if I was standing still, you stood with me to weather the storm.

Thank you for remembering. You love Melody and Jamie, even though they aren’t with us. You speak of them and say their names when that’s all I need to hear. You remember birthdays and send me your love, reminding me that I’m not alone. You are the friend that gives them the remembrance that my sweet babies deserve.

Thank you for justifying my every feeling, whether they were rational or not. I couldn’t possibly ask you for more, because you’ve given me validity in my grief. While others have judged, been uncomfortable, or simply turned away, you have been there to help me face my fears head-on. You are just the right friend because while there are a million other places you could be instead, you’re here choosing to sit with me in my grief. Thank you for being just the right friend, for never letting me be alone.

Love,

Your Grieving Mother Friend

About Kayla Leibner

Kayla is a Christian, a wife, a mom, and an educator. Faith and spiritual health are a top priority for her and also for her family. She strives to cultivate a supportive and spiritually uplifting atmosphere for her children at home. Until the summer of 2020, Kayla was an early childhood educator, but she lost her job due to the Covid-19 pandemic when her school was forced to close. The loss of her job turned out to be an unexpected blessing when she and her husband realized that she would be able to be at home with their oldest children as they completed school virtually.

Kayla and her husband have known one another for sixteen years, have been together for eight years, and have been married for seven years. They have four children together. Jace and Kiley are their older children. Melody and Jamie are their younger children – and also their angel babies.

Kayla and her family have been on their journey of grief since August 2017 when Melody died shortly after birth, due to complications of a CHD. Jamie was lost in May 2018 when Kayla suffered a miscarriage. Their family has worked together and relied heavily on God for guidance and support through their losses.

Kayla enjoys music (writing, singing, and playing instruments), art (sketching, drawing, and coloring for stress relief), and writing in her free time. She began writing for Sharing Magazine in 2019, and she feels so blessed to be able to contribute to such an amazing platform in honor of her babies. She hopes that her articles are able to provide support and comfort to families who read them.

We Are Missing It All

Wed, 01 Sep 2021 19:09:00 GMT

By: Sabrina Ivy

We are missing it all. And tonight it hurts like hell.

Baby loss isn’t something that just happened at one tragic day in our lives years ago. It is something that we carry with us as we endure each and every day and special occasion that comes and goes without our daughter here with us.

Every milestone that should have been achieved is locked away, never to be experienced.

We missed her first smile and giggle.

We missed the first time she rolled over.

We missed the first time she pulled herself up and crawled.

We missed her first tooth.

We missed her first steps.

We missed her riding a bike or telling a silly joke.

We are missing all that comes with the beauty of childhood…and now we are missing her first day of school.

We homeschool our children, and as I was purchasing curriculum for this fall, it just hit me so hard that I should be ordering for one more. I knew this day would come, but it was one of those moments I couldn’t even prepare myself for. There should be a place on our bookshelf for Alivia. There should be a special chair with her name on it.

Our silly first day of school pictures should have her in them.

This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. It all feels so wrong, because it is. There is nothing right about this. There are going to be a lifetime of moments like these, where it hits me that one more achievement of hers is accomplished on the other side of the stars.

I know all the phrases people say to make us feel better, I’ve heard them all a million times before. I know she is happy in heaven. I know she never knew sadness. I know she isn’t in pain. I know she is perfect. I know, I know, I KNOW!!!!! It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t make it hurt less. Tonight, all the feelings are on the loose, and nothing can make this better…not tonight. Tonight it just hurts like hell.

I sometimes wish people could touch our pain for a moment. Just touch it, and really feel the agony of it all. Because maybe then they could understand how baby loss is not just something that happened on one unfortunate day in our past…but it is something we carry for the rest of our lives.

Our hearts are marked with detailed scars that will never heal the way the others do. It is just an undeniable fact. And as life goes on, the scars don’t heal, they just get a little deeper and deeper with every missed moment. That is part of baby loss. That is our reality.

Tomorrow the sun will rise and the day will start. I’ll walk by her curio cabinet holding all of her things. I’ll kiss my fingertips and gently put them on her picture hoping she feels my kiss from heaven. I’ll take a deep breath and pray that after all of the tears I’ve shed tonight that I can have some kind of solace for just a little while.

There is always some pain in the good days, and some good in the painful days. Tonight… tonight it hurts like hell.

About Sabrina Ivy

Sabrina is married to her wonderful husband, Chris. She is a mommy to four beautiful children; two that walk with them and two that live in Heaven. They are a homeschooling families and have found great comfort in being able to mourn and grieve in their own ways together. The Ivy’s daughter was stillborn at almost 37 weeks on March 22, 2014. This has been a journey of faith, grief and hope for their family.

Finding Peace and Solace

Tue, 24 Aug 2021 15:30:00 GMT

By Rose Carlson

Parents who have experienced the loss of a baby often struggle to find ways to comfort their grieving hearts while they also search for ways to cherish and honor their baby’s memory. It can be healing to find things and places to focus on when you are unable to think of nothing more than your aching, empty arms. Just as every bereaved parent grieves differently, they also find peace and solace in different ways. Some parents have a meaningful place or a special symbol they connect with while others find comfort in things they do in memory of their baby.

Many years ago when I experienced four early losses, nothing was typically done then to commemorate my babies. I, like many others, had no place to go, nothing to remember those little souls by. While my babies aren’t buried anywhere, I do have two places that have become very meaningful to me, that always bring some peace to my heart all these years later.

One of my places the local park where an Angel of Hope stands, surrounded by engraved bricks in memory of children who have left the world too soon. For many years, I didn’t have my own brick, but the Angel was still a special place for me because I knew through my role at Share how meaningful it is to families who have bricks placed there. I do have a brick now, and my best friend has one as well. We placed them together, and whenever I am there, I feel a calmness settle upon me. I always take my camera, and I have many wonderful photographs from each season…some of showy flowers, pink dogwood blooms and colorful butterflies, others of spectacular fall foliage, and still others of pristine snow-covered bushes and trees. There is a wooden bench down one of the paths where I often sit and reflect on things that are weighing heavily on my heart, and many prayers have been said on that bench. I have tied balloons to the Angel’s hand when friends go through their own losses. The Angel of Hope has become my place.

The other place that brings me solace—a place I feel connected to is the cemetery where Share provides a quarterly burial service for miscarried babies. Part of my job with Share is planning and attending these services, but it doesn’t seem like a job to me. At each service, I meet parents and hear stories that touch my heart and make me feel grateful that Share exists for these families. A monument marks the spot where the tiny babies are buried that says, “Our hopes and our dreams lie here,” and each time I attend a service, I think about how much something like that would have meant to me all those years ago.

As I know the Angel of Hope and the cemetery are my own special places where I find peace and solace, I wanted to know how other bereaved parents have found solace and comfort since the death of their baby. I asked several parents, and as always, I was humbled and honored to be given a glimpse into their lives and hearts.

The kids and I go and visit Olivia at the cemetery- we change her decorations with the seasons and for holidays. My husband has planted certain plants in our yard for her. That’s where he loves to spend his free time.
We still send up balloons on Beckett’s birthday, and we have three small display suitcases with his items in them and a small scrapbook of photos. For me, the photos have brought the most peace to me. There are also certain songs I associate with Beckett. I ALWAYS notice when I hear his songs, in the car, store, wherever, and it always makes me think of him.
When I felt like I was ready to move forward, I found it therapeutic to make myself a bracelet with special beads and charms that I picked out. It was in remembrance of my losses and ectopic pregnancies.
I like to go to my baby’s grave and sit with a book or my bible and read. I sometimes read to him and other times just sit quietly. I have taken each of my children and we have spent time at the grave together. My daughter takes my granddaughters, and they clean up around their uncle’s headstone. They want “his home” to be special.
Five months after my son was born still, I had a miscarriage. The following fall, my 5-year-old daughter, husband and I designed a beautiful garden in our backyard. We planted blue hydrangeas for our son, a pink rose bush for our daughter, and a butterfly bush. We made a steppingstone with each of our handprints in it along with special rocks and shells we had from different vacations we took as a family. Each spring, we pick out pink and blue/purple annuals for the garden. We also hung a hummingbird feeder. We enjoy spending time tending to our garden with our now 3 living children, and it is the most peaceful spot. I love looking at the garden through my kitchen window, and I love sitting in the grass having picnics next to it. Whenever I am having a bad day, that is where I want to go, no matter the season or weather.
I know that some people think it is crazy, but I love to go into my baby girl’s room. In the months before her birth, I painted a mural of a field of flowers and butterflies on the wall and spent a lot of time picking out the perfect things for her room. It is painted a sunny yellow, and I love her room. It brings me so much comfort to sit in the chair that I should be rocking her to sleep in. I feel close to her there.

As you can see, there is a need in each of us to find a place or tradition that honors our little ones and makes us feel some comfort, a measure of peace, or a closeness to them. We hope you find the meaningful places and the solace that comes with times you spend thinking of your baby or babies. If you have a special place or tradition, please share them with us and the community in the comments below. Perhaps your places of comfort will inspire someone needing a special place of their own.

About Rose Carlson

Rose is the Program Director at Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support. She came to Share in 2002 as a volunteer and eventually joined the staff in 2004. She has a BS in Psychology with a minor in Sociology and her personal experience as a bereaved parent brings an invaluable perspective to her work. Rose does much of the research for Share materials and has published articles in several professional journals throughout the country.

Embracing the Journey from Broken to Rejoicing

Tue, 10 Aug 2021 10:00:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

Have you ever felt pressured on your grief journey – by your feelings or by the words of others? There are some things that have been said to me repeatedly over the last few years – more frequently at the beginning of my life as a bereaved parent and only on occasion now. I believe these things have always been said with intentions of love, support, or even just in recognition of the painful circumstances of my losses, but after some time I discovered that they caused me to feel like I had to be something specific. I also had a few misconceptions of my own that contributed to this pressure to be “okay.”

It’s Okay to Not be Okay…

“You’re so strong. I don’t know how you do it.” This is one of those statements. I usually respond with something like, “I just do the best I can,” because I honestly don’t feel all that strong at times. Especially in the beginning, I felt anything but strong. I felt weak, broken, overwhelmed, and lost. However, I eventually realized that some of the overwhelming feelings I was experiencing were actually coming from the pressure I felt to be strong, to fulfill the perception of others.

Another implication of this statement is that we have a choice in our circumstances. If only this were true. Saying, “I don’t know how you do it,” very strongly suggests that there is another option. Fortunately, for those who use these phrases, they simply cannot understand. We are all just doing the best we can with the terrible hand we’ve been dealt. There’s nothing we can do to change it, and there’s no alternative for us but to become stronger because of our path. We just continue pushing forward and doing what we can.

In time, I came to understand that my sorrow and brokenness made others uncomfortable, so I did my best to hold myself together and to portray this warrior that others chose to see. Ultimately, the burden of keeping up this charade was too much to bear along with the weight of my grief, so I had to let it go. I couldn’t pretend anymore to be something I wasn’t. I realized that I’m not expected to be “okay” by the people who love me most . Instead, I am accepted , as is. Once I understood this, I was able to give myself permission to fall apart, to be a mess, and to embrace my grief for what it was.

It’s Also Okay to be Okay…

Once I finally allowed myself to feel the full force of my sorrow, I was able to begin accepting our losses. I was able to not only help myself grieve in a healthy way, but I was also able to guide my living children and support my husband as they all grieved alongside me.

Throughout the first few years, and even now, I find myself feeling guilty now and then for finding joy in things again. I have felt shame for enjoying the beauty of life, and I still sometimes fight against the inclination to do so. It took a lot of consideration, prayer, and searching of the scriptures to arrive at the moment when I realized that healing is composed of many things… including joy and sorrow. One particular set of verses I read reminds me that “there is a time for every matter under heaven.” This verse is actually part of the scripture reading we had done at Melody’s funeral, so it’s extremely relevant that I share it now.

“There is an appointed time for everything…

A time to weep and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn and a time to dance.”

(Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4 NASB2020)

This isn’t to say that there is a timeline for grief or that it expires at any given point. We all know that isn’t true. But right here, in these set of verses, every feeling I have that is associated with my grief and healing is justified and defended by the King of my life. God’s word tells me it’s okay to feel tremendous sorrow and to weep for my losses, and it tells me it’s befitting to also welcome joy and laughter on that journey, too – not that there is a limit or that we can only feel things once, but that it is all acceptable and valid.

It’s Even Okay to be BOTH…

Joy and sorrow are quite fitted to go hand-in-hand because both are so deeply felt and can be truly consuming. After some time, I discovered that I don’t have to choose one or the other. I can feel both, and I can feel them separately or simultaneously . Coming to this realization opened the door to healing for me. I was able to recognize that grief doesn’t just travel in one direction, and it isn’t a straight path I can follow. There aren’t stages to work through and a certificate of completion at the end. Because of this insight, I have been able to truly embrace my journey of healing, to allow each feeling I have along the way – and with a lot less guilt. I still have moments when I can’t help but feel that pang of negative feelings when I consider how an enjoyable situation could be even more so if Melody and Jamie were still with us. But those times don’t overshadow my joy the way they used to.

I have learned from my experiences as a bereaved parent that it’s okay to feel what I feel and to be what I am in any given moment – from broken to rejoicing and anything in between. It’s more than acceptable to be okay, to not be okay, or to be both. Our grief isn’t a direct passageway. There is no finish line. You can gain closure, but there’s not an end to the rollercoaster of grief as long as we’re living. So long as we love our children, we will grieve them.

About Kayla Leibner

Pregnancy After Loss

Thu, 05 Aug 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

Pregnancy after loss is the second hardest thing I have ever experienced in my life, second only to losing my son, Asher.

Once you have lost a child, and you enter the loss community, the Pandora’s Box of various ways that a child can die in utero becomes open to you. You are aware of not only losing a child the way you already lost one, but also the various ways that your bereaved friends have lost their children, stillbirth, incompetent cervix, placental abruption, CHDs, gene mutations, hypoxic injuries, etc.

It’s really hard to put all that information aside and tell yourself it won’t happen to you, when it has already happened to you.

You’ve already been that minority before.

There is no longer any comfort in statistics.

You’ve lost that naivety. You know that it can happen.

On the flip side, you KNOW that it can happen …

You force yourself to take the photos because you know that could be all you have.

You cherish every second that you are pregnant, that your child is alive because you know how precious it really is.

My motto throughout my journey of Pregnancy After Loss was simply “one day at a time”.

It is hard not to spiral with the myriad of ways that you can lose your baby running through your mind on repeat. As a way to ground myself in the present I repeated the mantra “Today I am pregnant. Today I can feel my baby. Today is a good day.” I would sit and focus on their movements (I had twins in my PAL), reassuring me that in that moment they were alive.

It is an emotional roller coaster, to say the least.

It is okay to be terrified, I was.

It is okay to be excited, I was.

It is okay to be guarded, I was.

It is okay to be hopeful, I was.

It is okay to feel guilty, I did.

It is okay to feel all the feelings.

If life after loss has taught us anything, it’s that it is possible to feel two conflicting emotions at the same time.

Pregnancy After loss only solidifies that fact.

It is something to be cherished, but also something to just get through.

However, you get through it is up to you but remember, you are never alone in it.

About Amy Lied
Amy Lied is a wife and a mother. Her son, Asher, was inexplicably born still on February 19th, 2017. Before losing Asher, she suffered a miscarriage and struggled with unexplained infertility. After losing Asher and struggling to conceive again, she went back to treatment where she became pregnant with her twin daughters; Harper and Scarlett. She has documented her journey from the beginning of her infertility struggles on her blog, Doggie Bags Not Diaper Bags . She is also a co-founder of The Lucky Anchor Project , an online resource for loss families that houses an Etsy store whose profits are donated to loss family non-profit organizations. Sharing her journey has helped her cope and she hopes it also helps others who are walking on this road of life after loss.

Writing your Baby’s Story

Sun, 01 Aug 2021 17:00:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

i am never without it

(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing

is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life,

which grows higher than a soul can hope, or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

by E.E. Cummings

I wish I could write like E.E. Cummings. “I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)”, the first time I read those words I savored them like a morsel of chocolate. Cummings’ poem, not meant for me, describes my love for Kuyper (my stillborn son) as if Cummings had watched my life and pregnancy, and had seen every thought in my mind. I am incredibly grateful for poets and writers who paint the emotions of the soul with words. Not many of us will ever write something as iconic as Cummings’ poem. However, we can find healing in writing…just like we find healing in reading the morsels left by poets.

In June of 2013 I began writing the story of my son’s pregnancy and stillbirth. I set out to write as much as I could remember, to leave nothing out. Originally it was just for me, an intentional step on my journey as a bereaved mother. It was an active step in a situation I felt powerless against.

Would you like to write too? You do not have to be good at it. I promise. This is just for you. If someday you want to share it with others, it can be edited. For now, think through these writing prompts. Take as much time as you need. There is no rush. Writing about memories is as much about the process as it is about the final product.

Let’s Start at The Beginning

When did you first think about having a child or when did you first think about having this baby?
Did you plan it? Was it a surprise?
What do you remember about the day you took the pregnancy test? Who did you tell first?
What were your first emotions? Were you excited, scared, nervous, fearful, upset?

Daily Changes

What symptoms did you have, if any?
What routines in your daily life changed?
What foods did you suddenly want? What foods did you not want?

All About Firsts

How far along were you on the day of your first doctor’s appointment? Was someone with you? How did you feel as you walked into that appointment and as you walked out? Are there any memorable things that the doctor said?
How far along were you on the day of your first ultrasound? Was someone with you? What did you think, feel, and say as you looked at this new little person on the screen? Did any nicknames for the baby come out of this experience?
If you were early on and did not get to see your doctor or have an ultrasound before miscarrying…how did the absence of those things affect you?

Growing Hope

Did you have a feeling about who this little one would be one day? What personality did you think they would have?
Did you think the baby would be a boy or girl? Did you always want a little girl or a little boy?
What names stuck out to you as you began to think through all the options? Did you pick one? Did you have a list?
How did you imagine this baby would change your family, you, and your partner?
Did you buy an outfit, toy, or some other item for your baby?
Did you have a nursery planned, started, or finished? Talk about the nursery. What made it a great nursery?

Growing Relationships

How did you and your partner bond during this time?
Recall your sweetest memories with your partner during your pregnancy.
Did the stress of the pregnancy weigh on your relationship? How did you work through it?
Did you imagine together? Dream together?

Sweet Baby, Sweet Memories

What are your sweetest memories of your baby?
Did your baby do something that you cannot forget on the ultrasound?
If you were into the second trimester: what do you recall about the first time you felt your baby kick?
Did your baby have a personality you could identify even in utero? Where they a strong-willed bicycle kicker? Did they move and respond when other people cried or were sad?

Signs

Looking back, were there any ominous signs?
Did you have a feeling that something was not right?
Did you have symptoms like bleeding, contractions, etc.?

Finding Out

Paint a vivid picture about the day you found out: What was the weather like? What was your disposition? What were you supposed to be doing that day (work, home, weekend plans, etc.)? What did you wear? Who was around?
How did you find out that your baby had died? Who told you? Where they compassionate, cruel, or somewhere in the middle?
Talk about the miscarriage, D&C, stillbirth, or delivery? Where you in a hospital or at home? Who was there to support you? Were you in pain?
How many weeks along was your baby? If your baby was far enough along for you to see/hold, did you choose to see/hold your baby? What thoughts ran through your head as you looked at your baby? What made it the right choice for you to see/hold your baby or not to see/hold your baby?
How did you react? Did you cry, scream, get angry, go numb? Do you remember having distinct thoughts at the time or was your mind empty from shock?
Do you have any precious memories of that day, of other people’s kindness, of bonding with your partner, or of sweet and fleeting moments looking at or holding your baby?

The After

What were the days following your baby’s death like? Did you immediately return to work or your normal routine or did you take time to recover your body and mind?
How did you choose to remember your baby? Did you keep an object, photo, or ultrasound that reminds you of your baby? Did you have a service? Did you cremate them? Did you bury? Did you make a memorial garden? Did you purchase a brick? Did you journal? Did you write a poem? And if it was too much to do anything at all, talk about that.
How are you changed by your baby and your love for your baby?

On September 20, 2013, Kuyper’s due date, I finished the story of his pregnancy and stillbirth. In writing I found my mind became clearer. Pieces of my shattered existence start to take shape. I knew I would not be able to put many of those pieces back together but describing them gave me comfort. I will always be thankful for the memories I wrote that summer. No matter how many years pass, his memory will keep from fading. It remains clear in black and white.

Bereaved parent, this writing exercise may not be for everyone. It may be for you but not another. It may not be for now but for later. No matter your choice know that your story and your baby’s story are important. A million books could be written about the beautiful love you have for your child.

Click here to link to Kuyper’s Story. https://www.annmarieferry.com/essays/kuyper

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annmarieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Rest for Your Soul

Wed, 21 Jul 2021 15:30:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

Life can be exhausting. Some seasons just seem to never stop moving. I am in a season of my life in which there is always something that needs to be done – laundry, dishes, cleaning, meal planning, school, bills, groceries, errands… the list could go on and on. I often have a difficult time falling asleep at night because I have a constant marquis scrolling in my mind to remind me of all the things I need to do tomorrow, this week, next week, next month, and so on. “Don’t forget… Don’t forget… Don’t forget…” More often than not, sleep eludes me because of these never-ending thoughts. I’m sure that sounds excessive, but I have been this way as long as I can remember. It’s difficult and sometimes near impossible to shut my brain off in order to find any kind of mental or physical rest.

Since losing Melody and Jamie, I have realized that now a considerable amount of this overthinking is spent considering my babies. I think about how life would be different if they were here. I wonder if they know how much I love them. I hope that they are proud of me. I think about how I can’t wait to see them again someday, and I often imagine what it will be like to finally hold them and get to know them when we’re together once more when I join them in Paradise.

Sometimes thinking about Melody and Jamie brings me comfort, but other times I am left feeling restless and uneasy. It can be incredibly difficult to come out of this troubled state of mind, which can be so very exhausting. Over the last few years, I have been able to discover a few different things that I can do to find peace and rest even in the midst of these disquieting moments.

Visit. Sometimes it helps me to be able to visit my babies. This isn’t ideal as I’m trying to go to sleep, but I can plan to do this during the daytime hours if I’ve consistently had trouble sleeping or being able to rest my mind. I know that not everyone has this option, but I am so fortunate that my little loves are buried less than a mile from my home. They’re so close that I can walk to the cemetery, if I wish. I have found it to be important to make time to be there with them, and sometimes I need to make it a priority to go there alone. When the weather is decent enough, I like to take a blanket to sit on so I can stay a while. Then I talk. I talk to my babies. I tell them how much I miss them and how much I wish they were here with us. I also use this as an opportunity to let down my walls and allow myself to be vulnerable. As a mom with living children also, I find it difficult to allow myself to do this even though I spend much of the day on the verge of tears. I feel a need to be strong for my kids because I know they often rely on me for strength and guidance in their own grief. Dedicating the time and opportunity of privacy to truly feel everything and to be outwardly emotional is an absolute necessity for me from time to time.

Sleep. As obvious as this may seem, sleep is not always simple. We all carry our grief with us every day, but our day-to-day stresses and responsibilities can really add to the weight of our emotional and physical exhaustion. As I mentioned before, sleep or mental rest is often out of reach because of the constant whirling of thoughts in my mind, no matter how exhausted and bogged down I am. I’ve considered the analogy of a computer that is running slowly or isn’t functioning properly. I imagine that call to the IT department – what’s the first thing they ask? Did you try turning it off and turning it back on? As unhelpful as this can be with computer issues, sometimes this is exactly what I need to do for myself. I need a reboot. When sleep escapes me, I turn to certain techniques to help empty my mind of these busy and sometimes worrisome thoughts so that I can get the physical and emotional rest I desperately need. I’d like to share about my “go to” for times like this.

Write it. If you’re anything like me, your body may just need more sleep or more quality sleep. However, if sleep evades you the way it does me, you know it isn’t always an easy task to take a nap or go to bed early, as I just recommended. This is when I have to dump it all out – all the thoughts, the worries, the things I need to do, and things I don’t want to forget (or even things I’d very much like to forget). When I am unsuccessful in obtaining rest because of my constant thoughts, I grab a pen and a notebook, and I write it all down. I write down the thoughts that are haunting me, worrying me, and bringing me stress. I also jot down the things I need to remember to do the next day or later in the week. I find that the physical act of putting these things on paper usually helps me to empty my mind of them, at least for the moment, so that I can seize that much needed rest.

Scripture. As a Christian I believe that the Bible is the most important instruction manual for my life. I search it often for many different reasons – to find peace, to gain wisdom, to learn ways to deal with difficulties of life, and more. During the beginning of my journey as a bereaved parent I combed through my Bible, desperate for something that would bring me comfort. I return to these sections of scriptures time and again to give myself spiritual sustenance for this journey. This one has been a constant reminder that I am not alone and that I do not have to carry this heavy burden of my grief on my own.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.

Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,

and you will find rest for your souls.”

(Matthew 11:28-29 NASB2020)

“And you will find rest for your souls.” What more could I ask for when my soul is often so weary from grief? The comfort I find in this verse (and so many others) cannot be found elsewhere. It’s something I can only find when I seek rest and comfort from God. I know that God is in control of my life, so I don’t have to be because He will carry me through when I am too weary. I don’t have to do it alone.

Prayer. My faith is such a big part of my life, so it’s no secret that prayer has been an essential resource during my journey of grief. Prayer is a special time that I set aside to share my deepest struggles with God. I tell Him about my pain, the ache for my babies, and my sorrow for them still. Laying down my burdens and giving them to God gives me relief that I can’t quite explain – a peace that surpasses even my own understanding. When I talk about these things with the Lord I often find myself inclined to also recognize my many blessings. I know that God instills these things in my heart to bring me peace and to remind me that there is still so much joy to be found in my life.

Finding ways to give yourself rest and relief is so imperative, but it’s not an effortless process. I found that it takes a little trial and error to find what works well. There’s no end to the grief you feel for your child. I am all too aware of this. However, these things do help me to achieve some serenity and solace when I’m struggling on my journey. Peace and comfort won’t necessarily be found in the same places for everyone, but it is my hope that you’ll find much needed and much deserved rest for your soul.

About Kayla Leibner

The Lyrics That Help To Tell My Story

Wed, 21 Jul 2021 15:15:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

I love words. They are like food for my soul. A good phrase can capture a thought like a snapshot and then paint it in vivid color. Soon after the loss of my son, when friends and family did not know what to say and when the thoughts in my head were still beyond verbalization, lyrics told my story. Lyrics told me I was not alone. Each song on this list helped to paint the pictures of my thoughts and emotions. I hope that you find among them a song that is written just for you.

My Top Singer Songwriter on Child Loss

JJ Heller’s three beautiful songs on child loss each touch my soul.

Olivianna (neonatal loss) – JJ Heller ( JJ Heller – Olivianna (Official Audio Video) – YouTube )
Always (miscarriage) – JJ Heller ( J J Heller – Always (Official Audio Video) – YouTube )
Who You Are (infertility, death of child through an accident) – JJ Heller ( JJ Heller – Who You Are (Official Music Video) – YouTube )

My Top Three: The Ever Present Love a Parent for Their Child

A parents love for their child knows no bounds. Death itself cannot break the bond between parent and child. Each of these songs expresses that love.

I Will Carry You – Selah ( “I Will Carry You” – Selah (Amy Perry, Allan Hall, Todd Smith) – YouTube )
Gone Too Soon – Daughtry ( Daughtry – Gone Too Soon (Official) – YouTube )
Dance in My Dreams – Blair’s West ( Dance in My Dreams – YouTube )

My Top Classical Song Without Lyrics

In the first months after my son’s stillbirth, I happened upon Tracce. It is lyric-less, yet it told the story of my broken heart.

Tracce – Ludovico Einaudi ( Ludovico Einaudi – Tracce – YouTube )

My Top Three: The Hope of Seeing One’s Child Again

A breeze of peace and calm comes over me when I think of seeing my child again. I cry tears of sadness and of hopeful joy when I hear these songs. One day baby boy “I will see you again”.

See You Again – Carrie Underwood ( Carrie Underwood – See You Again (Official Video) – YouTube )
Hug Him Once for Me – Erica McClure ( Hug Him Once for Me – YouTube )
Far Kingdom – Gray Havens ( The Gray Havens – Far Kingdom – YouTube )

My Top Christian Songs on Child Loss

This song speaks to the pain of loss not only through lyrics but through the lulling melody. Not only has this song touched my heart countless times but the woman whose story is depicted in “Held”, Vaneetha Randall Risner ( Vaneetha Risner ) is my favorite author on loss and suffering.

Held – written by Christa Wells; performed by Natalie Grant ( Natalie Grant-Held – YouTube )

My Top Five: Finding Comfort During Suffering Through Ones Faith

Like a faithful friend walks beside you in grief, these songs walked beside me after the loss of my son and during the anxious days of my rainbow pregnancies.

He Will Hold Me Fast – Keith and Kristyn Getty ( Keith & Kristyn Getty – He Will Hold Me Fast (Live) – YouTub e )
Need You Now – Plumb ( NEED YOU NOW (How Many Times) by Plumb (official lyric video) – YouTube )
Your Hands – JJ Heller ( JJ Heller – Your Hands (Official Audio Video) – YouTube )
My Help, My God – Sandra McCracken ( My Help, My God | Sandra McCracken – YouTube )
Blessings – Laura Story ( Laura Story – Blessings (Live) – YouTube )

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annmarieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Staying Connected to Your Baby

Mon, 05 Jul 2021 17:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

Music has always been an extremely important part of my life. I’ve never been that athletic child. I was always the musical one. I have very eclectic taste and I love singing along to all of the songs.

Music is my hobby, my escape, my life line.

When Asher died in 2017, the music in my life stopped, just like his heart.

I couldn’t bear to listen to any music or do anything that brought me joy.

Why should I listen to music, why should I experience any joy, when my son died?

When you leave the hospital, empty handed after welcoming your child, it’s very easy for life to feel like nothing changed. It’s easy for it to pick up where it left off, like you imagined the whole experience.

Was I even pregnant?

Did I just give birth to a child?

Did I make it all up?!

To combat those feelings, I MADE things change in my life and one of those changes was to no longer listen to music. It was one way for me to control something in my life, to make it seem like something had changed since the birth of Asher.

No Asher, no music.

My car rides were silent, no longer filled with the music as I belted out the lyrics to myself.

As the days without my son turned into weeks, I allowed myself to slowly start listening to music again, but only music related to him.

I had stumbled upon a local loss non-profit’s website, The Queen B Project , that had songs on it with which the founder connected to after the loss of her daughter, Emma. I would sit at work, with that website in the background, continuously listening to the songs through my headphones, feeling like I was connecting with Asher.

Eventually, I connected with more songs from my own library that made me feel close to my son. A few months after Asher’s birth, I created my own “Asher” playlist filled with songs that reminded me of him, the support we received from loved ones, or songs that gave me hope.

Throughout the last four years, I’ve connected with other mothers who have introduced me to their favorite songs that have since been added to his compilation.

During the times that I am missing my boy, I put on his playlist and feel close to him, while usually having a good cry alone in my car, as well.

Losing Asher took music from my life, but the love I have for him brought it back. Music gave me another way to feel connected to my son, to remember him, and to share him with others.

If you are looking for any new songs to add to your child’s playlist, here is the link to Asher’s on Spotify .

Our Story of Brooks

Mon, 05 Jul 2021 16:00:00 GMT

By: Melissa Johnson

I gave birth to our sweet baby Brooks on February 15th, 2021, by emergency C-section. I am married to my husband, Michael, and we reside in Flowery Branch, Georgia.

Everything was going so well in my pregnancy until 28 weeks when I was sent to a maternal-fetal specialist (MFM). On February 8th, I was referred to a pediatric cardiologist to examine Brooks’ heart and after an hour and a half ultrasound we were told “your baby’s heart may stop beating at any moment. His aortic valve is extremely narrow, and his heart muscle is very thick. He also has slight fluid around his heart and lungs”. I was in tears holding my husband’s hand because up until this point we were told everything looked great with our baby boy.

February 9th would be a day marked in my mind forever. I was by myself at this appointment and upon having another in-depth ultrasound at the MFM, was told in a matter of 24 hours there had been a further accumulation of fluid around Brooks’ heart and lungs, and I would need to go to the hospital right away. A chaplain walked in and gave me her card which had the words “grief and loss counseling” on it. My mind and heart started racing.

Here I was 29 weeks pregnant, thinking we were bringing home a healthy baby boy home soon and my world was turned upside down. I called Michael and thankfully he was allowed in the hospital with me during this time given covid-19 precautions.

I was then monitored at the hospital for two days and underwent extensive testing. The doctors wanted to wait as long as possible before suggesting a C section, so I was put on bedrest and underwent fetal heart trace monitoring. Two days later, the MFM said the baby is doing just fine and I would just need to be closely monitored for the remainder of my pregnancy with ultrasound and doctor’s appointments daily.

After leaving the hospital the first time, I was on edge and just praying so hard for God’s protection over our sweet baby boy. On February 15th, I went to the MFM for another ultrasound and was told Brooks was in distress and I was having consistent contractions. The MFM said it was better at this point to have an emergency C-section to best help treat Brooks. Michael rushed to the hospital, and I gave birth to Brooks at 8:11 PM on February 15, 2021.

I did not hear Brooks cry. I didn’t get to see him. Michael did get to hold Brooks and then they both rushed out to the NICU while there I laid on the operating table in tear. I felt robbed of the moment I had been longing for and just praying for Brooks to be healthy. I did get to see Brooks 24 hours later in the NICU which brought me to further tears, but the moment our eyes connected I experienced a love I never have experienced before. The neonatologist said, “Brooks is doing amazing and looks so much better than we anticipated based on the ultrasounds”. The pediatric cardiologist came to my hospital room and said, “Brooks is doing amazing. He does not have aortic stenosis as we thought, but he does have heart hypertrophy which we think will decrease over time. No interventions need to be performed. This is good news”.

Meanwhile, I did have an amniocentesis between my two hospital stays which we received the results after I delivered Brooks. Again, we received good news from these test results. Our hopes were high. We knew were going to be in the NICU for a while and made arrangements for this new way of life. Fast-forward two weeks into Brooks’ life, the neonatologists suggested we transfer to CHOA (Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta) for further specialized testing to better treat Brooks. On March 2nd, 2021, I watched my baby boy be transferred into a neonatal ambulance and drove behind the ambulance all the way to the hospital. Our new routine included sleeping at the hospital overnight and other days I would spend 12 hours at CHOA. Michael would spend all his time at the NICU after he was finished working for the day.

On March 7th, 2021, the neonatologist came up to me and said, “Mama, I’m sorry but there is nothing else we can do. I think he will pass in the next few hours.” I couldn’t make eye contact with the doctor. I laid my hands gently over Brooks’ heart and prayed so hard on my knees for God to perform a miracle. I knew God was the ultimate physician and healer. I started crying and called Michael to immediately come to the NICU to be at Brooks’ side. On March 7th, 2021, our sweet baby boy passed away in my arms and went to Heaven. We told Brooks just how much his mommy, daddy, and Jesus love him. We told him how proud we were of him for fighting so hard and making us parents. This was an out-of-body experience, one that is in my mind vividly and tied to so many emotions.

We held a memorial service for Brooks on March 11th, 2021. With this service being in the middle of the week we didn’t expect many people to come, mainly just close family. My heart again began to race when a line of cars began to pull up to the memorial site and it brought me to tears just how many lives our baby had positively touched. In a matter of just three weeks, our baby boy left an impact on this world in such a beautiful way that some people don’t in an entire lifetime.

Michael and I spoke at our baby boy’s service because we wanted to honor him and his short life. This was the most heart-wrenching day along with the day Brooks passed in my arms.

In the following weeks, Michael and I underwent genetic testing to get further answers as to why this happened and to see if we could try to have children of our own again in the future. Along with grieving the loss of our firstborn, we had to wait months to find out if we could ever have a family of our own. This time was filled with extreme sadness, disbelief, anger, and fear. We received news that Brooks had cardiomyopathy (thickened heart) which unfortunately there is nothing that can be done for. We were also told that Michael and I can try again to have a family our own based on genetic testing results. Receiving all this news was so overwhelming. We had tears of sadness while trying to cling to hope.

We have hope for our rainbow baby one day, Brooks’ younger sibling whom we can tell all about Brooks to and just how sweet he was. As part of our healing journey, Michael and I created a personal blog and website called Baby Brooks’ Light. We created this website as one way to honor Brooks’ life and spread his light to others. It’s so difficult to share our story at time. My heart feels heavy doing so, but at the same time I want to share our story so we can live out an amazing legacy for our amazing baby boy.

About Melissa Johnson: Melissa is married to her husband Michael of three years and mama to an angel, sweet baby Brooks. She gave birth to their firstborn by emergency C-section on February 15th, 2021, and he gained his wings on March 7th, 2021.

Melissa created Baby Brooks’ Light (their personal organization) to bring hope to other couples who experience infant loss. Her goal is to create awareness for infant loss and live out an amazing legacy for their amazing baby boy. As Brooks’ mama, she believes it is her responsibility to live out a life that honors their baby boy by positively impacting others. In Brooks’ 3 short weeks this side of heaven, he impacted thousands of lives in such a positive way.

Her husband and her have had to navigate this tragedy and at times felt so alone. She doesn’t want any other mama feeling this way and wants you to know you matter, you are brave, you have a purpose, you are a mama, and your baby will always be deeply loved.

My Baby Matters

Wed, 30 Jun 2021 17:00:00 GMT

By: Rachel Helden

My baby matters. Or in my case, and perhaps yours too, my babies matter. My story, I have
had three miscarriages, two in the past year and one long ago.

Lately I’ve been experiencing anger unlike any I’ve experienced before, with the exception of
when I got divorced and my dad passed away, a month apart. That was rough. Anger! RAGE
really. If I could bold, underline, and scribble all over that I would.

Growing up, I wasn’t taught how to handle these tougher emotions. We were sent to our rooms
until we could be pleasant. Although I’ve carved out a lot of alone time for myself to grieve my
pregnancy losses, my anger doesn’t seem to fade. (Mind you, I’m not even three months out
after my last loss, and I know time helps… but it doesn’t “heal all wounds” no matter how
much I wish it would.)

Of course I’m upset that I’m yet to have any “living children” as our community likes to say, but
I can accept that this happened and I’m grateful my babies came to visit me and my partner for
a time.

The fiercer emotions arise in my day to day interactions. When I experienced grief in the past,
like with my divorce and dad’s passing, friends were lined up around the block in support. But
a baby loss is different somehow, perhaps even taboo.

Like when my partner was forgotten on Father’s Day, his first one, and while not the way we
had hoped, in our minds he is a father and that day was especially hard. Why did no one reach
out?

Is it that people are uncomfortable with grief in general? In my experience, yes, if they’ve never
experienced a great loss they can’t truly understand, and those that have and don’t reach out
see grief as some kind of plague maybe. I for one have gotten comfortable with grief and loss—they are a fact of life.

When we love hard, our loss is hard.

Even though I’m not a math or science person, this seems like a logical equation, a simple law of physics.
The heart of the matter here is that no matter how society makes us feel, our babies matter.
Our losses matter. We matter.

So even when people’s eyes glaze over or they change the subject when you attempt to talk
about your loss, keep talking. Some of these issues could be resolved simply in education.
What people don’t know they don’t know, and change can’t happen until we speak up.

In the early stages, it has been especially helpful to be a part of this community where Share
has offered us a uniquely sacred and safe place to share. I went to my first in-person meeting
this week, and the saint of a woman who first reached out to me through the program
reminded me to be my own advocate. When I feel mistreated or misunderstood around my
loss, help people better support me. Another mom in the community recommended I “try to be
the change I expect from others.”
With each day, I try a little more. No matter how long ago your loss has been, I just want to
remind you today, that your angel baby matters, and so do you.

About Rachel Helden:

Rachel Helden is a photographer from the greater St. Louis, Missouri area. For the past four years she has been working on Free Way: An Adventure Through Loss , an illustrated memoir about a solo road trip she took after going through a divorce and her father’s passing. Rachel’s search for healing took her to all 50 states in the USA, most of our national parks, and twenty other countries. She sees the book as a grief manual, an account of how one person dealt with losing a past self. Rachel is currently working to self-publish Free Way. You can find more information about the project on her website at www.rachelhelden.com and follow her adventures on Instagram at @_photonomad_

Forgotten Fathers

Tue, 08 Jun 2021 21:22:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

When it comes to child loss, the fathers are the ones who are often forgotten.

After leaving the hospital without our child, my husband was often asked “how is Amy doing?” He was rarely asked how HE was doing, but I wasn’t the only one who lost a child.

He did, too.

As the years have progressed, it seems that time has only lessened the focus from others on his grief. People have forgotten the weight he carries on a daily basis.

Not only is he carrying the loss of a son, but he also has put it on himself to be “the rock” for me, to be the strong supportive force in our lives.

When it comes to me, people tend to be pretty aware of my preferences in regard to our son. I want to hear his name. I want his place in our family acknowledged. They are more aware of what they say around me because I am more outspoken about my grief. They “know their audience” when speaking to me.

My husband tends to be the opposite. He doesn’t have a blog sharing his feelings of loss. He doesn’t chat with many other loss fathers about his experience. He is less vocal about the pain he carries, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t carrying the same grief I am.

There have been several occasions where a friend repeatedly said that he has to have a son to carry on his family name. He went on and on about how important that was to him and that it was his job to keep the name going.

I sat there listening to this with my heart aching for my husband.

My husband is a father to a son.

Yet his family name won’t be carried on by that son.

Because he died.

My husband never a said a word about how that statement was hurtful to him, but I know it was.

I know it was something he had thought of himself. Before losing a child, it was something he thought was important too.

Just an example of the forgotten fathers.

Their pain is overlooked.

People forget to “know their audience” when speaking about certain things around them.

Let this be a reminder to remember the fathers who are carrying the weight of child loss with them every single day.

Remember that fathers grieve, just like mothers do.

Remember that just because they aren’t as overt about it, their pain is there.

Remember that Father’s Day is not an easy day for them.

Remember them, just like you remember their child.

A gentle Father’s Day to you all

Snapshots in the Making

Mon, 17 May 2021 16:00:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

Let’s be honest, the job of a nurse is not all that glamorous. But in the beginning, I
thought it would be. My thoughts were centered on one thing: helping patients. Not only did it
not turn out to be a dazzling profession, but it was downright hard to become a nurse. Late nights
studying, toting all of my books around with me everywhere I went, and making note cards after
notecards left me in tears at times! But the lessons I’ve learned along the way have shaped me
and have helped me grow in my career. Like the time in clinicals when I forgot to kink the tubing
on the catheter before removing it. When I didn’t think to clamp the IV tubing and fluids were
shooting out all over the patient and the floor, as if they wanted to be caught in a sprinkler. The
first time I put a snap up hospital gown on someone, they looked all twisted up like a twizzler!

That’s just a snapshot though, the making of a polaroid picture. When we step back after
we’ve snapped a picture, we wait. We wait for the chemical reaction to occur, to change colors,
and form the images we wanted to capture. During that time of waiting, is when everything
works together to form the final result. Girl, the waiting can be so, so tough! And sometimes, the
final image isn’t what we thought it would look like in the beginning.

Five years ago, I thought starting a family would be glamorous also. Easy peasy, right?
Not so much. But along the way, even on the most difficult days, I learned so much. It doesn’t
erase any of the losses I endured and it doesn’t take away the pain and heartache I’ve dealt with.
But it has changed my heart, and has helped me see things differently. My perspective shifted so
much during that time.

From the beginning, I wish someone would have sat down with me, girl to girl,
(preferably with an iced coffee, or even Ice Cream) and poured out these life giving words to me. And I hope that I would have wholeheartedly listened, and believed every word.

While my picture was developing in the painful wait, I wish I would have known:

~That I was learning how to be transparent with my struggles; where I was once scared of being vulnerable, I now welcome it, as these moments can be used to help other women. ~Some people truly don’t know what to say. This does not mean they don’t care! We’ve all been in a situation where we don’t have the words to say. ~That because of my struggle, my heart would long to reach out to others going through a loss of any type. ~That my friends and family would still be there for me, no matter the decisions I made in the depths of the heartbreak (Missing baby showers and other events). ~That my story is not your story and your story isn’t mine; there is a reason behind the unique struggles I faced. ~And of course, I wish I would have known that eventually, after all of the pain, the heartbreak, and the prayers, that I would have a child. This child would be worth every single tear I shed, every loss I endured, and each heartbreak I went through.

Being a nurse isn’t always glamorous, but I love it, even on a difficult and messy day. In
the beginning I didn’t know that my heart would be broken from the loss of an oncology patient,
nor did I realize that I’d have to watch a girl younger than myself slowly fade away, having to
say goodbye to her little girl and husband. But these are just images in the making, and it was
during these times of waiting, that I learned many lessons that have shaped who I am now.

Trying for a family was far from dazzling. I could scrutinize a pregnancy test like you’ve
never seen. I could have supplied a store with the amount of ovulation tests I owned, and I couldadvise you to not use a test that involves peeing in a cup, then tripping in the bathroom and
spilling the whole cup everywhere!

In the beginning, I had no idea what the next few years would be like. But while I was
waiting for the final image to come together, my heart was being altered. I knew the pain of
losing a child later on in a pregnancy, I could empathize with other women who had suffered
multiple miscarriages, and I realized just how much others’ words can hurt when we don’t stop to
think of what someone else may be going through around us.

I don’t know where you are at in your journey, but always remember there are lessons to be learned as the colors come together. Keep capturing pictures along the way, don’t throw your film away yet! Try to find the beauty in the moments where all of the colors are merging into the final image; the moments that help us grow, even when it’s painful.

About Nikki Grayson

Nikki and her husband endured years of repeated miscarriages, Infertility, and the loss of their son Hunter at 16 ½ weeks pregnant. Her sixth pregnancy resulted in their rainbow baby; a sweet and very loved little boy. Aside from being a nurse, Nikki has a heart that longs to reach out to others who are struggling with pregnancy after loss and precious Mama’s who are hurting after the loss of their baby. Nikki wrote a book during the weeks after losing Hunter called Teardrops in Hunter’s Hollow. The words and pages are meant to be a safe place for women to know and feel they are not alone, with glimmers of hope along the way

The Pain of Forward Motion: When Memories Fade

Tue, 04 May 2021 10:15:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

Sitting cross legged on the warm summer ground I comb my fingers through the damp grass. Every so often I grasp at it as if I am grasping for growing hair. A short time has passed since Kuyper’s burial, yet the patch of earth over his grave has grown in thick, making it appear as through the soil had never been disturbed at all. Taking a finger, I try to trace the outline of where we laid him that day in May. It is faint but I can still follow it. Looking down I imagine that the roots of clover, grass, and weeds that I see before me are growing up directly from his body, a living extension of my baby boy. The micro world of dirt, bacteria, plants, and insects between us, a reminder of life and hope even in the darkest of places.

The feeling of nearness to Kuyper is beginning to fade. It is as if my baby (now in the ground) is on the bank of a river and I (the living) remain on the boat without an oar, being pulled further and further away by the current. The current ever rushing away from him. The more time passes between Kuyper’s pregnancy and the present moment, the less I feel a closeness to him. The pain of this forward motion feels too much. What if I am not ready for it?

Soaking up all I can of this moment, I close my eyes as the wind lightly touches my face. Being close to his body, in this quiet and beautiful place fills my mind with sweet memories, and I feel a nearness to him, if only for a moment. Speaking soft and low, I whisper, “I love you, baby boy”.

Pausing I then wonder, “What will life be like when he no longer feels close?” I know this fading feeling is normal, but it feels unnatural. I guess in some sense it is because none of this is truly natural. Parents are not meant to bury their children. It is supposed to be the other way around.

Letting go of one’s baby, little by little could never feel normal and yet it is an excruciating necessity to keep on living. We must go where the current takes us.

A thought, like a lightning bolt runs through my mind, “Will I be able to bear the weight of this grief without the gentleness of this nearness?” I wonder what it is like to be a bereaved mother with this time behind me and a new sense of normalcy in my daily life. Is it something I even want? I just want to stay in these treasured moments, however painful. All I want is to be near my baby. How unfair it is to float ever further from the shore.

Years later I think back on those summer days. The transitions were many, coming at me faster than I felt able to handle. I did survive. With time and support I found a new path to normal and eventually a new way to flourish. The strong sense of nearness that I felt in those early days I no longer feel and although it was hard to let go of that feeling, it also seemed an important part of the healing process. Now the remembrances of those moments spent by his grave in the early days of bereavement are but a sweet and mysterious memory. Each moment and change along the way a part of the story I had no choice but to write.

Mama, you are writing your own story each day. The chronicles of how you loved and lost, and how you carried on. Keep on writing that story. The tale of love is a beautiful one to tell.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annmarieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

How Many?

Tue, 04 May 2021 10:00:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

Who am I?

I am a Christian. I am a mother.

I am a wife. I am a daughter.

I am a sister. I am a friend.

I am more things, but these are the identities that are most important to me. First and foremost, my identity is in Christ. However, since becoming a mother, that responsibility consumes a lot of my energy and thinking. Being responsible for my children requires a lot of work and effort, so as I have poured my heart and soul into motherhood (and continue to do so), it inevitably has become a large part of who I am.

I’ve heard about people who have an identity crisis due to job loss, divorce, moving across the country, and other life situations. However, I never experienced this kind of crisis for myself until I lost a part of who I am.

From the moment our newborn daughter was pronounced dead, I was torn in two. When Melody’s life was gone, part of my identity as a mother left with her.

This correlation of child-loss and self-loss repeated itself nine months later when I had a miscarriage resulting in the loss of Jamie. I reeled from the void and brokenness left in the wake of the losses of my babies. I felt like I didn’t know exactly who I was anymore.

Very shortly after Melody’s death, I happened to cross paths with someone from my childhood while at the park with Kiley, who was two at the time. I hadn’t seen this woman since I was very young, so she was eager to catch up on my life. Seeing my toddler daughter with me prompted a most dreaded and difficult question. “How many kids do you have now?” Despite the pain of reliving and retelling the agonizing events that surrounded the death of our daughter, I explained that I had three children – my older son who was at school, my two-year-old daughter that was with me, and our youngest daughter who had just passed away.

It was the first time I had been asked this question after our first loss. I had worded my response carefully, as I was desperate to include my child that no one could see. However, it seemed to be all for nothing as this old acquaintance of mine responded. “Oh, so it’s just the two kids, then.”

If words could cause physical pain, the emotional hole in my chest would have been gaping, wide open for all to see.

This conversation has happened more than once with others over the last four years. Sometimes the result is similar, but other times my hopes of making my angel babies tangible for others is achieved.

Trying to balance motherhood between two worlds has proven to be extremely difficult and has severed my identity as a mom into two parts – the part that fights for my kids you can see, and the part that fights for my kids you cannot see. This crisis of sorts will be something I’ll work through, and even struggle against at times, for the rest of my life. I can’t begin to explain how challenging and complicated it is to have to speak your children into existence in situations like these. My heart has been torn in two and is separated as it resides here with my living children and also with my sweet babies as they wait for me in Paradise. I am still the mom of Melody and Jamie just as much as I am the mom of Jace and Kiley.

It’s not always easy for others to understand this, and I sometimes have to remind myself how blessed those people truly are because of their inability to do so – and I am glad that they don’t get it. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. But as I try so hard to include my family as a whole, it can be enormously frustrating and emotionally defeating when others don’t understand that even though all of my children aren’t seen, I am and will always be their mother. My children are all equally valuable to my identity as a person, and especially as a mother.

I am Jace’s mom.

I am Kiley’s mom.

I am Melody’s mom.

I am Jamie’s mom.

I have four children.

About Kayla Leibner

Bereaved Mother’s Day

Wed, 28 Apr 2021 14:12:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

The Sunday before Mother’s Day.

A day you never heard of until you joined this terrible club.

It’s a day set assigned to honor the mothers who are living without their child/ren.

It’s a day with which I have a love/hate relationship.

I love the fact that we get our own day, a day to honor our unique motherhood.

At the same time, I also hate that fact.

I hate that our children aren’t here and that our motherhood is different. I also resent the fact that we need our own day. Our motherhood is just as valid as anyone else’s and we should also be honored on regular Mother’s Day.

In my four years of living without my son, I’ve learned that life after loss is just a massive contradiction of emotions, as illustrated above by my feelings towards Bereaved Mother’s Day.

Even with those contradicting emotions, I’ve chosen to acknowledge the day on my social media. I use it as a way to tell my followers to remember bereaved mothers the following week on Mother’s Day.

~Remember your friend who lost a child and has no living children. Send her a text to let her know that you are thinking of her on what is likely a very hard day. Let her know that even with empty arms, you acknowledge her title as a mother.

~Remember your friend who previously lost a child and now has living children. Send her a message and let her know that you are aware it’s still a hard day, because someone is always missing.

~Remember the mothers crying while looking at the finite amount of photos they have with their child, knowing they won’t ever get to take those obligatory Mother’s Day photos.

~Remember the mothers who need to excuse themselves from the day’s festivities, go through the Starbucks drive thru, sit alone in their car, write to their dead child in their journal, and sob. (That would be exactly what I did last year.)

~Remember the mothers who are living without a piece of their heart on a day where social media seems to be flooded with “complete” families.

It’s your choice how you wish to celebrate or not celebrate Bereaved Mother’s Day. It’s a day for us.

For me, that means using it as a not so subtle reminder to others to remember us the following week on actual Mother’s Day, when our hearts are just a little more heavy.

How My Marriage Changed After My Miscarriage

Thu, 08 Apr 2021 23:55:00 GMT

By: Dr. Jessica Zucker

Our feet touched as my husband and I leaned against our linen headboard in resignation, but we were a world apart. I had wine in one hand and a large spoonful of ice cream in the other. Since I was no longer pregnant, I figured sipping Chianti in bed while shoveling salted caramel mounds might cut through the unrelenting anguish. It didn’t. That night, my nightmares were a replica of the heinous events of the day: baby emerging, cutting the umbilical cord, hemorrhaging, the unmedicated D&C . I woke bereft, sullied in my blood, sweat, and tears.

I was surrounded by support in the aftermath of my 16-week miscarriage — the loss of a baby that would have been our second child — but I still felt alone. Friends and family sent flowers, food, checked in by phone. I noticed these thoughtful gestures, but no amount of care could lighten the intensity of my pain in the days following my pregnancy loss.

My husband reiterated time and time again that we were “in this together,” but he didn’t experience haunting dreams, lactating breasts, or spiking hormones. He could go about his day uninterrupted by piercing flashbacks. He didn’t go off to work in a body that looked pregnant but wasn’t.

“Everything will be okay, my love,” my husband would say. “We’ll have another one.” Then he’d get out of bed and dress for work, as if nothing had happened, leaving me feeling isolated and furious.

I am not one to compare pain. What good does that do? I knew he was hurting. But still, it seemed like he was only skimming the surface. And while he was staving off his pain, I felt like I was drowning in mine. I wanted more from him — needed it, actually. I wanted him to cry with me, hold me, share how broken he felt, bring me coffee in bed. The articulation of his pain was so slight — all he said was that he was sad — it seemed to accentuate mine all the more.

My husband is a man of tenderness, wit, and words, but when it came to something this unimaginable, his vocabulary was stymied. His expressiveness — both words and gestures — went on hiatus, making it hard to access the man I knew him to be. He acted as though things would return to normal in no time. Perhaps he felt guilty for not being there on that foggy mid-October afternoon when the baby came out while I was home alone. Maybe the trauma of this loss left him shell-shocked and unable to access his feelings.

He consistently checked in throughout the day, and spent even more time with our son as I healed; but I wanted to be let in on his emotional journey. I wanted to truly feel, as he’d said, that we were “in this together.” Instead, all he’d say was, “We will get through this. Things will be different next time.” Without a shared mourning process, I was engulfed by a sense of detachment and anxiety. So I turned elsewhere — to friends, therapy, writing — all the while missing the love of my life, wishing he was the one I could rely on.

All those months of sharing my feelings with friends and in therapy, rather than with him, left me feeling like we hardly knew each other anymore. Before, we would cuddle every night; now we fell asleep on separate edges of the bed.

It wasn’t until we got the fetal pathology results that we could anchor our miscarriage in facts, which somehow brought our paths closer together. On the evening of my doctor’s phone call, we sat cross-legged in bed, beers in hand, discussing all that had unfolded. With tangible answers — a chromosomal abnormality — my husband’s fears subsided, and with this came a widening of his emotional landscape. He cupped my face in his hands and said something wise and even hilarious, like he typically had: “I know we really wanted an unmedicated birth, but this isn’t exactly what we had in mind. The upside is: We get to try to make a baby again.”

Our shared laughter provided a bridge. I had missed our intimacy and ease.

Living through a loss of this kind required us to reexamine our patterns of communication and prioritize vulnerability. We talked openly about our individual and collective aches and pains — fear of trying again, of this same thing happening, the heartbreak and alienation — and how vital it was that we remain connected as we moved forward. We wanted, most importantly, to remain poised while parenting our 3-and-a-half year old son, and promised to help each other meet that goal.

LIVING THROUGH A LOSS OF THIS KIND REQUIRED US TO REEXAMINE OUR PATTERNS OF COMMUNICATION AND PRIORITIZE VULNERABILITY.

In the months that followed, we reckoned with what it would mean to undertake pregnancy again and potentially go through 10 months of anxiety. The stress was still palpable when we decided to try. Despite being well-versed in how horribly wrong things could go, we were hopeful that our traumatic experience was an anomaly that wasn’t likely to happen again.

When the lines appeared in the pregnancy test, it had been four months since our loss. The good news left me feeling vulnerable and apprehensive; it all seemed so fragile and surreal. I wondered if this positive pregnancy test might brighten our marital landscape, which was still recovering from disappointment.

My subsequent pregnancy was physically smooth but emotionally tumultuous. Until my daughter was nestled in my arms, I was preoccupied by fear. I searched my underwear for blood on a daily basis and was convinced I wouldn’t have the opportunity to feel my daughter’s beating heart against mine as she suckled my breasts.

My husband tried his best to support me through this pregnancy — he checked in on me constantly, told me how beautiful my growing belly looked, reassured me that things were going well — but my anxiety made it difficult to feel deeply connected to myself, let alone with him. Our closeness waxed and waned, but our grief was a constant. Haggard but hopeful, we somehow made it through. Together.

As my contractions quickened in labor, my worries about this pregnancy not coming to fruition finally dissolved. I felt a sense of return — to myself, to my marriage — as my husband supported me through the birth of our daughter. His nerves transformed as I pushed our baby into the world and he caught her. As he brought her to my chest, we marveled at what we had gone through to get here.

Now, I watch as our daughter’s blonde ringlets rest on her 2-year-old back as she scribbles with a neon crayon. Mundane moments like these seem extraordinary, having been turned upside down and inside out by my miscarriage. She awes me.

And this actually applies to the feelings I have for my husband as well. I marvel at his steadfastness, his simple care for our children, his devotion to us. After all we endured, I don’t take love for granted. Though our grief flung us apart, it ultimately glued us back together — it was the only way forward.

Our daughter’s birth and the miracle of making it through that terrible time pushed us to be even more compassionate toward one another. We realized just how much a marriage can endure, how strong a union can be — and how much it can teach us about ourselves and one another.

This article was originally posted on Refinery 29 – http://www.refinery29.com/2016/05/111015/marriage-after-miscarriage . The author, Dr. Jessica Zucker, has given Share permission to post on our blog.

MY HUSBAND IS A MAN OF TENDERNESS, WIT, AND WORDS, BUT WHEN IT CAME TO SOMETHING THIS UNIMAGINABLE, HIS VOCABULARY WAS STYMIED.

The Emotions You Experience During Your Grief

Thu, 08 Apr 2021 23:41:00 GMT

By: Shawanna Allen

Numbness, Confusion, Anger, Pain, Shame, Emptiness, and Sadness

In no particular order are the aforementioned all the emotions I experienced on August 8 ^th when I, in my heart knew and then affirmed by the emergency room doctor that I was indefinitely having a miscarriage. Prior to this day I had been back and forth to the doctor’s office for countless visits for lab work to track HCG levels. In addition to ER and office visits where I was examined, poked, and progged, my anxiety during the second month of pregnancy was through the roof. I was worried day in and day out about the outcome.

Sadness

My first ER visit I was assured that it was normal to visit the ER during pregnancy as a result of spotting, this gave me hope that perhaps this is rare, but can lead to a normal pregnancy. My second ER visit where my fate was confirmed, I could do nothing but cry. Cry for myself and cry for my baby that decided not to come. I cried and cried to the point where sobbing overwhelmed me. Shortly after, I said to myself, this loss has to be for a reason. In my mind the reason was to help someone else. That same night, I went home and was overcome with fear of what was taking place. In my home, I had to watch my little baby leave and endure the physical and mental pain that comes along with it. Never in my life have I feared going to the bathroom, but these days ahead I did. I Shawanna, had to watch what was a huge part of me leave my body and there was nothing I could do.

Confusion

My pregnancy was planned, I did all the “right” things. I took my vitamins, ate pretty healthy, and tried to keep a peaceful atmosphere, although hard at times when you realize you’re carrying a little life and everything you do, he/she is effected by it. I had prided myself in waiting until I was “ready”, so why would my little baby not want to be here with me. My baby was created out of love. Created between to two people who wanted a family and had plans for a healthy and loving family. Was I not fit to be a mom? Is this not my destiny? Was this punishment? Why, just why didn’t my little angel want to be a part of our lives.

Shame

There were many times I didn’t want to come “clean” about what happened to me, not to anyone. The biggest shame was the feeling I had toward my partner. I felt as though I couldn’t do for him what a “woman” should be able to do. The very few people I told I was expecting, I felt they’d judge me. What I’ve found is that many people don’t understand miscarriage, the first thing I was asked is: were you stressed? Of course I was, but I understand that mere day to day stress doesn’t cause this loss. I found myself owning their ignorance and internalizing it, thus resulting in me hiding from my truth

Anger

A secondary emotion to fear, sadness, and disappointment. The truth is, I was all of them, but it was easier to be angry. I was angry at what happened to me, how it happened, and even more angry at my partner. I felt like he didn’t understand, he wasn’t sad enough or angry enough. It wasn’t his body that felt hot throughout the day while carrying, experienced acne, or abdominal pain. It was my body that went through it all, and he got off easy. I remember sitting on my sofa with my grief and got angry at my little angel for not staying. I quickly snapped out of it because guilt followed and overshadowed that short moment of anger. How could I be angry at a sweet little soul I thought. You did nothing wrong is what I said, I love you too much to be angry at you.

Emptiness

Feelings of missing something, then feeling like something was taken away from me left me empty. What else do I have? I don’t have my little baby anymore. I don’t have someone growing inside of me. What else is left?

Numbness

After the many emotions circulated day in and day out, I went numb. I didn’t care about much. I didn’t want to feel anymore, and I was glad I didn’t. I didn’t have much to say or give in some moments. The moments of numbness were welcomed, as far as I was concerned, I didn’t have to deal.

While many of these emotions to-date come and go, I realize that it is OK . It is okay to be angry, sad, confused, and any other emotion I feel. It’s normal, a part of me has left. I’ve learned that grief means one day you’re good, the next day you’re not. And that too is OKAY!

I’ve gotten to a place knowing that my grief may not ever go away, but I will find it easier to face. Until then, I honor my loss and embrace each and every emotion that comes along with it.

About Shawanna Allen

Shawanna Allen is a Marketing Professional in Chicago, IL and is a mom to an angel she lost in the first trimester of pregnancy. Although her loss was unexpected and resulted in a hard journey to healing, she’s found a new passion: to help other moms of angels. Her goal is through her writings to give hope and comfort to any woman who has gone through such a devastating loss. She aspires to create her own blog to further spread awareness and design keepsakes to honor little angels. Shawanna on her journey has found meditation and sketching to aid in healing, but most importantly, being able to share her story, emotions, and healing process with others helps the most.

The Legacy of Strength: A Grandparent’s Grief

Thu, 08 Apr 2021 23:35:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

Seeing your child suffer is a type of suffering in itself.

As parents, our love runs so deep that when they hurt or suffer, we also hurt and suffer. If something happens to cause one of my children distress or pain, my first instinct is to fix or remove the problem to make it better. I believe I speak for at least the majority of parents when I say these things. Our ability to be selfless has no limits when it comes to our children. Our desire to bear their burdens makes us ache for their sufferings. I have learned that this dedication, this love, this commitment is not limited to just parents, but also is very much part of the job description of being a grandparent.

My view on a grandparent’s grief is unique in that I am not actually a grandparent. However, I am experiencing the effects of a grandparent’s grief.

You see, my own mom is an angel parent. Before I was born, my parents buried my oldest brother, Wade.

He died in the womb, after my mom was hit by a drunk driver. I saw her sadness when I was a child. Even though I couldn’t relate to it, I knew it was there. I was aware of the loss, but it was a different time. It wasn’t something that was talked openly about back then. My mom wasn’t aware of the support groups or resources that might have existed at that time.

My husband and I experienced our first loss in August 2017. Our daughter, Melody was diagnosed in utero with a severe and rare congenital heart defect at 30 weeks gestation. It was detected that her heart was enlarged during an ultrasound on a Wednesday. Two days later she was diagnosed with Ebstein’s Anomaly via fetal echocardiogram. Her condition resulted in Hydrops Fetalis and pulmonary hypoplasia. After her diagnosis, I was admitted to the hospital for constant monitoring. Over the weekend, she went into heart failure and was delivered by emergency c-section on Monday morning. There was a plan to stabilize her and transport her to the nearby children’s hospital for her first open heart surgery. However, she never made it out of the NICU where she was born. She fought hard for her life the entire time the doctors worked on her, but her body was just too sick. She lived an hour and twenty-seven minutes.

We lost what would have been our rainbow baby almost nine months later in May of 2018. Jamie was also considered to be a rare medical instance. I was nearly eleven weeks pregnant when I miscarried. The pathology report revealed that I had what is called a partial molar pregnancy, which basically means that genetically our baby was not compatible with life. It was real. There was a heartbeat, but Jamie could not have survived.

The first words I remember saying after Melody died were, “I don’t know how to do this.” I said them to my mom.

Besides my husband, she was the first person I saw afterward. At that point, it hadn’t even dawned on me that my mom knew exactly what I was feeling in that moment. The day before I was discharged, my mom prepared me for what I would encounter upon reentering the real world again…

Things would look different.

People would look at me differently.

Some would avoid me altogether.

It was going to be lonely…

She was right.

She knew this from experience.

She lived this same hell on earth.

Still to this day, I don’t really know what I’m doing.

I just take it one day at a time.

I’ve always told people that I come from a long line of strong women, and that I am strong because I was raised by strong women.

I had more in common with these women in my family than I knew – I am a fourth-generation survivor of pregnancy and infant loss.

I’ve lost two babies. My mom lost a baby. My grandma lost a baby. My great-grandma lost a baby. I knew they were strong, but I didn’t realize just how strong until I, too, walked in their shoes – their hideously uncomfortable shoes.

My great-grandmother has gone on from this life, but I have seen my own mom and grandma feel my pain. I have seen them ache for my loss.

Not only are these two women grieving the loss of their babies and my babies, but also grieving for me in my loss.

They feel the pain I feel. They know the loneliness that still envelops me at times. They have heard the little voice that tells grieving mothers it’s all their fault, that they did something wrong. They know it. They feel it. They relive it with me on my own journey.

My mom, the grandmother of my children, has expressed to me at great length how she wishes I didn’t know the pain she’s felt for all these years.

She is my mom, my protector, and yet she and I both know the cruelty of this world. I’ve watched her agonize over my own agony. I’ve watched her grieve not only for my child, but for the innocence I lost when my babies died. Oh, to be so naïve again!

The losses of my babies have brought so much of my mom’s hurt and suffering back to the surface again. My outspokenness and my need for the special support that she can offer me has seemed to empower her to be able to speak more about her loss and about Wade than before. For this, I am grateful. Though her burden is indescribably great, she seems to have found a way to truly work through her loss by aiding me on my own grief journey.

While the burden of a grieving parent is the heaviest of loads, we shouldn’t forget that grandparents suffer, too – for their grandchildren, and for their own child’s suffering.

About Kayla Leibner

Walking to Remember

Thu, 08 Apr 2021 23:24:00 GMT

By: Kendra Goldman

I first heard about the Share Walk on October 12th, 2016 while visiting the website. This was 2 days before I was scheduled for a D&C for my second miscarriage.

The day of my D&C, I wanted to talk with my doctor to see if the walk would be something I’d be able to do. He said as long as I didn’t over exhaust myself and took it easy, he wasn’t concerned.

When I first walked up to Frontier Park the morning of October 15th, 2016, I was in awe of what I saw. There were hundreds of people in purple and white shirts. We found out, being a bereaved parent, you were in a colored shirt for that specific year. We were not alone in our heartache.

My husband and I registered so that our babies would be acknowledged and, luckily enough, there were still shirts available.

As the ceremony started, I saw a few women in purple and pregnant. I felt a sense of hope in that. There were children supporting their lost siblings, whether younger or older. There were over 500 names read aloud of babies lost. I was so overwhelmed. I reached out to the organization and started volunteering. I felt like the voice of women needed to be louder to make miscarriages not as taboo. I thought being involved would help.

Fast forward a year and I was now one of the women pregnant expecting my rainbow in January and wearing a shirt remembering my lost little ones. I believe this is something my family will do every year to make sure our little ones, wherever they may be, know they are in our hearts and on our minds.

The Perspective of a Labor Nurse

Thu, 08 Apr 2021 23:20:00 GMT

By: Jennifer Kouri RN, CPLC

“You are a labor & delivery nurse? You are SO lucky! That has to be the happiest unit in the hospital!” Working as a labor nurse for 20 years I have heard these phrases many times from people when they ask what I do for a living.

Yes, it truly is the happiest unit in the hospital……. until it isn’t.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a labor nurse. I even worked as a secretary on a labor unit while in nursing school, anything to get experience. I was accepted into a new grad program working on a high-risk L&D unit. About 3 weeks into my training my preceptor said, “Today we have a mom that is being induced at 18 weeks because her baby died.” I’m sure the look on my face was priceless. I said “Oh, I don’t think I can do this.” My preceptor looked at me in complete disgust and said “This is NOT about YOU! This is about that mom in there that has to deliver a dead baby today.” I felt like I had been slapped across the face. Little did I know at the time, but that nurse did me the biggest favor by saying that to me. She truly helped shape me into the nurse I am today.

In nursing school, I believe there was maybe one paragraph that addressed stillbirth and miscarriage. For my labor & delivery clinicals I was able to be part of two beautiful deliveries. I had NO idea that babies died during pregnancy or even during delivery. I did not know that these moms still had to deliver their babies. I had NO idea how to support a family that was grieving the loss of their unborn baby. I was like the rest of the general public that believed that these things only happened “way back when.” Little did I know that this happened approximately 24,000 times a year. How is this possible? 24,000 babies die before delivery EVERY YEAR in the Unites States? 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage? These statistics are horrifying.

I remember my “first time” being in the room when a stillbirth was diagnosed. It feels like it happened yesterday. I was working triage that day when I was told I had a patient coming in due to decreased fetal movement. I walked in the room when they arrived, and the parents did not seem overly anxious or concerned. I made small talk while putting the monitors on her belly. As I moved the heart rate monitor from side to side, hearing nothing in return, I began to get the feeling in my gut that this would officially be my “first time”. The first time I was unable to find a baby’s heartbeat and would eventually have to hold her hand while she was told those dreaded words

“I’m sorry, your baby has died. There is no heartbeat.”

She could tell that it was taking longer than usual to find the baby’s heartbeat. I opened the door and asked the charge nurse to find Dr. R and have him bring the ultrasound machine in. That was code for “I can’t find heart tones!!” Mom began to ask questions “why did you ask for the doctor?” “why can’t I hear the heartbeat yet?” I did my best to stay calm & upbeat, but she could see right through me. I said, “I am having trouble finding her heartbeat, so I am going to have Dr. R use the ultrasound machine.” I continued to ask her questions, trying to finish my assessment because I knew there would be no chance to ask these questions after the doctor was in the room. Dad was with us in the room, and he was completely unaware that there was something wrong. He was laughing and making small talk. At this point mom became very quiet and only gave one-word answers as she stared at the wall. When Dr. R arrived, he was visibly uncomfortable due to the situation.

My heart breaks for these physicians that come into a room knowing that they will likely deliver life altering news to a family.

As he scanned her belly, he was very quiet. I could already see that their beautiful baby girl had no heartbeat. I remember avoiding eye contact with both parents. Afraid that they could already see the tears in my eyes that I was desperately trying to control.

Dr. R sat down on his stool and turned to the parents and said those dreaded words “I’m sorry. Your baby girl has died.” I looked at the mom and will never forget the blank look in her eyes as she started at the wall. She had braids in her hair, no makeup on. Very quietly she whispered “I knew it. I knew it.” The dad said “What? What the hell are you talking about? My baby is not dead. Well, get her out. FIX HER! SAVE HER!” At this point he was standing up and yelling. He threw his chair and ran out of the room while screaming. I was so torn; do I go after the dad or stay with mom? I pulled up a chair and held mom’s hand. She was eerily quiet and still. She turned and looked at me and said, “I knew it.”

When I reached in to give her a hug, she clung to me sobbing.

I had NO idea what to say, so I just hugged her and cried right along with her. We sat this way for about twenty minutes when she looked at me and said, “What am I going to do?” By this time another nurse had found dad and brought him back in the room. We sat there for over an hour talking and crying. Every few minutes dad would ask “Why did this happen?” Again, I had no words, no explanation, no answers.

Eventually I talked mom and dad into going home for a bit and coming back in the morning for induction. After walking them out to their car and watching their reaction when they spotted the brand-new infant car seat strapped in and ready to go, I hugged them both again and told them I would see them the next day. Mom grabbed my arm and said, “Please tell me you will be here tomorrow.” In that moment I briefly wanted to say something like “Sorry, I’m off tomorrow” because I knew how hard this was going to be. But I could hear my preceptor’s voice in my ear “This is NOT about YOU.” I promised her that I would be there. I lied in bed all night scared, sad, dreading this delivery.

The most beautiful baby girl was born silently into this world the next day.

Instead of hearing the sounds of a screaming, healthy baby, there were only the sobs from a mom that watched all of her dreams die along with her first baby. I will never forget that moment.

I cared for this family for three full 12 hour shifts in a row. I didn’t sleep much, I cried A LOT, and I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

That sweet baby girl took a piece of my heart with her that day. I will never forget baby T. There is definitely a bond formed when you care for a family in these situations.

I held their baby.

I dressed and bathed their baby.

I said their baby’s name.

I am still in touch with this family today, six years later. I was invited to her 1st birthday party where we released butterflies in her memory. I was the first person that she called when she found out she was pregnant again. I was invited to her Rainbow baby shower that her friends and family put on. I had the honor of being there when baby T’s little brother was born. I was invited to his baptism. I have received Christmas cards and school/family pictures every year. If I had not been there in triage that day, I would not have had the honor and privilege of being part of this family’s story.

“You are so lucky to be a labor & delivery nurse!” Yes, yes I am. I am so grateful that I have the opportunity to be there when a baby is born healthy and screaming, but I consider myself blessed & honored to be there when a baby is born silently into this world. To know that I am one of very few people that actually get to meet or hold these babies, means everything to me and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

About Jennifer Kouri RN, CPLC

Jennifer is a Maternal & Child Health Care Manager for UCare and serves as a Health Educator for Star Legacy Foundation. A Labor and Delivery nurse for 20+ years, Jennifer has a passion for caring for families during perinatal loss and has been recognized many times for her dedication to bereaved families.

Why is Mommy Crying?

Thu, 08 Apr 2021 15:04:00 GMT

A children’s book explaining early pregnancy loss to young children

By: Cori Baill, MD

As an OB/GYN, a mother of two and now as a new children’s picture book author, I am deeply appreciative of this opportunity to write for Sharing Magazine. We as women know that grief shared is grief lessened. Yet in American society, all too often, a vast and stifling silence surrounds early pregnancy loss. It is my profound hope that this picture book explains early pregnancy loss to children as young as three, and that it will help to lift the silence. This book can serve to console those in grief and promote healing for the family’s youngest members, and for all those who love them including older siblings, parents, extended family, friends, and community.

As an OB/GYN physician, I am probably more comfortable with a fetal heart monitor or stethoscopes than with a keyboard. But as the decades of my practice experience whizzed by, I always kept my eye out for a nondenominational, inclusive children’s book to help young families explain an early pregnancy loss to their children. Recently, a welcome trend in children’s picture books is to address difficult topics with creative age-appropriate language and art including grief. Though, to my profound disappointment, none appeared specific to early pregnancy loss. So, about the time my youngest entered medical school, I dusted off a long lingering story from my desk drawer and decided to write it myself.

Accompanied by his ever-expressive stuffed monkey, Max treks across the house to his parents’ bed where it is always nice and warm. But on his way, Max finds Mommy rocking alone. Prompted by his mother’s loving explanation, Max uses his unique and vivid imagination to compassionately frame early pregnancy loss in an easy-to-understand story. Heather, through her amazing art engages the young listener.

The mother refers to God in a way that comforts and consoles children who may need help to manage their fears after a traumatic event. Because God reflects how young children view their parent’s love and omnipotence, they both benefit from the explanation used in the story while also helping to explain the refences to God likely overheard as the family receives condolences. Intentionally, there are no allusions to any specific spiritual practice in the art or language of the book. To my surprise, some early reviewers suggested the book would only appeal to religious families. I think Why is Mommy Crying? need not be pigeonholed and I hope it helps all who have known the sadness of an early pregnancy loss.

Max and his family are multiethnic and while Max has a Mom and Dad, I chose story language that is inclusive with respect to what constitutes parents and family. The mother asks, “ Do you remember what Daddy and I told you about how babies come to people who love one another?” She does not specify their gender. Why is Mommy Crying? can offer a gentle springboard for families to discuss broad concepts surrounding grief and recovery. Additional resources are listed on the last page. I hope that this beautifully illustrated, inclusive picture book helps recipients of every age feel that the door is open, and a caring person is on the other side.

I had a lot of help in the creation and improvement of this book. Thankfully, in the search for an illustrator I found the portfolio of the talented, amazing young artist, Heather Bell. She added immeasurably to the accessibility, energy and emotions of this story. I am in awe of her creativity. The book’s beauty is all to her credit. The story passed through the hands of many readers, artists, professionals, friends and fellow writers. I am deeply appreciative to the many who have supported and improved my story. Perhaps most of all I am indebted to my oldest, who late one night, still in pull ups, wearing his Dad’s old tee shirt for pajamas, came looking for his mother and asked me why I was crying.

About Cori Baill, MD

Cori Baill, MD is a board-certified OB/GYN. She completed her OB/GYN residency at The Johns Hopkins Medical Institute, then practiced for many years. She is now an Associate Professor at the University of Central Florida, College of Medicine. In addition to many years of caring for women and their families, she is an award-winning short story author, and mother of two. She hopes she has written a story comforting to those who have known the grief of miscarriage, especially the family’s youngest members.

Heather Bell, SCWBI illustrator, https://heatherbellbooks.com , added immeasurably to this project. She holds BFA in Painting from the Kansas City Art Institute, is a member of SCBWI, a participant in the 12 x 12 Picture Book Challenge, and a Children’s Book Academy graduate. When not illustrating and writing, she searches out story ideas as an undercover school bus driver. Heather Bell is an author/illustrator represented by Kaitlyn Sanchez at Olswanger Literary Agency.

Link to Amazon

Let Not Grief Separate

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 19:50:00 GMT

By: Kayla & Ben Leibner

When someone experiences the loss of a loved one, the way they feel, process and bear that burden is known as grief – and grief is a unique experience for everyone. Each individual person journeys through it in a different way, using different coping skills, and expressing that very grief in a way that reflects their emotions and their passage through the heartache of loss.

When a couple loses a child, this grief is an ongoing challenge that is both personal and shared. We began our journey as grieving parents in August 2017 when our beautiful newborn daughter, Melody died. As we were confronting our own pain and grief, we were also faced with the challenge of supporting our living children in their own sorrows. At the time Jace was almost eleven, and Kiley was well into her “terrible twos”. They were both affected differently, as were we, so we found ourselves living in a world of diversified grieving situations.

As we began to find a way to tread the murky waters of what was now our everyday life, we began to feel progress and growth. Unfortunately, in May 2018 life added to that already heavy emotional burden when we lost Jamie in a miscarriage a little less than nine months after Melody’s death. We were astounded… at a loss… and the little bit of hope we’d begun to feel had been devastated and distorted into an even deeper agony as we said goodbye a second time.

Looking at the pieces of our life, we were once again sitting among the ashes of our hope. At this point we were at a very figurative and literal crossroads – How do we grieve? While we knew each of us were experiencing our own feelings and dealing with our losses in a unique way, we also recognized that our marriage is a sacred union. We were brought together by God to love, support, and care for one another no matter what. There are a couple of scriptures that are very significant to us, and they have guided us in our marriage and even on our journey of grief:

“Therefore, what God has joined together, let not man separate.” (Mark 10:9, NKJV)

“But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” (Joshua 24:15, NKJV)

These verses are the very foundation of our marriage. God joined us, and we serve Him. It seems simple, but when working through the darkness of grief, things aren’t always as clear as we would like. While we were each dealing with our own insecurities, thoughts, feelings, and the weight of our individual grief we also had to find a way to work through it together as a unified couple. We had to allow ourselves to open up to one another with God as our center instead of shutting down. This was no easy task.

Ben – A Husband’s Burden

I am not and have never been a person that processes things verbally – not joy, not complications, and certainly not grief. I am what people would call a “silent sufferer” because I just don’t talk about it. I have always had a tendency to keep everything bottled up inside. I just stuff it all deep down. Instead of dealing with the difficult emotions and situations that arose after our losses I found myself being consumed by the opportunity to keep my mind and my body busy with work.

After being emotionally absent for quite some time I came to realize that I was shutting off the feelings and fighting against the deep struggle it was to fill the role of being the head of my family during my grief. I was faced with the ugly nature of my own sadness, of the complete and utter agony that I felt after losing my children. But at the same time, I had to find a way to be a supportive parent to my hurting children and a compassionate and sensitive husband to my broken wife.

Realizing that I needed to be these things while also taking care of myself wasn’t easy, but it was even more difficult to get myself to a place emotionally to be able to do so. I had to learn to support and be supported. It was a burdensome thought to allow my hurting family to support me, but as time went on I realized that it was a uniquely difficult and also necessary balancing act we all had to take part in.

Slowly I allowed Kayla to break down those walls and I began to talk about how I felt, and I started allowing myself to grieve, and through that process I was able to begin healing. In those beginning steps of restoring myself I was able to be in a mindset that more readily allowed me to be there for my family, to be what they deserve.

Because my wife was patient and persistent, and because I didn’t give up on myself I was able to come back from being the silent sufferer, and I was able to grow as a person by allowing myself to just experience my own grief. Kayla and I were able to support one another and we were able to be there for our children as we all grieved in our unique ways together.

Kayla – A Wife’s Battle

When we lost our babies, the amount of pain that continuously heaped up inside me was indescribable. The sorrow, anger, and shame continued to grow, and it consumed me deeply. I have always been one to process emotions through verbal and written communication. But I felt the isolation of my grief as I required quite a bit of time off work for mental health reasons. Knowing that my husband doesn’t thrive on communication the way that I do, I found myself trying to allow him the time and space he needed to eventually deal with his grief in a way that was right for him.

I was caught in the dilemma of making sure Ben had the quiet that he needed while still needing to talk and process through things out loud for myself. But I also felt the weight of being a mother to my living children as they suffered through their own emotions after losing their siblings.

I knew that if we were going to come out on the other side of our losses as a unified couple and a mentally healthy family that we would have to work through our grief together. But being people who feel and work through emotions so differently made it a struggle to find the delicate balance that was necessary. Our family grief dynamics had to work for everyone, not just me or Ben or the kids, or us as a couple… It had to work for us all.

Eventually, as I continued to talk through my own feelings and expressed what I needed during this time Ben was able to begin opening up and we were able to be more available to support one another emotionally. As we began grieving and healing together, we found the strength and direction we needed to be there for our children in the ways that they needed us. We were able to grieve openly with them, and we were able to help them learn to express what they felt because we had worked through those things as a couple. Because of that we were able to teach our children that it was okay to grieve and show emotions, and we were able to encourage them to talk about anything they felt.

Life and Love After Loss

I could probably write for days or even weeks about all the ways we succeeded or failed, grew or regressed, or became stronger or weaker. Our journey of grief as a couple has never been clear or linear, but that was the first thing we realized once we opened ourselves up to one another. We took turns being strong and supportive for each other. We took turns needing support. Sometimes our grief would overflow at the same time, so we sat and cried together.

It’s been three and a half years since we first began our journey as bereaved parents. We’ve learned so much about ourselves and each other, and about us as a couple, but there is so much more growing room left as we continue to heal and find peace. One thing that we both agree has helped us to survive this most treacherous storm in our life is that we were able to ground ourselves in our faith. We trusted God to carry us through as individuals, as a married couple, as parents, and also our family as a whole. We knew that if we looked for God’s work in all circumstances that we would see Him and feel His presence regardless of our pain and suffering. We often reminded ourselves of these words that Jesus spoke:

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened,

And I will give you rest.”

(Matthew 11:28 NASB-2020)

By resting our souls in the Lord, we have been able to grow in ways we never would have imagined possible despite our pain and suffering. We have been able to find comfort in knowing that someday we will see Melody and Jamie again. Each day we live our lives, grateful that God was able to bring us closer together through such tragedy, and we are able to look forward to that day when can hug our children and be with them forever.

May God bless you and bring you peace.

About Kayla and Ben Leibner

Ben and Kayla have known each other for fifteen years, have been together for almost eight years, and will soon be celebrating their seventh wedding anniversary. Ben works in management while Kayla is at home working with their daughter during her virtual schooling. Ben and Kayla are the proud parents of two living children – Jace (14) and Kiley (almost 6), and two angel babies – Melody and Jamie. Ben and Kayla have built their family with God as the center and have deep roots in their faith, as God’s comfort has carried them through their individual and collective grief. Their family interests include Bible studies, family movie nights, puzzles, coffee, and other things that can be done together!

Acceptance…

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 19:45:00 GMT

By: Silvia Bowman

Before I tell you how I was finally able to get to this peaceful and quiet “place” I call “acceptance,” I need to provide a little background:

Since the tragic loss of my precious baby girl in 2007, I have been on a ride no mother ever wants to embark on. First, deep and intense grief invaded my entire body and soul; then loneliness and bitterness…feelings that prompted me to start questioning my faith. It took me a very long time to finally enter my “most awaited” period of healing and feelings of hope.

Little by little, day by day, thanks to my faith, the support of my husband and a handful of people, I started to learn how to live again and feel ready for a new beginning.

Unfortunately, I was one of those moms who, after my loss, left the hospital literally empty-handed.

No brochures, no booklets, no information on local grief support groups or online networks, no therapists’ business cards, no counselors’ contact names…nothing. Two or three days later, I was blessed to find Share via the internet.

Thanks to Share’s website, its brochures, the “Grieving, Healing and Finding Hope” booklets and most importantly, their loving and caring staff, I did not feel alone anymore. They helped me in so many ways, I will need tens of pages to go over one by one. However, what I will always be mostly appreciative of is that Share helped me figure out creative ways to honor my baby. You see, after losing my baby at almost 14 weeks, I realized I did not have any tangible things to remind me of her…or so I thought. Share showed me how to find and even create ways to memorialize her. I ended up making a beautiful album filled with mementos that are keeping her memory alive and that I now share with grieving Spanish-speaking families through Share Español: Esperanza, a new program to provide Hispanic families from around the world the comfort and guidance they need – all in Spanish – as they go through their own and unique grief journeys.

Several years of hard work by staff members and volunteers have paid off. Share Español: Esperanza now offers all Share brochures, booklets, a resource section on its website, a private Facebook group (88 members and growing!), and a face-to-face support group for bereaved parents in the St. Louis metropolitan area that meets on the 2nd Thursday of each month… all en Español!

I have been a volunteer and parent companion for Share since 2008. And now, as coordinator of Share Español Esperanza I get to share what I have learned in all these years through my own “grief journey”…dealing with loss, finding meaning in life and feeling hope again, getting ready for new beginnings, and…Acceptance.

So, this is how I started this article…referring to this quiet and peaceful place I call “Acceptance”…a place I thought I would never get to…after all, it’s been almost 12 years! However, just last week, during our second Share Español support group meeting, something totally unexpected happened:

As I was getting ready to leave for the meeting, my husband called to let me know that he had to work late that evening. So, I had no other choice than taking my 8 year-old son with me, something I didn’t want to do, as these meetings can turn very emotional and intense. Right after 6pm a couple showed up. It was their second time participating in a Share Español group. They were very much in need of support and to be heard. During the next hour, we shared and cried together. Then, suddenly, I remembered that my son was at the other end of this long conference room. As I looked over, there he was, playing quietly with his tablet, respecting this couple’s privacy and their immediate need of our help.

At that very moment, I came to the realization that my two beautiful children made all of this possible. My baby girl and my son were very much present with me and this grieving couple, in that conference room, that Thursday evening. They have given me the beautiful gift of a real and meaningful purpose. I would have never been able to provide comfort and some peace to this sweet couple without experiencing my loss and without my son’s help that evening. I have finally Accepted and embraced my past, my present and my future.

It has happened…Acceptance and Silvia have finally found each other!!

It is my hope that you may find comfort in my story and that you too are able to get to this peaceful and quiet “place” I call Acceptance.

Aceptación…

Antes que te cuente como finalmente pude llegar a este “lugar” lleno de paz y tranquilidad que yo llamo “aceptación”, necesito compartirte un poquito mi historia:

Desde la trágica pérdida de mi preciosa bebé en el 2007, he estado viviendo algo que ninguna madre quisiera vivir…Primero, un dolor profundo e intenso que invadió mi cuerpo y alma; luego, soledad y amargura…sentimientos que hicieron que yo cuestionara mi fe en Dios. Me tomó un largo tiempo para poder finalmente entrar a mi “más esperado período” de sanación y sentimientos de esperanza.

Poquito a poco, día a día, gracias a mi fe, el apoyo de mi esposo y un grupo pequeño de gente, empecé a aprender a vivir nuevamente y a estar lista a un nuevo “comienzo”.

Desafortunadamente, yo fui una de esas madres, quien, después de mi pérdida, dejó el hospital con las manos literalmente vacías. Sin ningún folleto o ningún tipo de información de grupos de apoyo en el área, ningún nombre de terapeuta, consejero…nada. A los dos o tres días después, fui bendecida al encontrar a Share a través de la internet.

Gracias a la página de internet de Share, a sus folletos y materiales acerca del duelo, la sanación y esperanza, y sobre todo, a través de su cariñoso equipo, pude dejar de sentirme sola. Todos me ayudaron de tantas maneras, que necesitaría decenas de páginas para contárselas una a una. Sin embargo, lo que siempre les estaré agradecida es que me ayudaron a encontrar y a crear formas de honrar la memoria de mi bebé. Les explico—después de perder a mi bebita a las casi 14 semanas, me di cuenta que no tenía nada tangible que me pudiera recordar a ella…o al menos eso creía. Share me enseñó a como crear “recordatorios”. Al final, terminé creando un bello álbum lleno de recuerdos que me ayudan a mantener el recuerdo de mi bebita vivo y que ahora comparto con familias de habla Hispana alrededor del mundo a través de Share Español: Esperanza, un nuevo programa que ofrece a familias que hablan Español, todo el apoyo y guía que necesitan durante el difícil proceso de duelo que viven.

Todos los años de duro trabajo y dedicación por parte del equipo de voluntarios de Share han resultado en grandes frutos. Share Español: Esperanza ahora ofrece todos sus folletos y materiales, una sección especial en su página web, un grupo privado en Facebook (actualmente con 88 miembros de varios países de Latinoamérica y sigue creciendo!), y grupos de apoyo para padres en el área metropolitana en St. Louis, los segundos Jueves de cada mes…y todo en Español!

Desde el 2008 trabajo como voluntaria acompañando a madres y padres en duelo. Y ahora, como coordinadora de Share Español Esperanza puedo compartir todo lo que he aprendido durante todos estos difíciles años desde mi pérdida…cómo afrontar el dolor, encontrarle sentido a la vida nuevamente, alistarme a nuevos comienzos, y la… Aceptación.

Y es aquí donde comencé este artículo…refiriéndome a ese “lugar” lleno de paz y tranquilidad que yo llamo “Aceptación”…un lugar al que pensé nunca iba a llegar…después de todo, han pasado ya casi 12 largos años! Sin embargo, la semana pasada, durante nuestra segunda reunión de grupo de apoyo de Share Español, algo totalmente inesperado sucedió:

Mientras me estaba alistando para salir a nuestro encuentro mensual, mi esposo me llama para avisarme que iba a tener que trabajar hasta tarde esa noche. No me quedaba otra alternativa que llevar a mi hijo de 8 añitos a la reunión, algo que realmente prefería no hacerlo, ya que generalmente nuestros encuentros mensuales son muy emotivos e intensos. Justo un poquito después de las 6pm una pareja llega al encuentro. Era su segunda vez participando en una reunión del grupo Share Español. Ellos necesitaban de mucho apoyo y de ser escuchados esa noche. Durante la siguiente hora, lloramos y compartimos vivencias juntos. Luego, de pronto, me doy cuenta que mi hijo estaba en el otro extremo de esa larga sala de conferencias. Cuando dirijo mi mirada hacia él, allí estaba mi pequeñín, jugando muy silenciosamente con su tableta, respetando la privacidad y la necesidad de ayuda de esta pareja.

En ese preciso momento, me pude dar cuenta que mis dos amados hijos hicieron todo esto posible. Mi bebita y mi hijito estuvieron conmigo y con esta pareja, en cuerpo y espíritu, en esa sala de conferencias, ese Jueves por la noche. Ellos dos me han bendecido dándome un propósito de vida significativo. Yo nunca hubiese podido brindar apoyo y un poco de paz a esta dulce pareja si no hubiese vivido mi terrible pérdida y sin la ayuda de mi hijito esa noche. A partir de ese momento, pude Aceptar finalmente mi pasado, mi presente y mi futuro.

Y ocurrió … Aceptación y Silvia finalmente pudieron encontrarse!!

Espero de corazón que puedas encontrar un poquito de alivio a través de mi historia y que también puedas llegar a encontrar este “lugar” lleno de paz, alivio y tranquilidad que yo llamo ”aceptación”. En mi caso, ocurrió en el momento preciso y perfecto…

About Silvia Bowman

My name is Silvia Torres Bowman. I am a mom, a wife, an export consultant from Lima, Peru. In 2007, my husband and I suffered a devastating loss at 14 weeks of pregnancy after 9 long years of dealing with infertility issues and multiple medical treatments. Unfortunately, I was not given any information materials or any counseling referral upon my release from the hospital…not even comforting words from my doctor. My family and friends did not know what to say or how to care for me. I will never forget that huge hole in my heart and those feelings of loneliness and hopelessness.

I was fortunate to find Share on the internet a couple of weeks after my loss and have been a volunteer and parent companion since then. Share has helped me immensely during my long grieving journey and I will always be grateful to this amazing organization as well as fully committed to its mission.

I am currently co-leading Share Español Esperanza, assisting and inspiring grieving families from the Hispanic community by sharing my journey of loss, hope and deep faith.

My hope is that grieving parents may find comfort in my story and my words.

Everyday Memories

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 16:46:00 GMT

When you lose a child the way you do life completely changes. You begin searching for anything and everything you can that reminds you of your baby. The physical signs, and tangible objects that you can squeeze which gives you that chance to feel closer to your child. For me, its butterflies and Dumbo things mostly. Anything I see with butterflies or Dumbo on it, I justify buying because it reminds me of my Avery. I don’t just drive my son to school anymore, I am driving him searching for the little yellow butterflies hoping to see one fly in front of the car. Any family outing we go on, I am not completely there in the moment, but trying to find Avery, I know she’s there, and it’s my job to find her signs. The way I do life, it’s changed. Avery changed that. On this journey it isn’t just your child that changes your life though. The small things that to most, are insignificant, they become life changing to you.

Anytime anyone sends me something and says “I thought you would like this, It reminded me of you and Avery” my heart melts.

When I first lost Avery, I was desperate for anything I could hold on to that reminded me of her. Losing a child in any capacity is isolating, but the isolation is even worse when you terminate for medical reasons because of the controversy surrounding abortion. My decision to TFMR does not minimize my love for my daughter. Those who TFMR grieve and love just like any other loss parent. I was hopeful to find a place that would help me heal and that’s when I came across A Memory Grows. A sweet mom named DeAndrea started this organization in honor of her son Max who passed away. She holds weekend retreats that offers healing activities for families in the depths of loss. I was very hesitant to attend because of my circumstances. I was nervous other parents would be angry and unsupportive because in my mind I felt they didn’t think I deserved to be there because I made the choice to end my child’s life, although it was not really a choice. Where as, in their case the choice was made for them as some of their children were born stillborn. They died shortly after birth, or they endured miscarriages. The complete opposite happened though. DeAndrea encouraged me to come, and told me she thought I’d be pleasantly surprised at how welcomed I would be. She was right. I was embraced with open arms, and Avery and I were accepted right away. It was such a healing weekend. That weekend alone is one of the best gifts anyone could have given me on this journey.

When you have a living child there’s often many things you take from granted. I know before losing Avery there was a lot I took for granted with my son, and many things I wish I would have done differently. I wish I would have really embraced his early days, taken more pictures, made more memories. I took it all for granted. Now I see little kids with their names on their backpacks running up to the building at school and I think to myself, I will never see Avery do that. I won’t see her name on anything. Her name won’t be in a graduation program, a wedding invitation, nothing. I see my son attached to certain stuffed animals, and I wonder what would Avery have been in to? Would she love Disney like her brother? Would she be my little pink loving princess? What would her name look like monogramed on all of her outfits and backpack? A incredible women by the name of Lisa helped answer those questions for me.

DeAndrea has had an abundance of people in her life interested in playing a vital role in the weekend. From coming in and doing art therapy, or making us the sweetest keepsakes, her people have showed up for her. Lisa spends her free time making families who attend the retreats a quilt in memory of their children. Mine was laying on the bed at the bed and breakfast when I arrived and it instantly brought me to tears. That weekend Avery was real to every single person at the retreat. She was real to people who had never even met me. Lisa didn’t know me, but yet she found a way to gift me something that would mean more to me than anything else I have been given in memory of Avery.

I now have the perfect size quilt I can snuggle with on nights my heart is extra heavy, a quilt Avery’s brother can sleep with when he’s missing his sister, a daily reminder that there is so much love out there for those of us in the loss community. Its now been 3 years since I lost Avery, and over the last few years I have been given many things that hold a special place in my heart.

Every day I fight an internal battle and desire to fight for Avery’s memory to not be forgotten.

It’s these gifts that keep me going. Every morning I wake up and see this quilt hanging next to my bed, and I am reminded that she won’t be forgotten. Her name is right there in writing. She is forever going to be loved. Those letters can’t be erased. Some days it is harder to find blessings than others, this special quilt makes it a little easier on those difficult days. To Lisa, thank you. Thank you for sharing your gift with those of us in the loss community who are hungry for ways to remember our children. For those tangible items to hold on to when we are having a really difficult day. Thank you for loving our children. Thank you for having such a big heart, and most of all, for being you.

All the love,

Avery’s Mom

About Casey Zenner

My name is Casey! I am a wife, mother and friend. I have 2 dogs, a wonderful husband and am blessed to be the mama of Brayden, my spunky 3 yr old, and Avery, my angel baby. We are also foster parents on our journey to adoption! I live in Texas, am a stay at home mom and a travel agent. After losing Avery, I lost myself. While I attempted to find my way back I founded Avery’s Angels. A non profit that provides Angel Moms with comfort packages and cards after the loss of a child. ( www.facebook.com/flyhighlittleones ) There is someone always telling me how strong I am, when the truth is, when being strong is the only choice you have, you just keep putting one foot in front of the other and eventually you begin to believe in your strength too.

A Warrior of Hope

Tue, 06 Apr 2021 18:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

We all see the pregnancy test commercials. The ones where the couple is sitting there together anxiously waiting for the test to be positive. After a few uneasy moments, they look at the test and, of course, it’s positive!

I know some companies have gotten better at showing the other side of the test, the negative side. But still, the vast majority of the commercials show the positive with a happy couple who wanted that positive result.

Those who have experienced infertility are much more familiar with the negative result.

The experience likely goes something similar to this:

anxiously waiting for the test result, while telling yourself it’s going to be negative so that you won’t be utterly devastated when it is… but still secretly hoping it’s positive
looking at the test
seeing a negative
being utterly devastated. despite your mental conversation that you wouldn’t be
bursting into tears
Repeat the following month

April 18-24 is National Infertility Awareness Week, a week set aside to bring awareness to the 1 in 8 couples who are more familiar with the negative result than the positive one.

I am the 1 in 8.

My husband and I struggled with unexplained infertility.

Half the time I refused to take a pregnancy test because I did not want to see a negative glaring back at me, but the other half of the time when I did take one, that is what I saw.

Each time it was devastating.

Each time it broke me just a little bit more.

Each time it piled more resentment onto the mound I had already accumulated.

Each time I still had hope for the outcome to be different the next month.

That’s the thing about struggling with infertility, hope is what keeps you going.

You continue to put yourself through the emotional roller coaster ride each month because the hope for a positive, for a baby, is always there.

You continue to put your body through invasive ultrasounds, tests, exams, blood work, injections, medications, suppositories, etc. all because of hope.

There is a reason that people use the phrase “infertility warrior” to describe those who have dealt with it.

Infertility changes you.

It makes you face your fears.

It leaves scars on your heart.

It can break you down to your lowest point.

It is hard and it absolutely sucks.

It takes a warrior, who has hope, in order to continue to engage in fighting for that positive, for that baby.

It takes hope.

Hope that someday you will be that person in the commercial who finally sees that positive and cries happy tears, instead of sad ones.

That was my hope for myself and it is now my hope for all those who are struggling to conceive.

To Ask For And Receive The Courage Of No Quick Fixes

Tue, 06 Apr 2021 12:15:00 GMT

By: Justine Froelker

I am a 41-year-old woman who doesn’t have kids, the most common question I get everywhere I go? “How many kids do you have?”

Because I am a speaker of the unspoken, my response is always, “We tried really hard to have kids, lost three babies, and work hard to find other ways to parent in this world.”

Common responses:

“Oh you poor things, I just can’t imagine…”

“Why don’t you just adopt…”

“You never know…”

“I’ll pray for a baby…”

“Everything happens for a reason…”

The quick quips to what I used to call my hard story.

It’s been nine years since we ended our infertility journey with empty arms, with the money gone and our hearts broken we chose the nearly impossible choice, to learn to parent our three from afar and reclaim and redefine our lives.

It’s been nine National Infertility Awareness Weeks for me as a once survivor of the infertility and loss journey.

This isn’t a hard story though, and spending all those years calling it that never served me, or my community, and didn’t honor my three babies.

It is a big story.

A big story that cannot, and will not, be silenced by the quick fixes of society.

As more silence is broken and more of us share our struggles to make our families, including those babies we will never get to see grow up, we will be faced by these quick quip bandaids that people mean well by and yet still hurt and sting us.

These quick quips, the offerings to our big stories, please know, they are meant with love, and sometimes, curiosity, and most especially with the discomfort of, ‘oh my gosh, I don’t know what to say, so I will just say something simple and easy.’

In other words, not many of us like feeling our feelings, let alone those feelings that come with struggling with infertility and loss. So we try to quick-fix the pain away, convincing ourselves that these are powerful words and make everyone feel better.

These quick fixes are not courageous, and they only make us both feel even more alone.

Remember, I am a 41-year-old woman who can’t have kids. I am also always the only one everywhere I go. I already feel alone.

What if instead, you grabbed your courage to say what will feel like the least powerful words in the world, like, “This sucks, and is so hard. Will you tellm me about your story and your family? Can I come sit with you?”

These are the words of seeing someone.

Of sitting with them with their pain.

These words are vulnerable, validating, and loving.

They are the words of connection.

And, healing will only take place in connection.

Because the thing is, I don’t need you to pray for a baby or offer me an empty hope. I want those three babies, the ones that would have turned eight this year.

I also don’t need you to convince me that everything happens for a reason, I especially didn’t need that in the deep dark hole of grief, and considering that grief lasts a lifetime, those words still are not helpful, even if I know them, trust them, and see it in my daily life.

These words are cheap and only lead me to feeling more invisible in this world.

And, don’t for one second think that you have to know my exact journey, having experienced it yourself to know what it feels like. We are human. Most of us, thank God, feel feelings. Most of us also know sadness, grief, and anger, you know these feelings. Have the courage to feel them with me, sit beside me, and let go of the simple answers.

Let us never forget the other side to this connection though, we must speak our truth.

Unless we speak the unspoken, unless we share our journey and our children with the world, we risk believing the biggest lie of this journey, that we are alone.

When we speak the unspoken, we serve our big story and honor our babies, we also forge forward in connection and therefore our healing.

This National Infertility Awareness Week may more silence be broken, more empathy and compassion be born, and our courage create healing big stories that change the world.

* I recently went viral on TikTok about how we really need empathy, you can watch here .

About Justine Froelker

How Showing Empathy Can Help You Support Others

Mon, 05 Apr 2021 19:56:00 GMT

By: Elizabeth Lowder

When a friend or loved one has experienced a loss like a miscarriage, failed IVF or even a negative pregnancy test, we want to do something to help. To take the pain and sadness away and to help them feel better. Common responses couples hear when they’re going through infertility might be something like “It’ll happen for you when the timing is right.” Or “Everything happens for a reason” or even “God has a plan.” All of these things may or may not be true – but they’re likely not achieving the intention of supporting a friend in a meaningful way.

As a Licensed Clinical Social Worker in private practice, I’ve worked with hundreds of women who have shared the disappointment and profound sadness they have experienced with infertility and loss. It is not uncommon for well-meaning friends and family to say something to them that made a lasting negative impression. These women sit with me in my office and say they wish someone would just acknowledge how tremendously difficult all of it is for them. Not try to find the ‘silver-lining’ for them. They want to be seen and heard, and only then does the real healing begin.

You might be thinking, “I’m not a therapist or a social worker! I don’t know what to say…what if I say the wrong thing…maybe I just won’t say anything at all!”

Couples experiencing loss understand that people don’t know what to say. They know you may be afraid to try and connect. 10 out of 10 women at Sage Tree say they’d rather people said something rather than nothing at all. The absence of any support can lead to people feeling hurt, ashamed and even more alone.

The solution is simple, but not always easy. Women going through loss are looking for empathy. Theresa Wiseman, a nursing scholar, has outlined 4 steps to offering empathy that I use in my psychotherapy practice.

Perspective Taking:

In order to show someone that you’re there for them, you need to put yourself in their shoes. Some people fear the closer they get to someone’s trauma – the more risky and uncomfortable it is for them personally. The good news is that trauma is not contagious! In order to truly connect and not detach from people experiencing loss we need to take a moment to think about what they must be experiencing from their point of view.

Stay Out of Judgement :

While implementing the first step, it can be very easy to begin with good intentions and quickly veer off into judgmental territory. For example, let’s say your friend just endured her fifth 1 ^st -trimester miscarriage. If not mindful, your good intention could turn into blame. “Well I would never try again after the first or second pregnancy loss! What was she thinking?” Before running to judge let’s remember that humans use judgement as a protective measure to avoid feeling pain. But we don’t have to fully feel the pain of others in order to take an empathy snapshot and proceed accordingly. If you want to truly help a loved one, avoid trying to answer the questions ‘why?’ and accept that it’s their reality.

Recognize the Emotion:

If you’ve adopted your friend’s perspective while staying out of judgement, you are more easily able to discover what they might actually be feeling. Perhaps you can better understand what you may be feeling if you’d been in their place. What is that feeling? Mad, scared, sad, happy? Many therapists believe those are the four main emotions we all experience and all other words for our feelings fall into one of those categories. Devastated? That sounds like it could be scared or sad. Shocked? Maybe that fits in the mad category. Everyone experiences feelings differently. It’s less important that you get the specific description of the emotion right and more important that you try and recognize it. To improve your emotional vocabulary, check out this Emotion Color Wheel tool.

Communicate Your Understanding of the Emotion :

Steps 1-3 walk you through how to internally prepare and process your empathy for another person, this step implores you to communicate it! None of the aforementioned steps matter if you don’t engage in this crucial step. Set the tone by saying that you see them and hear them. Verbalize that you could imagine feeling devastated/sad/upset if you were going through a loss. Name the emotion out loud. Don’t worry if you get the exact quality of the emotion incorrect. In my clinical experience, clients don’t get angry if my attempt to name the emotion was not 100% accurate. People will feel validated and correct the emotion themselves if needed. Maybe they’ll say “I don’t feel frustrated, but I do feel very disappointed.” Great! Now we know what they’re feeling and have more information to use to help support them.

You don’t need to have gone through the exact same experience in order to effectively demonstrate empathy. No two individual stories will be the same anyway, even if they had similar experiences. That’s ok and should not hold you back. Have you ever felt sad before? Scared? It could have resulted from an experience that has nothing to do with infertility or pregnancy loss – connect with what the emotion FELT like. The circumstances are details, the emotions encapsulate the human experience and reinforce what you two have in common. The emotions are what need soothing.

I am curious to see what you notice once you begin practicing the steps of empathy with your family and friends! Feel free to tell me what worked – and what didn’t via email at elizabeth@sagetreetherapy.com or by visiting Sage Tree Therapy’s Facebook page .

About Elizabeth Lowder

Elizabeth Lowder is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker and the founder of Sage Tree Therapy located in St. Louis, Missouri. This psychotherapy practice specializes in perinatal mood disorders, birth and pregnancy trauma including infant loss as well as high-risk pregnancies and other fertility concerns. Ms. Lowder is an Adjunct Professor of Social Work at Washington University and stresses the importance of learning and practicing empathy skills to her students. She also sits on the Executive Board of the Hyperemesis Education and Research Foundation. She believes that every woman’s story is important.

A final tip to keep in mind when practicing empathy is to Connect with the Emotion NOT the Experience!

The Perspective of a Labor Nurse

Mon, 05 Apr 2021 13:15:00 GMT

By: Jennifer Kouri RN, CPLC

Yes, it truly is the happiest unit in the hospital……. until it isn’t.

“I’m sorry, your baby has died. There is no heartbeat.”

My heart breaks for these physicians that come into a room knowing that they will likely deliver life altering news to a family.

When I reached in to give her a hug, she clung to me sobbing.

The most beautiful baby girl was born silently into this world the next day.

Instead of hearing the sounds of a screaming, healthy baby, there were only the sobs from a mom that watched all of her dreams die along with her first baby. I will never forget that moment.

I cared for this family for three full 12 hour shifts in a row. I didn’t sleep much, I cried A LOT, and I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

That sweet baby girl took a piece of my heart with her that day. I will never forget baby T. There is definitely a bond formed when you care for a family in these situations.

I held their baby.

I dressed and bathed their baby.

I said their baby’s name.

About Jennifer Kouri RN, CPLC

A Warrior of Hope

Thu, 01 Apr 2021 12:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

Those who have experienced infertility are much more familiar with the negative result.

The experience likely goes something similar to this:

anxiously waiting for the test result, while telling yourself it’s going to be negative so that you won’t be utterly devastated when it is… but still secretly hoping it’s positive
looking at the test
seeing a negative
being utterly devastated. despite your mental conversation that you wouldn’t be
bursting into tears
Repeat the following month

April 18-24 is National Infertility Awareness Week, a week set aside to bring awareness to the 1 in 8 couples who are more familiar with the negative result than the positive one.

I am the 1 in 8.

My husband and I struggled with unexplained infertility.

Half the time I refused to take a pregnancy test because I did not want to see a negative glaring back at me, but the other half of the time when I did take one, that is what I saw.

Each time it was devastating.

Each time it broke me just a little bit more.

Each time it piled more resentment onto the mound I had already accumulated.

Each time I still had hope for the outcome to be different the next month.

That’s the thing about struggling with infertility, hope is what keeps you going.

You continue to put yourself through the emotional roller coaster ride each month because the hope for a positive, for a baby, is always there.

You continue to put your body through invasive ultrasounds, tests, exams, blood work, injections, medications, suppositories, etc. all because of hope.

There is a reason that people use the phrase “infertility warrior” to describe those who have dealt with it.

Infertility changes you.

It makes you face your fears.

It leaves scars on your heart.

It can break you down to your lowest point.

It is hard and it absolutely sucks.

It takes a warrior, who has hope, in order to continue to engage in fighting for that positive, for that baby.

It takes hope.

Hope that someday you will be that person in the commercial who finally sees that positive and cries happy tears, instead of sad ones.

That was my hope for myself and it is now my hope for all those who are struggling to conceive.

Footprints On My Heart

Thu, 01 Apr 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

Angel Wings and a baby hat; black and white photographs and a little blue blanket; nurses to cry with and a doctor to share your fears with.

It was one year ago on a Monday morning when I walked through the double doors of the OB floor. As I followed the nurse to my room, the tears began to flow as the reality of the situation continued to sink in.

I had had the weekend to try to grasp and grieve what the previous Friday had thrown at me; but I don’t think any amount of time could have prepared me for the days ahead. How can you grasp the fact that your 16 ½ week baby boy’s heart had stopped in your womb? When two days before, you had heard it beating perfectly.

How do you make it through when you have to give birth to him, knowing you won’t hear his first cry and that you will not be able to take him home?

I quickly learned that I would make it through with the helping hands of my nurses and my doctor.

In the moments I felt weak, they were strong. When I needed advice, they gave it. When I cried, they cried with me. Even more importantly, they provided me the strength to get through and hope for the future.

When my baby was born, my husband cut the umbilical cord. One of the girls had made Angel wings for him, and my delivery nurse quickly sewed the baby hat small enough to fit my son. A nurse went out of her way to come in and take pictures of our sweet boy, and my friends made sure that he had his own little blue blanket. They made sure we went home with a certificate of life and our baby boys itsy bitsy feet and handprints.

As a nurse myself, these girls made me strive to be a better nurse; to care more deeply for my patients and the desperate situations they endure.

They stayed positive for me when I couldn’t find the positivity I needed. They were a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on. These girls truly walked by my side through one of the darkest valleys I’ve endured.

The loss of a baby is a trial that should never be experienced alone. We need to hear kind words, and we need someone to hear our cries, and ease our fears. These nurses and doctors who provide this can truly shape our experience. Just as our babies leave footprints on our hearts, so do our nurses who care deeply for us and for our loss.

About Nikki Grayson
I am a mom to 5 babies lost through miscarriages, the most recent one being my son at 16 weeks pregnant. I am a nurse, and I live with my husband and two dogs. We love to take walks, ride four wheelers, and do anything that involves being outdoors! I want others that are walking this journey of infertility and pregnancy loss to know they are not alone.

Two Times The Struggle

Tue, 30 Mar 2021 12:00:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

It’s no secret that it can be difficult to return to a state of normalcy after a life-altering event. Adjusting to and recovering from big changes takes time – and sometimes a lot of it. When you lose a child, returning to normal isn’t really an option. Life never looks the same, and things don’t fit back together the way they did before.

When I was pregnant with Melody I was working with a lovely group of people within the local school district as a substitute teacher. I really enjoyed my job and loved the people I worked with. We always helped each other out and relied on one another – like a big teacher family. In August of 2017 I was about 27 weeks pregnant when I attended the substitute teacher orientation for that school year. It was wonderful to see all my friends, and I received many excited words of encouragement about my pregnancy. I wasn’t due until the end of October, so I planned on subbing until then.

Little did I know that I would end up being admitted to the hospital just a few weeks later after learning about my unborn daughter’s diagnosis. Upon my hospitalization I reached out via email to the director of the education staffing company I was employed through to explain my situation, to which she replied with great support and understanding. Even then, I was hopeful that I would return to work at some point after Melody was well. I never let myself consider the alternate.

Three short days after being admitted to the hospital our sweet girl was born by emergency cesarean. She lived an hour and a half, but her body couldn’t win the battle against her condition. After I was discharged, I remember sitting at home trying to imagine my life going back to normal after losing part of myself in her death. I simply couldn’t picture it. Normal no longer existed.

During these musings I thought about what it would be like to return to my job, working at six different elementary schools among hundreds of people who knew me and knew that I was expecting.

Just the thought of explaining and retelling our story repeatedly brought me so much pain that I simply could not do it. I was already in so much agony. I didn’t think I could take any more. I didn’t think I could survive being asked repeatedly, “How is the baby?” or being given the unknowing “Congratulations!” about her birth.

I felt sick at the thought of having to explain what had happened and having to relive her death over and over again.

I didn’t go back. I couldn’t. It wasn’t even an option. Let alone the more than daunting idea of explaining what had happened, I was in no state of mind to care for classrooms full of children. There was also a feeling that I simply couldn’t name – couldn’t put my finger on. Once again, I reached out to the director of the education staffing company and explained what had happened and that I just couldn’t bring myself to face everyone. She was more than understanding and also very sympathetic to our loss.

Eventually I did get another job, and the routine and busy schedule seemed to help me along my journey of healing. We found out we were pregnant a few months after I started my new job. My boss knew my history and was kind and gracious when it came to my worries and the time off I needed for extra medical appointments. At almost 12 weeks, we lost Jamie through a traumatic miscarriage. I found myself again in a place of weighing my options about returning to work. That unnamable feeling resurfaced as I contemplated what I would do during the week of my leave from work following our loss.

As I hesitantly returned to work, I felt like an outsider.

On my first day back, I felt horribly out of place and awkward. It felt like I was watching a reality show from far away, and like everyone was supposed to avoid eye contact with the camera… and I was the camera. That unnamed feeling from before drenched me to the core.

Shame. The feeling that was now woven into the very fabric of my being was shame. I felt it in the deepest parts of my soul. How could I face my boss and my coworkers after having lost yet another baby? Why couldn’t my body do this the right way? What would they think? So many shaming thoughts and guilty feelings whirled around in my mind creating a cocktail of emotional baggage that I didn’t know how to deal with, but I couldn’t leave another job. I had to face those feelings and learn how to work through them.

Later I discovered that my boss, in a misguided attempt to protect me from any further pain, had informed my co-workers of what had happened and told them that under no circumstances were they to speak of it or ask me any questions. After I had learned this, it took some time for me to digest my situation and finally let people know that they could talk to me or ask me things. I was blunt in telling them that it made me feel hurt and lonely to be avoided and for people to act as if my children didn’t exist.

Looking back on it, I can see how my boss was trying to help me make it through that first difficult step back into my old life, but at the time I was hurt – and furious. I’ve had time to grow and gain insight about other people since then, and I now realize that people who aren’t like me – those who aren’t grieving the loss of a child – can’t possibly understand exactly how complex and difficult it is.

They can’t know that it hurts even more when people pretend that your very heart hasn’t been ripped from your chest and smashed into pieces.

I’ve had two very different experiences with the choice of returning to work, neither of which I regret. I learned from each situation, and because of that I have been able to grow. I don’t believe there is any right or wrong answer about returning to work after you lose your child, and it is so difficult to be prepared for what you may encounter on your first day back. Your coworkers may welcome you back with love and support beyond what you could imagine, or they may be unsure of how to react and just try to provide you with your pre-loss normal by not speaking of your loss. Just know that in any case, it is more than okay to tell people what you need.

About Kayla Leibner

The Care and Compassion of a Chaplain

Tue, 30 Mar 2021 11:30:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

I am not sure where the thought originated from, but it popped out of my mouth and found its way into the hospital air, “Should we baptize him?” I asked. Jon and I did not entertain the thought for long. After all, neither of us believed in Infant Baptism. Why would we bother a Chaplain?

Fast forward seven years. I am working at a hospital during the Covid-19 epidemic. To keep myself safe during lunch, I eat outside on the third-floor balcony, just past the Chapel and the Chaplain’s offices. Not baptizing my baby is one of my few regrets regarding my son’s stillbirth. Watching the Chaplains come in and out of the office I think back to that grieving twenty-six-year-old mother. What did she need to know about Chaplains? What would have helped her to ask for what she needed in those precious and brief moments with her baby?

Asking for help or comfort from a stranger on something as complex and intimate as spirituality is a hard thing to do. It is my hope that this conversation with two Chaplains might answer questions about who Chaplains really are and how they can help grieving parents.

Meet our Chaplains:

Reverend Doctor James Donahue , is a Chaplain and assists with Share at Anderson Hospital. In this article I will refer to him as Chaplain Donahue.

Emily Rosencrans , M. Div., MFT, BCC is the Director of Network Pastoral Care Services at St. Luke’s Hospital. In this article I will refer to her as Chaplain Rosencrans.

What is the heart behind your work in pastoral care?

Chaplain Donahue: “Seeing that I could be a benefit to people in their time of hurt drew me to Pastoral Care. My guiding principle of ministry and particularly as a Chaplain has been compassion for others as described in II Corinthians 1:3-4, ‘All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.’”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “Since I was a little girl, I have been drawn to God, scripture, and all things priestly. I enjoy leading worship, teaching, and especially caring for souls. I am called to serve in healing ministries. It is my passion and my heart’s deep desire.”

Do you find that parents are apprehensive about asking for a visit or meeting with someone from spiritual care?

Chaplain Donahue: “ Yes. Parents are often apprehensive to have a visit. After a death it is common to have a sense of anger at God. Parents often ask, ‘If God is loving and compassionate then how could God let my baby die?’ As a minister I am often seen as that earthly representation of God. I try to help families understand that God is not going to hate them because they have anger towards him. I try to explain it this way: I love my kids even when they are upset with me, how much more does God love us.”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “All patients are asked if they would like spiritual care when hospitalized. Some say yes, some say no. When a crisis arises, the nurse will often recommend a consult to us as well. It is hard for me to evaluate if there is apprehension on the part of patients, when we come to their room they are usually receptive and open to receiving prayer and having a conversation about how we can support their spiritual needs.”

Do you speak with families solely about matters of faith or does your work extend past that?

Chaplain Rosencrans: “Chaplains are trained to show up and be present and attentive to whatever dynamics are going on. We do not visit people with an agenda, but rather make ourselves available for the patient or family. Spirituality encompasses all of who we are: our bodies, our minds, and our emotions. We provide a ministry of presence, we listen deeply, we help people discern what to do when facing complex medical decisions, and we support people whether they are joyous, sad, grieving, concerned, upset…whatever they are feeling and experiencing, we are there for them.”

Do you help parents think through things like burial arrangements and funeral services?

Chaplain Donahue: “We are not only there for the spiritual matters but for the practical ones as well. Even if a family does not desire to speak with a Chaplain, I am often still helping with funeral arrangements.”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “We offer whatever support is desired. If a family asks us for help finding a funeral home, we simply print a list of places in their area. If they want help with a funeral or Memorial Service, we can certainly help in any way. I have officiated at funerals, weddings, and baptisms for patients, family members and staff. We do, however, participate in an infant loss program locally. Baue Funeral Home in St. Charles works with area hospitals to provide burials for infants who die. We work with them to host quarterly Memorial Services through the SHARE program.”

Do you care for patients of other faiths? Do you help patients find clergy from their own faith background?

Chaplain Donahue: “As a Chaplain you often ‘transform’. I have ‘become’ a Catholic Priest. I have done Jewish end of life recitation. I help people from all different backgrounds. I am not going to do anything to convert you from your faith. If your faith is nothing at all, then I will honor that. I will ask permission to pray with you. Anything I do will have to be at your approval.”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “Absolutely! We are trained to practice spiritual and cultural humility and most chaplains have some understanding of many religious beliefs. We come alongside people and ask what would be helpful.

I ask people about their particular beliefs and practices. Even within various religious traditions, people vary in what they believe and what they want. Some people want prayer regardless of my particular faith or their particular faith, they are open to any connection with God. Some want to contact their Imam, Rabbi, or Roman Catholic priest (for example) and we support them and help them make those important connections.

We are fortunate to have a diverse group of chaplains here, representing many faith traditions, so we can usually accommodate whatever preference people have.”

Do you ever work with first trimester loss patients in the Same Day Surgery or ER settings?

Chaplain Donahue: “I have been called down to both the OR and ER before. It is often a time of incredible stress. I usually ask to pray with the parents. It is important to acknowledge that the mother is in physical and emotional pain. We often talk about where the baby is and ways to honor that baby.”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “Yes. When there is a pregnancy loss at any point, we offer support when called. Early pregnancy losses may be treated in the ED or Same Day Surgery. Once the pregnancy reaches 20 weeks, the patient is usually seen in Maternity.

A loss is a loss and grief is grief, regardless of the length of the pregnancy, and we minister to those who are grieving.

Teikoku Matsunaga has said,

‘The morning glory blooms but for an hour

and yet it differs not at heart

from the giant pine that lives for a thousand years.’

Typically, we are called by a nurse, and go to see the grieving mother and father—whoever is there.

People experience all sorts of emotions, from shock, to sadness, to profound disappointment, and sometimes guilt. Sometimes there if relief, because the parents know there are issues with the health of the baby and now the emotional roller coaster ride has ended. There is questioning. Why? There is sometimes anger toward God. It is the loss of hope, the loss of the dream, and the loss of the future for many. Often people have had multiple pregnancy losses. Sometimes they know there will not be another opportunity.”

Have you preformed baptisms on stillborn babies or deceased neonates/infants? What kind of meaning or comfort do parents find in this practice?

Chaplain Donahue: “I did my first infant baptism shortly after becoming a Chaplain. I am from a Baptist background. In that faith tradition babies are not baptized, only converted adults. I was called in to see a family whose baby was stillborn. When I entered the room, the dad asked me to baptize their baby. Thankfully, the nurse assigned to the patient was a seasoned OB nurse and a Baptist. She saw the look on my face and took me out into the hall. She asked me what was going on. When I told her my theological dilemma she said, ‘So? Who is the baptism helping?’ ‘The parents’ I replied. That is when it clicked for me. I went back in and baptized that baby. The dad who had been very uneasy, just melted. The dad had a look of peace, all because his baby was baptized. I often ask families, What is going to help you find peace in this crisis?’”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “I am a Presbyterian Pastor, and I believe we are baptized into a life of faith, a life of discipleship. So, when possible, I ask parents what Baptism means to them, and whether that is the way to bless their child. I always bless and pray for each child that dies, if that is what the parents want, and for the parent’s healing, but I only baptize if the parents believe that is the appropriate thing to do theologically.

I do not believe that Baptism is required for a baby to return to God and be forever in God’s care. Blessing the baby is sufficient for that.

If, however, the parents believe Baptism is a means of salvation, then I would baptize their infant. If they are Roman Catholic, they usually want a priest to baptize or bless their baby.”

What are the top spiritual questions that you are asked by parents? How do you generally answer these questions?

Chaplain Donahue: “Two big ones are: Where is my baby? Is my baby okay? A really hard question that I get asked goes something like: “I did A. B. C. wrong. Is God punishing me because of what I did?” I tell parents, “I do not believe God is punishing your baby for something you did. I do not believe that God punishes babies for things their parents did.”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “The hardest question I have been asked is when there is an accident that results in an infant or child’s death. I have been called when a baby strangles on a bed cord, or suffocates while sleeping with a parent, or in a blanket.

I believe we come from God and we return to God. I believe we are reunited with those we have loved in heaven. Parents may have spiritual or theological questions but most of the time they are just grieving profoundly and they need comfort and to know that their Redeemer lives and cares for them.

Many times, people I know who have had near death experiences, or as people know they are dying, they will have a vision of the child they lost or hope they will be reunited with the child they lost. Losing a pregnancy, or infant, or child, stays with people.”

What are your go to books, pamphlets, prayers, or other resources that you recommend to bereaved parents?

Chaplain Donahue: “I honestly do not have a go to. Instead, I ask: What is the need? What is the situation? One example that comes to mind is a mom who was on bedrest. We got her adult coloring books. It helped to keep her mind focused.”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “I have so many! I have specialized training in ministering to those who are grieving. I have entire catalogs of resources. Books on miscarriage, Help, Comfort and Hope , by Hannah Lothrop, Still to be Born , Strong and Tender: A Guide for the Father Whose Baby has died. Empty Arms, by Sherokee Isles, When a Baby Dies , which includes practical advice about contacting clergy, funeral homes, etc . Empty Cradle, Broken Heart, Ended Beginnings, Making Loving Memories, and Unspeakable Losses, by Kim Kluger-Bell.

I have ministered to those who have been faced with making difficult decisions about a pregnancy based on a number of factors, usually the health of the baby. Difficult Decisions, Precious Lives, Painful Choices , are helpful…because such decisions are accompanied by profound sadness.”

What do you wish the public knew about Chaplains and their work?

Chaplain Donahue: “ That we are compassionate. We will take the time to listen and care about what is happening in your life. We will consider your particular journey and be compassionate about where you are in that journey and in this crisis.”

Chaplain Rosencrans: “Chaplains are usually ordained ministers/priests/rabbis or other clergy with years of life experience and ministry who bring a wealth of knowledge, wisdom, respect, and compassion to those who are suffering.”

Chaplain Rosencrans wanted to leave this last quote with our readers, a quote that she has prayed over many families.

“It was for you that Jesus Christ came down into the world,

struggled and suffered,

for you he endured the agony of Gethsemane and the darkness of Calvary,

for you he cried, ‘It is accomplished’

for you he died

and for you he conquered death;

Yes, for you little one,

you who know nothing of it as yet.

Thus, the Apostle’s words are confirmed:

‘We love because God first loved us.’”

The United Church of Scotland”

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Why Is Mommy Crying?

Sun, 21 Mar 2021 16:15:00 GMT

A children’s book explaining early pregnancy loss to young children

By: Cori Baill, MD

About Cori Baill, MD

Link to Amazon

When Our Heart’s Hurt: Unveiling The Face Of Grief

Mon, 15 Mar 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

A few years back my husband and I decided to take the dull winter months of the Midwest to read to each other in the evenings. I am a lifelong fan of C.S. Lewis. The Chronicles of Narnia, Mere Christianity , and The Screwtape Letters are among my favorites. My husband, Jon, is an avid reader and is well read on Lewis. That winter it was one of Lewis’ lesser known works which sparked our interest. Every evening of that dreary winter, we wrapped ourselves in a soft, knit blanket and entered the world of Till We Have Faces .

The Fearful Veil of Grief

Till We Have Faces is a retelling of Greek mythology seen through the eyes of a royal family, particularly a princess, Princess Orual. Unlike our present-day fairytales, the princess is ugly and jealous. Once Orual becomes queen, she begins to veil herself, never allowing another person to see her face again. The Queen, Orual, says this about her veil:

“My second strength lay in my veil. I could never have believed, till I had proof of it, what it would do for me. From the very first…as soon as my face was invisible, people began to discover all manner of beauties in my voice…And as years passed and there were fewer in the city (and none beyond it) who remembered my face, the wildest stories got about as to what that veil hid. No one believed it was anything so common as the face of an ugly woman. Some said…that it was frightful beyond endurance, a pig’s, bear’s, cat’s, or elephant’s face. The best story was that I had no face at all; if you stripped off my veil, you’d find emptiness…The upshot of all this nonsense was that I became something very mysterious and awful.” – C.S. Lewis, “Till We Have Faces”

I have often thought that Orual’s face is much like grief and her veil like the pressure that society or we ourselves place to conceal that grief.

Consider the faces of grief. We often judge them like the very faces we wear. When we veil the faces of our grief, they take on a fearfully legendary property. Orual’s concealment came with a fate I wish on no one – the fate of a person who is not known. Under that veil was a face and that face was not nearly as lovely, nearly as dreadful, or nearly as terrifying as speculated. No. Not at all. Our grief likewise is not nearly as terrifying as others may believe, as we believe.

Uncovering the Veil

One way that we can hold a mirror to our grief is to write about it. Journaling can be a wonderful and private way to express all the emotions and pain of our sorrows. It can allow us to see and better know the faces of our grief, however confusing.

These are my private thoughts from years gone by, a handful of the faces of my early days of grief.

The Face of Emptiness: Journal Entry: 06-01-2013 My heart is broken. I have cried so much these two weeks that my tears have run out. My heart aches inside and every good thing I have is a reminder of his loss. My heart aches when I see my flat and empty stomach that used to hold my sweet baby.

The Face of Bittersweet Memories: Journal Entry: 6-16-2013 I loved my baby from day one. He kicked and rolled around inside of me starting at 14 weeks. I had almost 10 weeks of knowing him and his sweet personality. I loved him. I love my baby.

The Face of Longing: Journal Entry: 6-24-2013 I want to have another child eventually but more than anything my heart longs for my child that was lost.

The Face of Endurance: Journal Entry: 7-4-2013 When will the pain be a memory?

The Face of Guilt: Journal Entry: 7-10-2013 Why is my body broken?

The Face of Agitation: Prayer Entry: 7-30-2013 Lord, My heart is full of hate. I have become bitter against those who have said rude and hurtful things to me in my grief. You are patient and loving with me. Help me to do the same with others. Soften my heart and spirit. Amen

The Face of Demoralization: Journal Entry: 8-19-2013 I am an emotional wreck. I am frustrated. I don’t like people acting as though I should be “fine”, and I also don’t like people pitying me. Some people treat me like I might go crazy at any moment, even though I have never given them cause to think that. It’s just because they think that’s what they would do in my situation. I don’t know what to do with people. I want people to cut me some slack because this is hard.

The Face of Turmoil: Journal Entry: 9-16-2013 I am weary. I am tired. I just want some normalcy. I want to be free of anger. I don’t want to cry when I see a baby. I feel so alone. It feels as if no one understands. I feel like I am burdening people if I mention Kuyper in conversation. I feel as if this grief will never end. I have good days and weeks, just to be knocked back down again.

The Face of Weariness: Journal Entry: 10-3-2013 When will this pain and hurt lessen?

The Face of Need: Prayer Entry: 7-7-2014 God, I have lost sight of you in my grief. I am sad; I am scared; I am angry. I have lost sight of you in my pain and see little beyond these four walls. I cannot dig myself out. I cannot make joy and goodness appear in my heart. I need you to call me and draw me to yourself. Draw me near to you. You say that you are the compassionate and suffering Savior. I do not know why I pull away. Amen

The Face of Perspective: Journal Entry: 10-30-16 Today felt so miraculous. During the sermon I was reminded of how God worked through my heart and never left me during Kuyper’s death and the following months. After communion, the congregation was lead in singing two songs. I couldn’t believe which two we sang: It Is Well with My Soul and Before the Throne of God Above. The words to It Is Well with My Soul are what I recited to myself over and over as I delivered Kuyper and Before the Throne of God Above was Kuyper’s song. I sang it to him every night of his pregnancy. God was with me today, reminding me of my baby in heaven.

Not Frightening, Just Faces

Even now years later my heart still hurts. I still miss my boy. It is different though. The pain is not as sharp in my side. The weight is not as heavy on my chest. Most days are good days. Normalcy, although a different kind, returned long ago. Our still baby boy is a beautiful part of our family’s story and a beautiful part of the future we long for in heaven. Keep looking at the faces of your grief. Do not hide them away under a veil of secrecy from yourself or others. Maybe like me, you will find a place to draw them in a journal or notebook. Draw them with words on paper or with your mouth as you recite them to someone close. Yes, the faces of grief are different and changing, unique as the snow that falls during the midwestern winter. Yet nothing in it is uncommon about them. Nothing in it is to be feared. It is when we hide our grief or likewise are forced by others to hide our grief that the expressionless veil takes on a fearful awe. Expressions show that we are alive and growing. Faces are not to be feared. Faces of grief are expressions of life, the life of those that must continue on after a death.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Helping Others Through My Grief

Mon, 15 Mar 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Christine Ford

Losing my son to Trisomy 18 on May 5, 2018 has completely changed my life. My outlook on life has changed and how I connect with and view others has changed. I have much more empathy towards others who have miscarried, had a stillbirth, or have lost an infant, baby, or young child. When I first lost Walter, who lived for a short 15 hours, I felt very alone once I was home and my husband had gone back to work. I joined a few Infant Loss Groups online but never felt a strong connection to anyone in these groups and I began feeling that reading others tragic loss stories was doing more harm than good. I joined a local Infant Loss Support Group and felt close to the other loss mamas but again eventually pulled away as one by one each one of these women went on to have a Rainbow Baby.

As a mother who cannot have any more children, I felt that I no longer could handle the daily updates on Facebook of all of the milestones of the new babies.

It was around this time that I decided that I wanted to honor and remember Baby Walter’s life by designing beautiful classic jointed teddy bears that would hold a heartbeat recording of an unborn baby’s heartbeat. I had recorded Baby Walter’s heartbeat during my pregnancy but was disappointed with the lack of selection of a high-quality keepsake in which to keep the heartbeat recorder. After a few months of designing and then locating a manufacturer, my first lot of teddy bears, and heartbeat pillows arrived at my door. The quality was great, and each pillow and bear had a Velcro pocket on the back where a heartbeat recorder could be placed. I felt good that I was helping other mother’s make memories of their pregnancies. But, what about all of the women, like me, who had lost their babies and had most likely missed the opportunity to record their baby’s heartbeat? This is when I realized that I could open the Velcro closure on the back of the teddy bears, un-stuff them and then add weight to match an Angel Baby’s weight up to 11 lbs. When I searched for other weighted bears online, I found that there was a waiting time from weeks to months until the bear arrived to the loss mama. This is way too long for a grieving mother. I strive to ship the custom weighted bears in 1 – 2 business days.

Through my grief and healing process I have been able to honor Baby Walter’s life while helping pregnant mothers make memories through recording their baby’s heartbeats and help mothers who have lost their pregnancies or infants through the Weighted Infant Loss Bears.

I hope my story will inspire you to do something great in honor of your lost little one too.

About Christine Ford

Christine Ford is the Owner of Baby Beat Bears LLC, which operates under the trade name of
Walter’s Bears. She currently resides in Downingtown, PA with her husband and three children. Christine holds a Master’s Degree in the field of education and is experienced in both sales and marketing. Shortly after the loss of her fourth child in 2018, Walter Ernest Ford Jr., who had passed away due to complications caused by Trisomy 18, Christine began creating keepsakes for other families who had suffered the loss of an infant. Walter’s Bears specializes in high-quality, customized, fully jointed classic teddy bears and other
recordable keepsakes. The current teddy bear product lines include: Custom Weighted Infant Loss Bears, Teddy Bear Urns, Heartbeat Teddy Bears and Ocean Bears.
The company has recently surpassed the 1000 sales mark and Christine is looking forward to continuing helping others grieve positively and create lasting memories with their families, for
many years to come.
Visit Walter’s Bears at: www.waltersbears.com

The Emotions You Experience During Your Grief

Mon, 08 Mar 2021 09:05:00 GMT

By: Shawanna Allen

Numbness, Confusion, Anger, Pain, Shame, Emptiness, and Sadness

Sadness

Confusion

Shame

Anger

Emptiness

Numbness

I’ve gotten to a place knowing that my grief may not ever go away, but I will find it easier to face. Until then, I honor my loss and embrace each and every emotion that comes along with it.

Unimaginable: Life After Baby Loss

Mon, 08 Mar 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Brooke Taylor Duckworth

This is an excerpt from a recently-published book by Sharing Magazine contributor Brooke D. Taylor. Unimaginable: Life After Baby Loss is now available on Amazon. It tells the story of surviving the death of her first daughter, navigating the complexities of life after pregnancy loss, and discovering that grief can somehow become a part of life without overtaking it completely.

There is no way to begin without telling you the saddest part of the story. It’s a love story, and it begins with a positive pregnancy test. It doesn’t end with a baby, though. At least not the way I thought it would. My baby died, and I suddenly found myself having to live a life I couldn’t imagine.

I had fallen in love with the idea of this baby before she ever existed. I’d been imagining our baby long before I got pregnant, as we daydreamed and saved money and waited for the “perfect time” to welcome our “perfect baby.”

I was finishing my graduate program in English literature. My husband was teaching and working on a graduate degree in education. We had been married six years. We’d stretched our shoestring budget to travel. We bought a little house, we had two little dogs, and now we were totally ready to be parents. I began preparing for motherhood the way I prepared for everything: by reading. I read books on pregnancy, natural childbirth, nutrition, breastfeeding, baby sleep, baby food, baby milestones. If I could have tested my way into motherhood, I definitely would have.

It took us a few months to get pregnant, and I fretted and worried until I saw those two pink lines. It was a Sunday morning—Mother’s Day. My period was late—finally—and when the test was positive I was absolutely elated. I was thrilled to be pregnant, of course, but I was also so glad that I had forced myself to wait and test Sunday morning. It was Mother’s Day—Mother’s Day! —what a great story to write in Eliza’s baby book.

My perfect pregnancy was off to a perfect start. Her name would eventually be Eliza Taylor Duckworth, but before she was born, we called her “Baby Duck.”

Here’s a belief that was shattered: I believed that we deserved this perfect baby. My life was privileged, sheltered. I had been lucky enough to believe that hard work and good intentions were enough to get you what you wanted out of life. I knew, of course, that bad things happened to good people, but I mostly subscribed to the idea that the world was a meritocracy. David and I were good people. We intended to be good parents. We were kind, responsible, smart, and we planned ahead. Surely, we would get the baby that we deserved. I didn’t even think that much about it, honestly. Once I got pregnant, and then got through the first trimester, it seemed obvious that we would be bringing this baby home.

I was six and a half months pregnant the day my husband got a phone call from Dennis, his best friend from college. I was standing in our tiny kitchen, leaning on the counter next to the fridge. David lowered himself onto a stool at our kitchen island. He answered his phone with a jokey greeting. Then he cleared his throat, his laughter abruptly choked into silence. I turned to look at him, and I watched as the color drained from his face.

Dennis and his wife, Lindsey, were expecting twins—a boy and a girl they named Max and Mia. They were due right around the same time that we were expecting our first child. Over the summer, we’d spent time together discussing pregnancy and planning for how much our lives were going to change. The last time I’d seen them we had talked about nursery décor for the twins. At the time of the phone call, Lindsey was 28 weeks along. It was too early. My breath started coming fast as I listened to David’s side of the conversation, a knot forming in my stomach behind my protruding baby bump. After a brief exchange, David hung up the phone and turned to me. His voice was quiet as he told me that Lindsey was in the hospital and one of the twins didn’t have a heartbeat. They were doing what they could to keep the other baby safe, but Max was gone.

My eyes filled up with tears. I was devastated for Dennis and Lindsey. I thought about how frightening and heartbreaking it would be to get this far in pregnancy and then not get to bring home your baby. It was terrible to contemplate. I wasn’t an idiot and I had done lots of reading. I knew that miscarriages and even stillbirths happened. I knew that not every pregnancy ends in a healthy child. Still, Lindsey and I had been counting down the weeks together since our first trimesters and it seemed like such a cruel twist of fate to get past the first trimester and then past viability—that seemingly dependable 24-week mark—only to lose your baby.

I rubbed my belly as I leaned against our kitchen island. My tears spilled over.

“I can’t even imagine,” I said to David.

What I meant was, “This is so horrible that I don’t want to think about it. I hate that Dennis and Lindsey have to go through this. And also, this is so terrible that I want to distance myself from their pain and suffering. I don’t want to put myself in their place. I don’t want to consider that the precautions I’m taking might not be enough to protect my baby.”

We often refer to losing a child as “unimaginable.”

And I understand the way this means that it is so horrifying, so terribly unfair, so painful to contemplate that we are trying to make space for the enormity of grief by calling it “unimaginable.”

But after my own life crossed the line from what I expected to what I hadn’t been able to imagine, the word hit me differently. The other thing I heard when people said this was that they wanted to close off their imagination from the reality of my experience. They didn’t want to imagine what it would be like because it was too uncomfortable for them, because it hit too close to home, because I was the embodiment of their worst fear come true. It made me feel like a social pariah, like a walking specter that made people want to look away.

Here is how you imagine it, I wanted to say. Imagine you’ve joyfully prepared for months to welcome your baby home. Imagine you’ve registered for practical baby items and purchased some frivolous but darling clothes to hang on baby-sized hangers. Imagine your husband has put together a crib. Imagine your mother has purchased a car seat. Imagine your friends have thrown you a party and showered you with gifts for your baby. Imagine you go to the hospital, you experience every painful, breathless moment of labor and delivery. Now imagine it was all for nothing and you come home empty-handed.

The truth was, I could easily imagine things going sideways in the worst way possible, but I didn’t want to let my brain go there.

Nobody wants to think about their baby dying. Nobody wants to consider that possibility.

But when I said, “I can’t even imagine,” I also meant, “What Dennis and Lindsey are going through is so huge and painful and terrible that I don’t want to pretend I can guess what it is like for them. I don’t want to downplay their pain by suggesting that I can imagine the kind of suffering that is now part of their reality, especially since I have suffered so little in my own life.”

And an impulse of self-preservation: “I need some distance from this. I need to feel sure that it can’t happen to me.”

I will now confess that a small, twisted part of me thought that our friends’ tragedy might keep us safe. I had read about the statistics, and the odds were overwhelmingly in our favor. Now we knew someone, were close with someone, who had tragically fallen on the slim side of those odds—I mean, what were the chances that David and his best friend would both experience the loss of a child within a few weeks of each other?

Statistically, we had to be safe.

Of course, I wasn’t taking any chances. I knew that there were dangers and heartbreaking outcomes were possible, but none of the pregnancy books I read dwelt on them, so the odds seemed to be strongly in my favor. Besides, I was cautious, and I was careful. I’d been taking prenatal vitamins for months. I had excellent medical care, and my doctor and I had no reason to believe that anything would go wrong. I didn’t smoke or take drugs. I didn’t engage in risky behavior. I eliminated all alcohol from my diet. I ate healthy foods. I modified my vegetarian diet to eat more protein. I did prenatal yoga. I bought organic produce. I practiced a guided meditation for pregnancy each night before bed. I said my prayers and asked for a healthy baby. I knew that the world was unfair, and that terrible things happened, but I was not pregnant with multiples. I’d had no indications of a problem, no heartbreaking results from a blood test or concerning pictures on an ultrasound. This tragedy had come out of nowhere for our friends, but I had no reason to think that it could happen to me. Since Dennis’s phone call, I worried about how he and Lindsey were coping. I hoped that little Mia in the NICU would be okay (and she was), but I had no reason to worry for myself.

I was convinced that the universe was on my side. While I sympathized with our friends’ tragedy, I remained optimistic that my baby would be fine. Of course, she would! I was riding on a wave of privilege and opportunity and support and confidence. As Toni Morrison wrote in her novel The Bluest Eye, “If happiness is anticipation with certainty, then we were happy.”

Before Eliza died, I knew that life was unfair, and tragedy visited good people without warning. I knew these things. I had witnessed it happen to our dear friends.

I still didn’t believe it would happen to me.

After Eliza died, a curtain was pulled back. Not only was life full of random terribleness, but so many, many people got less than or other than they deserved. I’m a little bit ashamed to say that it took the death of my daughter for me to see the folly of my beliefs. Intellectually, I knew that there were people who worked hard and still experienced disappointment and failure through no fault of their own. It wasn’t just about child loss. In the years since Eliza died, I’ve come to recognize the myriad of ways that luck and good fortune was so often built on generations of privilege, that hard work was only part of the equation. But I’ve also seen that the opposite is true: that no matter how sheltered you are and how wonderful your life, no one is protected from the curve ball of tragedy.

Unimaginable: Life After Baby Loss examines what it means to be a parent bereaved through stillbirth and traces the path back to a hopeful life.

About Brooke Taylor Duckworth

When Hello Means Goodbye

Mon, 01 Mar 2021 22:21:00 GMT

By: Tracy Gilmour-Nimoy, M.S., LMFT, PMH-C

Over the edge of an exam table, my feet anxiously dangle; I can hear the sound from the crinkling paper as I nervously shift, my eyes desperately locked with my husband’s. A week of multiple diagnostics and appointments has led us here—in a doctor’s office three hours from home, as we wait for a team of specialists to enter. I am thirty-two weeks pregnant with our first child, and something is seriously wrong.

After completing a new set of tests and careful review of my entire medical chart, three hours have passed and they confirm our worst nightmare: our precious baby has suffered a severe stroke and our pregnancy is no longer viable. A diagnosis so rare, that it has about a .0001% chance of occurring. It is the sort of thing that one hears about, but never thinks will happen to them, the makings of a true nightmare. Their mouths continue to move as my brain begins to comprehend what they’re saying.

My heart cannot—will not understand. I feel a sharp pain in my chest—the shattering of my heart into a thousand little pieces that will never again become whole.

I hunch over, rolling my body into a ball; my eight-month pregnant belly the only barrier preventing a total collapse. My husband, two physicians, and my sister-in-law, surround the exam table, enveloping me in a tight hug as guttural cries flee from my tightly wound body.

Back home in San Diego, we arrive at the hospital for the scheduled induction, because when there is a late-term loss, there is still labor. Babies who die do not disappear; they are delivered—born.

I enter the hospital through the main entrance, landing in a lobby filled with expectant mothers and their excited families. There are hands holding congratulatory balloons and stuffed animals, hands rubbing bellies, and faces—all dressed in smiles.

I take a seat in the furthest corner, as I try to prepare for what’s ahead. There will be no balloons or stuffed animals, no smiles on the faces of my family.

I am preparing to say goodbye before ever getting the chance to say hello.

They escort me to a room at the end of a long hall where I’m instructed to disrobe and change into a hospital gown.

The induction is brutal lasting 48 hours, with providers inserting medication, instruments, and hands deep into my body. My body attempts to resist in defiance, but the induction works harder, with a balloon and hook to facilitate dilation and the breaking of water.

Sweating, shaking, vomiting, and a slight fever last for only 30 minutes—active labor, they tell me. I feel pelvic pressure as the nurse checks and leads my limp legs to stirrups, numb from the epidural. I push only once and it’s over.

Cleaned and bundled in blanket, they hand her to me. I gaze at her precious features—the cutest little nose and full lips.

She is a creation from a love so pure, my sweet baby girl, Addison.

With music playing we pass her back and forth—a fleeting moment as a family of three. I hold her close to my chest and see my husband begin to panic.

They take her from me and place my legs back in the stirrups; blood pours from my body, painting the bed red. Plugs are forcefully ripped from the wall as I’m wheeled into the operating room.

Two surgeries in two hospitals; no anesthesia. Instead, I remain utterly cognizant, my mind captive.

Still numb from the epidural, I feel nothing but the stress from a panicked medical team; voices echo as they rattle off commands.

With four ports for blood transfusions, I hear myself ask questions—questions no 29-year-old should have to ask.

“Am I going to die? Am I going to be infertile?”.

I feel someone rub my arm as words of reassurance are offered, “we’re doing everything we can for you”.

Confined to the operating table I focus on my breathing; my eyes hold the gaze of the bright ceiling light.

I spend days in the ICU before being transferred to the acute unit; a week later and I’m discharged home, where I enter a postpartum period no one prepared me for.

What happens to the mom who loses her baby?

People assume that because there is no baby to care for, there is no need to heal. The expectation is to return to work after six weeks, because there is no reason for more time off—there is no baby to care for.

What they don’t know is this: a woman who has a stillbirth goes through everything a woman with a healthy baby goes through: a pregnancy, a delivery, and a postpartum recovery. The description is in the name—stillbirth is still birth, with one major exception—her postpartum body will be a reminder of all she has lost, as she grieves the death of her child.

The lack of trauma-informed care and awareness surrounding women’s health and maternal mental health should’ve made me feel angry, but it didn’t—it made me feel sad. It made me feel sad for all the women and families who desperately need support and for the providers who though well intended, usually fall short.

As a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, I couldn’t help but think I was part of the problem.

I had never received any training or education to work within maternal mental health, though I received extensive training to work with most other populations. I was part of the problem, and I was determined to do better. In the months after my loss, I became certified as a Perinatal Mental Health Professional, and I have since dedicated a portion of my practice to working with other families who have experienced something similar. I speak and write openly about my story, because I’m motivated to help change a system that just doesn’t work.

When someone dies our love for them does not, nor does our relationship with them; it changes. There’s no getting over, only getting through—and that’s all any of us can really do.

About Tracy Gilmour-Nimoy

Tracy Gilmour-Nimoy is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist and Certified Perinatal Mental Health Professional with a private practice in San Diego, CA. She is a fierce women’s health advocate and since experiencing the loss of her first child, has dedicated a portion of her clinical practice to working within maternal mental health. She is currently working on her memoir and writes a weekly mental health blog on her site, that can be found here . To learn more about her and read some of her other published pieces, click here .

When Hello Means Goodbye

Mon, 01 Mar 2021 20:15:00 GMT

By: Tracy Gilmour-Nimoy, M.S., LMFT, PMH-C

My heart cannot—will not understand. I feel a sharp pain in my chest—the shattering of my heart into a thousand little pieces that will never again become whole.

I take a seat in the furthest corner, as I try to prepare for what’s ahead. There will be no balloons or stuffed animals, no smiles on the faces of my family.

I am preparing to say goodbye before ever getting the chance to say hello.

They escort me to a room at the end of a long hall where I’m instructed to disrobe and change into a hospital gown.

Cleaned and bundled in blanket, they hand her to me. I gaze at her precious features—the cutest little nose and full lips.

She is a creation from a love so pure, my sweet baby girl, Addison.

With music playing we pass her back and forth—a fleeting moment as a family of three. I hold her close to my chest and see my husband begin to panic.

They take her from me and place my legs back in the stirrups; blood pours from my body, painting the bed red. Plugs are forcefully ripped from the wall as I’m wheeled into the operating room.

Two surgeries in two hospitals; no anesthesia. Instead, I remain utterly cognizant, my mind captive.

Still numb from the epidural, I feel nothing but the stress from a panicked medical team; voices echo as they rattle off commands.

With four ports for blood transfusions, I hear myself ask questions—questions no 29-year-old should have to ask.

“Am I going to die? Am I going to be infertile?”.

I feel someone rub my arm as words of reassurance are offered, “we’re doing everything we can for you”.

Confined to the operating table I focus on my breathing; my eyes hold the gaze of the bright ceiling light.

I spend days in the ICU before being transferred to the acute unit; a week later and I’m discharged home, where I enter a postpartum period no one prepared me for.

What happens to the mom who loses her baby?

As a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, I couldn’t help but think I was part of the problem.

When someone dies our love for them does not, nor does our relationship with them; it changes. There’s no getting over, only getting through—and that’s all any of us can really do.

About Tracy Gilmour-Nimoy

Baggage Claim

Mon, 01 Mar 2021 19:57:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

Wouldn’t it be strange if you approached the baggage claim at an airport only to discover that all of the luggage on the carousel looked exactly like yours? This is very unlikely to happen, as suitcases and other pieces of luggage come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Similarly, our emotional “baggage” varies by situation, by person, and even by moment.

While grieving the loss of a loved one, nobody feels loss or experiences it in the exact same way. The sorrow one feels when they lose someone they love (their emotional baggage) is just as exclusive as they are. Even if two people are experiencing grief over the same person, their grief will look different. Just the same, each bereaved parent, though all have been wrecked by the same heart-wrenching loss of a child, will experience that grief in a way that is unique to them.

Personally, I’ve worked through a whole spectrum of emotions – some of which I never really thought about until I was in the midst of my deepest sorrow . The labyrinth of this journey has never been easy and has required more strength than I ever thought I could possibly have, but I have also gained some knowledge along the way – whether by lessons learned or wisdom offered by others.

“I’m so sorry. Time of death, 1:07pm.”

I’ll never forget when those words changed me instantly and forever. My first thought was that I had to be dreaming, that I had to be having the worst kind of nightmare. I was in complete denial that this was my truth. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to accept it. It was too much.

Looking back, I find that I don’t remember much about that day, despite how much my heart aches to recall every detail of our time spent with Melody. I believe this clouded recollection is a result of how my mind reacted to the complete shock I was enduring from such an extreme emotional trauma – like a protective response. I have noticed, though, that I am more able to remember the days that followed, each one a little less foggy than the last.

As time went by, the initial shock and denial of our loss began to settle, and I found myself working through other emotions.

I felt angry because I didn’t understand how this could happen, and I wanted someone to blame. Eventually this anger turned inward and grew into immense guilt because I felt that, at least to some degree, I was at fault.

I also felt conflicting emotions surrounding the relationships in my life. I felt lonely , but I also felt drowned by the outreach of others. In the months that followed our first loss, I found that there were some friends – and even family – that were too uncomfortable with my grief to continue our relationships, unfortunately. This abandonment led to feelings of isolation and separation from my old life. These were heavily conflicted by how overwhelmed I felt for prolonged periods of time as calls, texts, and drop-ins flooded my life.

About nine months after we lost Melody, we lost our baby Jamie due to a miscarriage at almost twelve weeks. The devastation of a repeated loss was indescribable. I became broken , hard , and emotionally numb . For quite some time, I felt forsaken by God because He had allowed these terrible things to happen in my life. I turned my back on my faith, refused to pray, and wallowed in the silence I had created by shutting out my Creator. Eventually, as God continued to place just the right people in my life I was softened , and He broke through those walls. It was then that I was finally able to begin to find acceptance over the loss of our babies.

As the days, weeks, and months passed by, the denial and shock – or any of the other feelings, honestly – didn’t disappear.

Instead, rather than being the sharp and jagged stones that continued to pierce me through in a battery of emotions, they slowly became smooth stones that instead are now a burden I’ll carry for the rest of my grief journey – and as we all know, that journey will last a lifetime.

This heavy burden, like any weight carried and lifted regularly, had the potential to help me gain strength , even from my immense grief. With that strength, I have been able to grow and learn positive ways of coping with unexpected and overwhelming emotions.

At times, I bump into people, situations, and other triggers that cause those stones to bruise my heart, and sometimes they even fall out of my metaphorical suitcase and are scattered before me. In these moments, I am forced with facing them again as I pick up the pieces. Sometimes dealing with the contents of my emotional baggage isn’t as difficult as it was in those first days, but other times the pain it causes is just as raw and searing.

I don’t believe there are stages of grief, but rather that it is unpredictable and not linear at all.

From my experience, I have learned that I can be subject to any of a myriad of emotions at any point in time – and that those feelings can be felt in varying degrees. It doesn’t matter how long or how short your journey without your child has been. Any emotion you may feel is justified. Any pain your heart carries is true. I had to learn the hard way that, as I continue to carry my emotional baggage, I shouldn’t feel self-conscious because my luggage doesn’t look like someone else’s – or anyone else’s, for that matter. It’s not meant to be that way. Instead, I’ve learned to embrace my unique journey and to allow myself to work through each emotion in a way that is best for me.

About Kayla Leibner

Grief is Uniquely Yours

Mon, 01 Mar 2021 12:00:00 GMT

By: Michelle L. Cramer

My friend Tishia was pregnant with triplets, Paul, Kyle, and William. Unfortunately, Paul passed away in the womb while Kyle and William were carried to term. Tishia is also deaf, so most of her adult interaction is through written communication. After losing Paul, she sought support through groups on Facebook specifically for mothers who had lost one triplet.

In the group she mentioned a plan she made with me to celebrate the boys’ first birthday in pictures, by including an empty chair in some of the shots to memorialize Paul’s presence with his brothers. But just a couple of weeks before we were to do the session, she canceled. She had mentioned in the group her excitement at the plan and several other members made her feel as though she was crazy to do a photo shoot like that — that it was disturbing and unhealthy. I assured her that was not true — that I had done many sessions like it throughout my years of working with bereaved families. But they got in her head and we never did the pictures.

Additionally, Tishia has a corner of her home with memorabilia dedicated to Paul, including the urn that holds his remains. “I’ve been told it is disturbing that on milestones, I have the surviving triplets hold the urn and I take a picture, so I have all three in a picture for birthdays and things like that,” she told me. “My friend stopped visiting because she was disturbed by the urn being in the corner. She had visited me weekly just to hang out. I miss her, but my son’s urn stays.”

We each process our environment differently in normal situations.

One person may hate going to concerts, for example, because she can’t stand the crowds. Concerts may be a favorite for someone else because the crowds are, to him, electrifying.

Grief is no different. We can’t tell someone how to grieve because there is no right or wrong way. The unimaginable pain of a deep loss brings with it mental, physical, and emotional processes that are all over the place, even for one person. Grief is not logical, yet somehow, we often seek to make it so. We often put expectations on how someone is grieving, what they should or shouldn’t be doing to honor the child they’ve lost and still function in the day-to-day.

We do it to ourselves too. Those of us grieving often secretly think we’re doing it wrong because it doesn’t conform to our expectations.

Outward, public expression of the turmoil we’re suffering after a loss is certainly one of the most widely frowned upon depictions of grief in modern society. But this hasn’t always been the case. Ancient cultures across the globe expressed grief without restraint, often in public, such as the “death wail” of ancient Celtic cultures, and “keening” (loud wailing) for loved ones lost in Irish and Scottish cultures. These expressive traditions have been documented in other indigenous cultures in Africa, Asia, Australia, and South America even today.

So why do we put expectations on ourselves for how grief should look?

Why do we let others dictate what is “normal” for grieving?

Because the modernization of society has caused us to bow our head and keep our nose to the grindstone. Life goes on, things must get done, others depend on us. Generations have pushed the big, hard emotions down. I personally believe that this has a lot to do with the mental health crisis our world faces today. But yet, we still struggle to normalize grief. Or, rather, we struggle to allow grief to be whatever each person needs it to be.

If she spends weeks in bed after losing her child, that’s grief.

If he builds a treehouse for the child that will never come home, that’s grief.

If she can’t see a baby smile without breaking down into tears, that’s grief.

If he screams into his pillow every night in order to be able to sleep, that’s grief.

If she gets angry at her other children more easily, that’s grief.

The list is infinite. None of these instances of grief expression are wrong. All of them are right. We have to stop telling ourselves the myths of what grief looks like: that we should cry by ourselves, that we should be “over it” after a certain amount of time, that we should stay busy to forget about it. There are no parameters, not measurements of proper grief processes.

There are no timelines, no requisite decibels, no effective distractions.

Grief is everything and nothing; full and empty. Grief is the expression of unending love unrequited by the child, spouse, parent, sibling, friend lost before we were done showing them how wide and deep our love is. It’s the expression of love when there is no one there to see it – screaming into a black hole, as we fight to not be sucked in ourselves.

How then can we try and put expectations on how this looks when it’s felt so monumentally? How can we ever expect grief to be anything other than a very personal experience in whatever way that needs to look?

I don’t write this to be dark or foreboding. I write it to be honest. Because when we can be honest with each other about how we’re feeling on the inside without trying to cover it, push it down, hold it back on the outside – only then will we find a true way forward.

Grief never leaves us – we never get over it – we strive every day to move forward with it in tow.

When we allow one another to feel deeply and express grief in whatever way we need to – without hinderance or expectation – then the concrete begins to chip away from our feet and the move forward becomes a little bit easier.

About Michelle L. Cramer

Michelle is the founder and president of On Angels’ Wings (OAW), a non-profit organization serving Missouri through the provision of free professional photographs and support for families who endure infant loss or whose child is medically fragile. OAW’s mission is celebrating life and encouraging hope. Michelle has been a professional writer, editor and photographer for 12 years. She and her husband of nearly 20 years have two boys, six different animals in their urban home, and an affinity for hiking and all things sci-fi and rock-n-roll.

Grief

Sun, 28 Feb 2021 12:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

Grief is now a lifelong companion for me.

Over the course of the four years that I have been living with grief, it has evolved. Now, I can breathe easier, the grief more in the background with the occasional really heavy day.

During those initial days after the loss of my son, every day was heavy. It was all I could think about. The weight of our loss, of our grief, was smothering.

Four years later and the impact of those initial days is still felt.

When Asher died, I pulled away. I wanted to be alone in my grief.

I didn’t want to be around others whose lives had continued when mine stopped.

I didn’t want to pretend to be okay around people (honestly, when I tried it didn’t go well).

I wanted to sit in my sadness, all day every day.

I wanted to stare at the TV screen and wait for an appropriate time to go to bed and repeat the process.

I wanted to be around others who understood that sadness and I pulled away from those whom I felt couldn’t relate to me.

Now, four years later, the repercussions of those first days are still felt. Many of my relationships with my “non-loss” friends have changed.

When I first joined this club that nobody wants to be a member of, I remember other loss moms telling me that relationships would change after losing a child, that people wouldn’t be supportive of my grief. At the time, I thought it was crazy because we had received nothing but support from all the people in our lives after Asher died.

Over time though, I noticed relationships changed. I noticed people stopped checking it. The ones I considered close friends, didn’t feel so close to me anymore.

I blamed them for the shift in our relationship.

Recently, I had a difficult conversation with a friend. We both admitted that we weren’t as close as we once were and that we both were sad about it. It wasn’t a shock. It was obvious, but it was the first time we actually talked about it. We talked about how I pulled away and she wasn’t sure how to help me. She stated that maybe she was just a part of my “before” and that perhaps she wasn’t meant to be a part of my “after”.

That was hard to hear.

We were so close before I started to struggle with infertility and lost Asher. I hated that this whole time she felt like she didn’t belong in my life anymore.

It clicked that maybe the change in my relationships from the “before” to the “after”, isn’t all the other person’s fault. I see that those initial days, weeks, months of my grief also contributed to the shift because I isolated myself.

I pushed them away.

I withdrew into my little bubble because it was easier for me.

It was what I needed to do at the time to cope with the immense loss of my son. I won’t apologize for something I had to do in order to survive from one day to the next.

However, I am realizing now that people didn’t stop caring. They didn’t move on past the loss of Asher or stop supporting me.

They just didn’t know how to get to me.

They didn’t know how to breach the bubble that I created, and because of that, my relationships started to deteriorate.

Now that the grief isn’t as suffocating as it once was, I am able to clearly see that the overpowering grief I felt initially still has ramifications, four years later.

Living with grief is not an easy thing to carry but I am working on allowing those who were there for me BEFORE I entered life after loss, to help me carry it. I am working on rebuilding the relationships that meant so much to me before I became the “after” version of me.

Helping Others Help You Through Loss

Sun, 28 Feb 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Molly Hickey

Sipping coffee and sitting across from a long time friend, we talked about the weather, her kids, our jobs, and husbands. With each break in the conversation, I hoped she would ask about Joseph and Grace. I hoped she’d ask about how I am navigating the grieving process, ask how it felt to be back at work when I was supposed to be on maternity leave, ask what it feels like to celebrate Mother’s Day with my children in heaven instead of on earth. But she didn’t. And I lacked the words to bring it up. I know this friend loved me, and cared about how I was doing, but she lacked the words too.

After our twins were stillborn, my husband and I felt more connected than ever. In the span of a few short days, we had fumbled through so much; hearing the fatal diagnosis, enduring labor and birth; holding, meeting, and blessing our beautiful babies; planning a funeral. We had shared a powerful experience and our love for each other had instantly grown deeper and stronger. I connected to Ryan, but disconnected from everyone else.

As always in life, some people responded to our loss with beauty and grace, knowing just what to say. Others, armed with great intentions, didn’t know what to do.

For the first time in my life I felt like I was on a different page from those around me. My close friends, my siblings, my parents didn’t seem to “get it”. Frustration fueled feelings of loneliness. Dwelling in this place didn’t ease my grieve of support my healing, but made it worse.

After much prayer and reflection, I realized I needed to focus inwardly. This was a tough situation, one with no perfect protocol. It was uncharted territory for me, my family and friends. Instead of thinking “what can people do for me?”, I challenged myself to ask “What can I do to help others support me?”

Honesty

I wanted people to read my mind and was angry when they couldn’t. I didn’t know what I was feeling, or what I needed but I expected other people to know. I was desperate for others to talk about my babies, when people assumed they shouldn’t bring them up. I felt like I shouldn’t have to spell it out for people, but it was only once I was honest that I was able to be supported by others in a helpful way. Clearly explaining my feelings and offering specific examples of what would be helpful was invaluable.

Gratitude

It is always easier to get along with someone when you remember why you are grateful for them. One of the beautiful lessons I had learned from Joseph and Grace was how precious each life is, including the lives of my friends and family. I needed to be grateful for what they had done for me, not just in this chapter, but throughout my whole life.

I also needed to be grateful for the efforts of many. Instead of focusing on what I didn’t have, or wasn’t getting from others, I could be grateful for what I did have… a loving husband, a compassionate doctor, an understanding boss, a thoughtful nurse who took photos of my children. They deserved my gratitude.

Patience

I began to think about how I had supported others in the past. A friend’s father had died and although I paid my respects, I had not known what to say. I didn’t follow up with her in the coming weeks or months. I didn’t mention her father when we talked. Maybe that is what she needed. Even with the best intentions, I realized I had, many times, fallen short of supporting others- not out of a lack of compassion, but a lack of awareness. I needed to have patience with those around me as we all learn through this experience.

A Few Practical Ideas

Bring it up– Most people are very willing to talk and listen when I make the first move. Try saying something simple like “I’ve been thinking a lot about Joseph and Grace lately.”

Set the tone
Before getting together with a friend, send a quick text or email saying either “I am really looking forward to getting together. I could really use a fun night out and a few laughs.” or ” I am really looking forward to getting together. After a long week, I could really use a chance to talk to you about how I’ve been feeling lately.”

Be Specific
It isn’t fair to have expectations of people without communicating with them. Try saying “Making meals and helping me with housework would be so helpful and allow me more time to rest and relax.” or ” Getting together one night a week to talk would be really helpful”, “It is really touching when you remember birthdays and anniversaries. “

Show Gratitude
Write a note to all the people who have supported you, nurses, co-workers, friends etc. Or try keeping a list of that you can be grateful for during this phase of your life.

Take the Lead
Begin some traditions or organize events to honor your children and include others. Try have a memorial service, plan an annual birthday party where you collect toys to donate, or arrange a service project in your child’s honor.

Sometimes in life it becomes necessary for us to help others help us. By striving to display honesty, gratitude and patience towards others, I was able to manage my ever-changing emotions. I finally understood that I could better honor and love Joseph and Grace by loving others.

Molly Hickey is the mother of four children, two who live in her heart and two who live in her home. She lives in New York where her family enjoys hiking, sledding and playing board games together.

The Gift of Perspective

Thu, 18 Feb 2021 13:00:00 GMT

By: Sharon Schumack

I recently read a magazine article about aging constructively that asked its readers the following questions: What were some of the most challenging experiences in your life? How did you get through them? What pushed you forward?

I didn’t have to think very hard. The answers popped into my head immediately. The fact that my first child was stillborn was so extraordinarily challenging. The sadness was almost unbearable, as were the questions that burned in my mind:

Will I ever be happy or even be able to laugh again?

Will I be able to trust my body, which had so dramatically failed me?

Will this painful experience forever damage my ability to be a “normal” parent?

One of the most important things that helped me move forward was the kind and helpful condolence notes I received from a couple of much older women who shared their experiences of having lost a baby, and had gone on to have other children and full lives. Their words gave me encouragement and hope. Oddly, these were not people I knew personally; they heard about our loss through my husband’s work, and took the initiative to reach out.

This was in 1980, when the sharing of such private matters was much less common and comfortable than it has become over the subsequent decades, especially for women of an even earlier era. In addition to the unexpected and beautifully handwritten notes I received from two strangers, I also heard from two close friends, whose mothers, upon hearing about my loss, had revealed that they had also experienced a stillbirth. My friends had not previously known about this deeply difficult experience that their own mothers had kept secret! As long-time members of a feminist “consciousness raising” group we had been fortified and empowered by sharing intimate details of our lives for almost a decade.

It was amazing and saddening to us that these women, and millions before them, had felt the need to suffer in silence.

On the other hand, for me it was powerfully inspiring to know that both of these women had gone on to have happy and healthy families. Their marriages had survived, they had gone on to have successful pregnancies, and their child-rearing abilities had not been destroyed by the disappointment they surely carried in their hearts. I saw evidence that they had been able to raise wonderful daughters – my dearest friends, people who I knew were mentally healthy, competent, and loving, and who each had themselves two children they were raising with joy. Their family memories were strong and happy, not marred by a dark shadow of something their mother had carried and transmitted to future generations.

The four older women’s stories had a profound impact on me, offering the invaluable gift of perspective .

It was only natural to be drowning in my own trauma and sorrow at that moment. But their words opened the door to at least starting to see my experience as only a small part of the trajectory of my life. They gave me hope and confidence that I would be able to find positive answers to the deeply troubling doubts and fears that the stillbirth thrust into my awareness.

I am now 73, probably close to the same age as those women were when the stories they shared buoyed my spirits almost 40 years ago. At that time I was already in my mid-thirties, and aware that my biological clock was ticking. I had been plunged into a sub-culture I didn’t want to be part of: the world of pregnancy loss. I was shocked to learn the statistics about the frequency of miscarriages, stillbirths, and neonatal fatalities. I read everything I could find, which did make me feel somewhat less alone – at least in theory.

But my spirit was broken, and it was hard to imagine “moving on.”

My husband and I were fortunate to have received compassionate care in the hospital, where we were offered the opportunity for photos of us holding the baby, which we have cherished. They encouraged us to name our daughter, and to acknowledge that indeed we had become parents, though not in the way that we had hoped and dreamed. They referred us to a pregnancy loss therapy group that an affiliated social worker/psychiatrist team was forming. The process of healing, from both emergency caesarean section surgery and a broken heart, was underway. Our marriage had been strengthened by the devastating tragedy we had shared. Six months later a new pregnancy was confirmed.

Our son is now thirty-eight years old. My fears about whether I could raise a child without constantly thinking about the one I had lost were never realized – not during his infancy nor in the many years since.

The tragedy of having had a stillborn baby will always be part of my life and my story, but it is only one part of a rich and fulfilling parenting journey.

If you have only recently experienced a pregnancy loss, I hope that you, too, will be comforted and strengthened by the perspective that I offer, and one day will be able to look back on these sad days with some measure of comfort and equanimity.

Sharon Schumack currently serves on the Board of Directors of a grassroots non-profit organization working to improve the livability of Watertown, Massachusetts for residents of all ages and abilities.

She is happily retired after a long career in public health and legal advocacy. She enjoys reading, tap dancing, Zumba Gold, and long walks in the Boston area.

Facing Grief Together

Tue, 16 Feb 2021 14:38:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

In the days following Kuyper’s stillbirth I grieved visibly through tears and sobs. My husband, Jon, remained stoic, emotionally detached from the reality which we faced. We went on this way for several weeks following delivery. After a long day at work, he walked through our front door, outraged, talking about a situation at work. In our two years of marriage, I had never seen this side of my easy going, levelheaded husband. The situation was no doubt one that would make any person angry. However, I found myself confused. Was this display of emotions solely about the situation? Or was it the first glimpse into a grief other than my own?

Living through loss is like living through a series of unpredictable tidal waves. Living through that same loss while trying to maintain a relationship is all that much more confusing.

Pause.

If you started out reading this article by yourself…

Find your partner.

Now start from the beginning, together.

My intent is for this article to be read together.

I am not a grief or mental health professional. I am just a bereaved parent like yourself, a mom missing her baby. My hope is that these questions which come out of my own experiences and those of close friends, might help you find each other among the waves of grief that surround you, so that you can grab your partners hand and know you are not alone.

Expectations

In all of life we have expectations. Grief is no different. We enter our grief with expectations of how we will grieve, about what grief will be like, about how long and intense grief will be, and about how the other will respond to our grief. What expectations did/do you have about grief?

Do I expect my grief will last a certain amount of time?
Do I expect my partners grief will last a certain amount of time?
Do I expect myself to grieve in certain way?
Do I expect my partner to grieve in a certain way?
Do I expect us to grieve separately or together?
Do I expect my partner to comfort me in certain ways?
How can we keep talking through this as a couple?
How can I support my partner as they wade through their feelings and pain?

Guilt

Parental bereavement is riddled with guilt. In most cases of pregnancy loss, little could have been changed on the part of the parents to have caused a different outcome. Yet bereaved parents are listed as having higher levels of guilt compared with other bereaved individuals. I suspect this is because of our instinct to protect our young. When we are unable to protect our young from death, it goes against a core part of our being.

Am I putting guilt on myself for my child’s loss?
Am I putting guilt on my partner for our child’s loss?
Are feelings of guilt diminishing my ability to attune to my partner?
Is anger at my partner diminishing our ability to attune to each other?
How can we keep talking through this as a couple?
How can I support my partner as they wade through their feelings and pain?

Fear

After Kuyper’s death I found myself full of fear. Daily aspects of parenting and being a spouse changed in a flash. I found myself afraid of how our individual grief might affect our relationship. Likewise, he had similar fears.

Am I afraid of the depth of my own grief?
Am I afraid of the depth of my significant other’s emotions?
Am I afraid of how this might change my partner and therefore our relationship?
Am I afraid that I will never be the same again and therefore fear for our relationship?
Are there other fears I need to talk through with my partner?
How can we keep talking through this as a couple?
How can I support my partner as they wade through their feelings and pain?

Perspectives

Some years after Kuyper’s death I picked up a book at a used book shop. Once home I found a note that had been jotted down by the previous owner. It read “Mary- Elizabeth: The child I never knew”. In pencil below I wrote “Kuyper: The child only I knew”. For my husband and I these two statements described our two different perspectives. He grieved everything that could have been. I grieved the “could have been” but I also grieved the child himself. I knew his personality. We communicated through taps, songs, rubs, and kicks. Part of the differences in our grief process steamed from this difference in perspective.

What am I grieving?
What is my partner grieving?
Are there other areas where we are coming at the same situation from different perspectives?
How can we keep talking through this as a couple?
How can I support my partner as they wade through their feelings and pain?

Resources

We had a lot going against us in those beginning days. We were young, newly married, and coming off a hard year when we became pregnant with Kuyper. Our eldest child was only 13 months old when we delivered Kuyper still. I still marvel at all that we went through, at what so many go through. It was incredibly hard. What got us through during the early days of intense and focused grief and the later days of subtle and more complicated grief was resources. These are some resources we as a couple and close friends in similar situations found helpful.

Share Meetings
Online Share Group
Marriage counseling
Individual counseling
Practices of faith
Mindfulness
Books on bereavement
Articles on bereavement
Friends who have been through similar losses
What resources are available to you? Are you willing to give them a shot?

Reader, my heart aches as I think of your deep loss. I remember those early days, early years. I remember the fear. I remember feeling wholly overwhelmed as grief washed over every aspect of my life. You and your partner are fighting a battle neither of you chose to be in, a battle for survival and hope. My hope is that you will fight the battle together. My prayer is that while you endure the tidal wave you find each other and find that you can face these days together.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Lined Pathways: how we found our way through the grief of recurrent miscarriage

Sun, 07 Feb 2021 16:00:00 GMT

By: Autumn Purdy

“No matter what, you and I are a family,” said my husband, Matt after we suffered another miscarriage.

An addendum to our marriage vows, my husband’s promise would bind us together for years to come and gave me hope not all would be lost, and perhaps, we would survive the devastation together.

In 2004, I miscarried for the first time. I would lose subsequent pregnancies in 2005, two in 2006, and after adding children to our family, I would miscarry twice more, in 2013 and 2014, before having our youngest son in 2015.

My husband has held my hand during diagnostic internal exams and fertility treatment meetings with my Ob/GYN. His face was the last I would see before being put under for laparoscopy to remove Endometriosis. His body would sit beside my strapped-down form as three of our children were birthed, cut from my womb. He has remained steady and resolute while injecting shots of hCG into the back of my arms to boost my fertility, helped me make heads or tails of my senseless fertility tracking, played the part of caretaker, and resolutely washed the soiled laundry and mopped the bathroom floors after every devastating miscarriage.

“ We are a family, no matter what” would reverberate in my despondent mind, become my mantra, remind me when I felt I was failing us as a couple, help me disintegrate the long-held guilt and belief over my fertility troubles, and eventually distilled the unfounded fear my husband would leave me for someone younger, more fertile, less broken.

Despite the years gone by and the multiple miscarriages endured, we finally began building the family we’d always dreamed of, though, the aftershocks of loss remained. There were crevices built between us, always teetering on an earthquake of miscarriage. My multiple pregnancies remained difficult and despite the odds, we became parents, though never easily. We constantly weighed the true threat of loss over the hope for more children, wondering if desiring more would tip the balance out of favor again.

Together, we learned more patience and trust, leaned on our faith and each other, and honored our different ways of mourning.

He allowed me to cry on the anniversaries of my miscarriages and came to appreciate how my body will never forget the shock of maternal loss. I understood the fear he felt every time a positive pregnancy test rest between my fingers, and that although he doesn’t shed as many tears as I do, he’s affected, just the same.

We held our unified breath for the first three months of every pregnancy. He worked to support us while I worked to claw my way out from under the grief. He warmed the heating pad, iced the packs when I came home from my twice-weekly progesterone shots, rubbed my aching calves when the swell of hormone-driven weight-gain increased, propped pillows all around me to support my growing belly and aching back, and he held my hand and cried with me as the ultrasound tech said once again, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. There isn’t a heartbeat anymore.”

After my fifth miscarriage, it was taking quite a while for my body to heal. I was on two antibiotics and bed rest. A friend stopped by for a visit and brought along a lovely prayer shawl, comforting book, and sage advice: to name our miscarried baby. “It might help,” she offered. A grieving mother, herself, with two children buried in the ground, I took her suggestion to heart. Later that night, I asked Matt if we could consider choosing a name for a child we would never hold, and perhaps, name the other four we lost previously. My husband didn’t hesitate and together we thought up names to honor the existence of those precious lives we had created and would always grieve, together.

John Victor was the name we chose then, and later identified names for our first, four, miscarried ones: Agnes Elizabeth, Julian Olivia, Max Kolbe, and Catherine Teresa. Shortly thereafter, we were informed by a fellow Catholic friend we could have our miscarried children’s names enshrined at a Catholic church whose mission was to honor and remember the short lives of children lost through miscarriage, pregnancy loss, stillbirth, and premature infant death. We didn’t hesitate to log the names of our five, miscarried babies in “The Book of Life” at The Shrine of The Holy Innocents in New York. Sadly, in 2014, we would add one more name as we suffered our sixth miscarriage, losing our Francis Cuthbert before 12 weeks. The beautiful opportunity to have our children’s names written down and prayed for was cathartic and gave us much peace of heart and mind.

Eventually, I found myself less shattered by the grief and more open to sharing my story of miscarriage and pregnancy loss and Matt was my champion.

Through the grief-stricken years, we came to recognize that we had allowed our grief and struggles of daily life to sidetrack the personal joy we derived from leisure and creative practice. I have been writing all my life, in my journal for years, and I blogged a bit, but I wanted to dedicate more of my time, energy, and healing to creative writing centered around my motherhood journey. Devotional prayer, practicing my faith, daily walks or hikes, exercise class, enlisting the help of a therapist, reading about others’ experiences with miscarriage and pregnancy loss, and adopting a nightly gratitude practice has been incredibly restorative in my journey, as well.

Matt, always a distance runner, was looking for a new kind of physical challenge. He carried his fatherly pain underneath his heart and pounded out his internal struggles by running on the paths near our home.

I recognized running was his therapy and necessary, for not only his cardiovascular health, but his mental and emotional health, as well. Running allowed my husband to maintain his natural lightness and humor, deal with his grief, and helped to maintain his energy to continue being the sensitive, caring, devoted husband and father he’s always been. He would sign-up for one, new, and incredible running challenge—a 100-mile ultra-marathon trail race in the state park we both frequented as children, as newlyweds, and now as parents. For years to come, this 100-mile race would sustain my husband through the ups and downs of parenthood and forthcoming loss.

As much as my husband craved running for miles, I had a visceral need to write. One night I googled, “motherhood writing” and came across an online class that would launch me on a journey to write about my pregnancy loss experiences. Matt told me to go for it when some husbands might be embarrassed by or cringe at the thought of his wife writing and talking about a subject as painful and personal as miscarriage. Matt encourages me to write daily, supports me in my mission to spread awareness, and understands the inkwell of this topic within me might never run dry.

As our raw grief turned into remnants and we began finding our way back to wholeness, Matt ran and ran and ran, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. And the running trails and the lined pages carried us through the difficult days into more joyful ones. He closed the door to the office so I could write. I tried not to begrudge him sneaker-laced miles.

We learned it takes energy and focus, time alone and apart, and a resurgence of joyful activity to get through each heart-wrenching loss.

The miscarriages are still tragic to us, many years later. Though, despite it all, our marriage has been strengthened and fortified by the tests and the trials, and we’ve become well-equipped at extending grace to one other in the process.

It’s a delicate balance, finding meaningful ways to honor your children and choosing between needing space and accepting the closeness a couple might need, to grieve and heal together and as individuals. No two people, no two couples are alike. However, being raw and open and honest about feelings and fears, boundaries and energy levels, pain and triggers, and emotional and physical needs will help. Reinstate hobbies and worthwhile pastimes to induce joy into your days, and to help you work through the emotional pain of pregnancy loss. Enlist the support of therapists and clergy to sort out the mix of emotions and stages of grief. Finding an online or local support group, and reading books related to your losses are also worthwhile and meaningful pursuits. Most importantly, keep the lines of communication open with your spouse or partner, and be open to finding healthy ways to channel your pain and honor the children you have lost.

There were definitely times when it felt like too much for us and our marriage—too much death, too much at risk, too much heartbreak. Occasionally, I thought maybe if my husband and I hadn’t been blessed with the children we have, maybe if our parental legacy was only miscarried babies, maybe then, that would have been the end of us. Who knows? What I know more than ever is that when we stood before the altar and professed our sacramental vows to each other in front of our family and friends, we meant every word of “in sickness and in health”, and we would stand together to face whatever transpired in our marriage.

What I have learned over the years is that we are stronger than I ever realized before, and we are better, together.

My husband I had no way of knowing recurrent miscarriage would be one of the heaviest crosses we would be asked to carry in our marriage. There are no adequate words to describe how tremendously, unbelievably difficult this plight has been for us. The journey, the lessons gained, and the love multiplied, has made the heartbreak worthwhile. Additionally, it has solidified our purpose to share our experiences in hopes our story will help one couple going through the same struggles. We don’t want our suffering to have been felt in vain. We will always speak of the six children we lost early on, and we will never tire of doing our part to help make the topics of miscarriage and baby loss less taboo.

About Autumn Purdy

Autumn Purdy earned a B.A. in English from St. Vincent College in Latrobe, PA, and is a Reviews Editor for Literary Mama. Currently writing her first book about the path to motherhood and her experience with recurrent miscarriage, she lives in Westerville, Ohio with her family. You can read more of her writing at https://asadsongbetter.com/ and https://bookjoy.blog/ and find her on Instagram and Twitter at @purdywords.

Faith in Fearful Times

Tue, 02 Feb 2021 16:58:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

In any given situation, moving forward can be a difficult task as everyday life presents us with struggles that have the potential to make us or break us – or both. However, as bereaved parents, we’ve all been faced with the most difficult and painful of struggles. These sufferings likewise have the ability to destroy us or build us up – or both – which can make moving forward an even more daunting mission. I would be lying if I said that losing my babies didn’t completely break me. I would also be lying if I told you that my losses didn’t enable me to choose a path that has made me into a better version of myself, as I have picked myself up from rock bottom and I work hard every day to live my best life.

I read a quote recently that says,

“Grief is like an earthquake.

The first one hits you and the world falls apart.

Even after you put the world together again there are aftershocks,

and you never really know when those will come.”

-Unknown

These words deeply resonate with me as I continue on my journey as a bereaved parent. I realized instantly when we lost Melody, and then again when we lost Jamie, that our world would never be the same again. As we strove to put the pieces of our lives back together, we soon discovered that not only had many of the pieces changed, but also that some pieces were missing. As our family (like many others) continues trying to make our life puzzle fit back together, we have encountered aftershock experiences. Sometimes these aftershocks are triggers, life events, or even just a sudden overwhelming flood of emotion. Other times, the aftershock is something much larger that causes deeper distress that presses on the already heavy burden of being a grieving parent – like the current global crisis brought on by Covid-19.

Having already dug myself out of the deepest and darkest of holes, I have found myself especially motivated to take the necessary steps to prevent myself from sliding backward to the bottom of that pit again. Last year was a particularly difficult one, and I know the struggles are not over yet. The Covid-19 pandemic has struck more than the physical health of the world. This global emergency has spread fear, inflicted pain and loss, and has deeply exhausted the population in more ways than we can count. It has created so many vulnerabilities through widespread job and income loss, by forcing parents to make difficult decisions about their children and school, and for all those who are separated from their loved ones.

So how AM I holding it together?

The truth is, I’m not. I am a mess and I’m struggling, but I am working my way through it. I have always relied heavily on the closeness and the support of my friends and family during difficult times. Being prevented from doing so during the social limitations during this time has really made emotional survival even more challenging. It has required so much more than my own strength and knowledge from past experiences to get through all the hurdles I’ve faced over the last year. I’ve utilized multiple outlets and resources to help make up for the ruined routines, the discouraging distance between myself and my loved ones, and the quickly accumulating stressful situations. My hope is that, by sharing my own experience throughout the pandemic thus far, I can help someone else find ways to get through it, too.

My friends and family have always been an essential part of my life, but even more so as I have journeyed through my grief over my babies. As you can imagine, it has been a definite challenge to be separated from my support system. I do still struggle with this aspect of my routine change because I often find myself longing for the physical feeling of support through hugs, hand squeezes, and even just sitting on the same couch as someone I love. This distance has created boundaries, which have produced a loneliness in my life that is hard to deal with.

I have had to work a little harder over the last several months to stay connected with these important people in my life.

I have made more calls, sent more texts, and have begun having regular video chats with some of my loved ones. While it’s not the same as being able to hug and visit face-to-face with one another, I am so grateful for the opportunity technology has given me to keep up with everyone. I’ve found that the increased tech-traffic has also been helpful for my kids at home because they’re able to stay in touch with everyone, too.

I’ve been through counseling in the past, and from that experience I know it is a very important part of my personal mental health maintenance. As I began finding myself feeling overwhelmed and run down about mid-way through 2020 I decided it was time to utilize this important resource yet again.

My therapist is an invaluable part not just of my emotional survival, but also my ability to thrive despite what’s happening in the world around me.

Each week I bring my anxiety, my worry, and the rest of my burdens to her and she so graciously supports me by teaching me how to process and deal with each thought, struggle, and challenge – no matter the source! I struggle deeply with feeling overwhelmed and out of control on a day-to-day basis, so this pandemic and all the change that it has brought has been particularly problematic for my mental and emotional well-being. I look forward to the time I have with my therapist each week to focus on myself and learn skills to help me live my best life each day. Having been given goals, guidance, and direction by my therapist, I leave my virtual sessions feeling purposeful, lighter, and more confident in my ability to overcome overwhelming moments.

I lost my job in June of 2020 after the closure of my school due to Covid-19. I had been a preschool teacher for nearly twelve years and had grown quite accustomed to the routine and planning required for success each day. I had a specific set of things to accomplish each day and a schedule to follow, and when I lost that I momentarily lost much of my feeling of purpose in life. Basically, I felt really sorry for myself.

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To balance out the void left by my job, I have found that it has been helpful to set goals for each day – I am able to organize my plans and prioritize each task, giving myself direction and purpose, as well as a sense of achievement each day.

Aside from seeking purpose and feeling the financial stress about my job loss, I was also feeling quite a bit of anxiety regarding school for my children. I repeatedly wondered… How do I decide? What is the best choice? Honestly, there was no singular correct answer. I decided then to view my job loss as a silver lining, as I was suddenly able to more easily decide to enroll my children in virtual learning for their first semester of school this year. I felt peace of mind knowing that, while I couldn’t necessarily control what was happening in my life that I could control my reaction to it. I’m aware that not all families are in a position to have a parent at home with their children during this time like we are, so I choose to feel blessed by the opportunity – even when it means that I lost a job that I truly loved.

There are many other things that have played a part in my survival over the last year, but if I’m being completely honest I have to tell you that my faith has helped me move mountains.

Mountains of emotion, mountains of separation, mountains of disappointment, and mountains of change. These are not easy things to deal with on my own, so I feel greatly blessed to have the security of God on my side, scripture to give me courage and comfort, and prayer as an open line of communication between myself and God. I have taken up prayer journaling and scripture writing to help me begin and end my day with God, and it has helped me have a more positive outlook despite the havoc this pandemic has brought to my life and other lives around the world.

It is my deepest hope and prayer that you are able to find ways to cope with these uncertain times, to push back on fear, and to find courage on your journey despite the changes, challenges, and limitations we’re faced with currently. I truly hope you know that you are not alone and that we can get through this together.

May God bless you and give you peace.

About Kayla Leibner

The post Faith in Fearful Times appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

For Harmony

Tue, 02 Feb 2021 16:57:00 GMT

By: Rachel Helden

This is my first time writing to you since you left this world only a few short weeks ago. How can it be? The excitement so fresh before me, before us, and now you are gone. Really gone.

I spent days convincing myself that surely what doctors told us had happened to you, hadn’t actually occurred at all. They were mistaken. That news must have been for some other poor soul and most certainly not for me, not my baby, not you. Anything but you.

My body revolted as it began to ache and wretch and I cried out, “Oh my dear God, this can’t be good. It’s happening again, isn’t it?” No one knew about my first miscarriage. Too early to show, it was a silent loss I had carried with me for years.

This time I had a loving partner who wanted you as much as I did. The fact that I must talk about this in past tense is so unbearably painful.

We wanted you, we still want you, we will always want you.

Grief had become an old friend of mine, a welcome weight that I learned the intimate workings of. But losing you proved different. I could understand when death came for those around and outside of me, but you were within. You were and are a part of me. How can I go on living without this piece?

Your daddy and I hadn’t even gotten the chance to share our unbridled joy, even though we wanted to shout it from the highest mountaintop. Three months we were told. Wait for the first three months… just in case.

Once we began to approach that mark, we planned our grand reveal. How we would tell our families and all of those dearest to our hearts, “We have the greatest news of our lives to share with you! Let’s celebrate and give thanks together!” Before we could, you left—so suddenly, so completely.

On our way to the hospital that horrid night, I saw a street sign above me as I laid back in the front passenger seat. Out of the dark nothingness of the night sky came a name, Harmony. Which means,

agreement; accord; harmonious relations.
a consistent, orderly, or pleasing arrangement of parts; congruity.
Music, any simultaneous combination of tones.

Its origins mean “framework” and “to join together.”

As I fought to breathe through the terror of contractions that were far too early, we knew it was your name. You were the promise of harmony in our lives. Now in your absence, we feel the farthest possible from that unreachable place.

In the aftermath, we bought a wind chime at the local hardware store, a substitute in a sense, and think of you every time we hear its chimes. It’s a beautiful reminder as tones and pretty melodies ring through the air. “Hello sweet baby,” I answer back when I hear you talk to us.

I’m left here trying to make sense of it all.

Why did this have to happen? Where did you go? And where are you now?

I suppose we will be searching for the answers for some time. Many women who have gone through a baby loss have told me it stays with you forever. It becomes a part of you, and I guess it is true. You were a splendid gift and part of me for those first few glorious weeks as I felt you growing and living inside of me, and now, even after your passing, you always will be.

About Rachel Helden

Rachel is a photographer from the greater St. Louis, Missouri area. For the past four years she has been working on Free Way: An Adventure Through Loss , an illustrated memoir about a solo road trip she took after going through a divorce and her father’s passing. Rachel’s search for healing took her to all 50 states in the USA, most of our national parks, and twenty other countries. She sees the book as a grief manual, an account of how one person dealt with losing a past self. Rachel is currently working to self-publish Free Way. You can find more information about the project on her website at www.rachelhelden.com and follow her adventures on Instagram at @_photonomad_.

Grieving together …. and apart

Mon, 01 Feb 2021 12:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

“Remember that you both will grieve this differently and that you have to allow each other to do that.”

These were the parting words from our nurse that were said to us four years ago, this month, as we left the hospital empty-handed; just 24 hours after our son was born.

At the time, we knew her words to be true. We weren’t strangers to grief. Only 9 months prior to the stillbirth of our son, we had a first trimester miscarriage. We both grieved that loss, but we did so very differently. I openly wept and shared my pain publicly on my blog, while my husband internalized it and attempted to remain the stereotypical strong, supportive husband.

That experience gave us both a glimpse into how one another grieves. We both knew that while there may be some similarities to how we grieved the miscarriage, it was going to be very different this time around because the entire experience was completely different.

In the initial throws of deep grief after Asher died, my husband couldn’t handle being home. He stayed off of work for a week and half and then HAD to return to the classroom. He needed something to do during the day, something other than sitting around and staring off into space or in my case, bawling my eyes out to the point of giving myself multiple migraines in a few days.

At the time, I wasn’t happy about it. I was still physically recovering from childbirth. Even if I wanted to return to work as a distraction from the pain (which I didn’t because at that time the pain was the only reminder that Asher was real), that wasn’t an option for me.

The idea of returning to anything that I did prior to the birth of my son gave me intense anxiety. In my mind, if I did anything that I did before the birth of Asher, it felt like he wasn’t even here; like life hadn’t changed and I imagined the whole experience.

The fact that my husband was returning to something so “normal” did not sit well with me.

The resentment started to creep in….

But then I remembered our nurse’s parting words.

This was how he was grieving the loss of his son.

While my husband also struggled with returning to the things he once did before losing Asher, he still needed some sort of “normal” in his life and, for him, that was work. He needed a part of his day to have a routine and be a distraction from the pain he constantly felt.

It was what HE needed, and I respected that.

Immediately after losing Asher, I needed to connect with fellow loss parents. I hadn’t yet discovered the amazing loss community on social media, and I was desperate to meet others who knew this pain. I needed to know we weren’t alone in it.

Two weeks after Asher died, I convinced my husband to attend our local Share chapter’s monthly support group.

He didn’t want to go. It wasn’t a part of his “grief” needs, but he knew it was a part of mine. So, he went with me.

He supported me in my grief even though it was different than his, just as I had with him when he returned to work.

Together we are grieving the loss of our firstborn child.

However, that grieving process looks different for each of us.

It’s been four years since we’ve heard our nurse’s parting words and they still continue to ring true.

“Remember that you both will grieve this differently and that you have to allow each other to do that.”

Grief, Hope, and YOGA

Mon, 01 Feb 2021 12:00:00 GMT

bythebrooke.blogspot.com

The post Grief, Hope, and YOGA appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

Shattering the Silence

Wed, 27 Jan 2021 16:30:00 GMT

By: Autumn Purdy

On a brisk, sunny morning recently, I drove my daughter to her socially distanced ballet performance of “The Nutcracker”. This year will be different than all other years: masks on, dancing within a taped-off box, no parents or audience, and instead of enjoying a matinee showing of the annual Christmas spectacular at the local high school amphitheater, the dance studio is filming all portions of the show and creating a movie-length production we will view at a later date. Despite all the necessary restrictions, my daughter remains unfazed. She was giddy, really, as she changed into her Snowflake costume in the backseat of our Toyota Camry. Once she was transformed into glittery white, she slid her ballet-tight-wearing feet inside her pink, fuzzy boots as I touched up her red lipstick, and snapped a couple of photos by the fence before she replaced her mask and waited for the curtain call. When it was time, she threw on her mint green winter coat, grabbed her dance bag with her COVID Health Assessment and allergy kit, and skipped off toward the stairs to enter the doors and dance her heart out to her favorite score as I remained outside until her time on stage was complete.

In the lull, I decided to take a walk around town. I chugged some water from my Kleen Kanteen, grabbed my hat, gloves, and mask, and bundled up to brace the biting air and explore some of the side roads to marvel at the holiday displays adorning the historic and architecturally unique homes nearby the studio. First, I passed the local library. Its folding table was already set out for reservation pick-up—stacks of books and movies in plastic, Kroger, shopping bags with patrons’ names and a list of their online reserves stapled to the outside for easy retrieval. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the loss of my weekly trips to the library to peruse bookstacks and accomplish writing tasks. Sighing as I made my way up toward the library park, the scene is familiar now: no child was playing, climbing, nor swinging—no parent was following a toddler around the perimeter, spotting a child in their brave reach, or pushing small backs on the swings.

The desolation of the playground remains an eerie reminder of how long we have to go and embodies the anguish of my infertility years.

A lone, female runner donning sleek, athletic tights, a woolen cap, reflective gloves, and a gray neck gaiter strode by me and, even from quite a distance, I witnessed the smoky formation of her cadenced breaths trailing in front of her nose and mouth. I remained standing clear as she disappeared down the bike path, and stood still for a few heartbeats, taking in the scene around me: a tranquil, crisp, late-fall morning, and utter silence. I was absolutely alone. It dawned on me as I continued my walk how often I have felt this way. No matter the season, no matter the place, I have borne isolation in my miscarriage experience; tolerated being frozen, stranded, and stuck; remained off-put by the space between myself and others; sensed a residual fear remaining within me as, time and time again, I willed myself to get outside and put one foot in front of the other; have grasped for the wherewithal to move past my sorrow and the desperation brought on by my inability to carry children to term; and have far too often faked a smile behind masked grief.

As I exceeded a mile in my walk, I began to make my return to the studio. When I reached the lot, I saw a silver van parked in the spot directly across from my car. The back window of the van had three decals of children’s names associated with dance and sport. In the top right corner, I noticed a prominent sticker—a pink and blue ribbon—with the inscription:

6 angels

too precious for earth

2002-2009

Lining the border of that telling emblem, the poignancy in the statement was clear:

“Shatter the Silence”

I stood and stared at that decal and realized: this mother knows me—she understands my suffering in experiencing pregnancy loss six times. I felt an urge to see this woman, a strong pull to remark on her statement decal, to share a socially-distanced greeting of sympathy and empathy, to thank her for being so bold in declaring her motherhood story—for outwardly raising awareness and making no apologies for remembering.

And a revelation came to me at that moment: how we go into the new year carrying our stories is by proclaiming our losses, being bold in the telling, and shattering the silence.

Instead of waiting in my car with the heater on and scrolling through my phone as I had planned to do, I leaned against the trunk of my Camry and said a silent prayer for this mother of nine. I hoped I would see her, but realized it was more than likely that her children were teenagers and drove themselves to dance rehearsal in their mother’s van, or perhaps, she was on her own walk around town. If in 2021, I’m blessed to be in close vicinity to this van once again, with the mother waiting inside as her daughters’ dance classes wrap-up, I might boldly walk up to her and, through my mask, express gratitude to her for being a witness to pregnancy loss. If she’ll allow it, I will share my experience of miscarriage, speak of my six children “too precious for earth”, and take an additional step toward normalizing the outward proclamation of miscarriage.

Silence doesn’t serve us—having the courage to share our stories does. Only by finding our voices, discovering new ways to honor our babies, practicing healthy ways to express the grief, and creating solidarity wrapped within the sisterhood of pink and blue ribbons will we “shatter the silence” of pregnancy and infant loss.

I hope in 2021, you will find the strength and the courage to continue carrying your personal stories in ways that feel true to you, and the precious lives you lost, as you endure walking along the path toward deeper healing in the new year.

About Autumn Purdy

Kindness is Good for the Soul

Mon, 25 Jan 2021 17:00:00 GMT

By: Rose Carlson

Practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty. ~Anne Herbert

It is quite possible that one simple little sentence scrawled on a paper placemat in a restaurant in Sausalito, CA in the early 1980s, sparked the concept of “paying it forward.” Random Acts of Kindness, or RAKs, such as paying for coffee for the person behind you in line at Starbucks or taping a $1 bill to a vending machine may not seem to be all that significant in the grand scheme of life, yet those casual “little” things can be powerful, not only for the person on the receiving end of the RAK but also for the one performing it.

This is a topic I think about frequently, not only in my personal life but in my professional one too, as I hear of ways the parents we support at Share honor their baby by doing things for others.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity on one day to do several RAKs. I was going through a bit of a challenging time, and I decided to spend an entire day doing things for others as a way to get out of my head and focus on others who were alone, hurting, or missing someone special to them. This one day ended up being the highlight of the Christmas season for me that year, and as I drove from store to store, shopping for the most perfect gifts, and as I dropped them off at various places, the low mood I started that Friday with quickly dissipated. I truly felt as if I was “high on life” to use an old and worn-out cliché. I went home at the end of the day feeling better than I had felt in a long time.

A short time later, I was watching a morning television newscast, and a guest psychologist talked about the benefits of performing random acts of kindness and how doing so actually stimulates the production of feel-good chemicals in one’s brain. As I listened to the show, I remembered how amazing and humbled I felt as I planned and carried out my random acts of kindness not only a few days before, but other times as well. I couldn’t get his words out of my mind.

While that psychologist was not specifically talking about people who are grieving when he said that performing random acts of kindness releases endorphins and serotonin, chemicals that nourish and improve one’s mental state, I couldn’t help but think of the parents I’ve met and the stories I have heard throughout my years at Share. The more I thought about it, the more I became intrigued by the subject, and I began scouring the internet searching for anything that verified what the psychologist I heard on television said.

I discovered much more information than I ever imagined I would. Research really does support the notion that doing kind deeds for others has a significant benefit on both emotional and physical well-being. I read article after article, each confirming that when people do kind things for others:

~ it generally leads to compassionate feelings
~ they experience a boost in self-confidence
~ it induces feelings of gratitude for what one has rather than focusing on what is lacking
~ stress and even chronic pain may be alleviated
~ they experience what is called “helper’s high”—an increase in energy followed by a period of calmness and serenity
~ it promotes a sense of connection to other people

Additionally, doing kind, unexpected things for others, even small things increases the amount of a crucial antibody that strengthens one’s immune system. Not only does reaching into your heart to find ways to do nice things for friends and strangers make you feel wonderful emotionally, it can also help you feel good physically.

What I found fascinating the more I read is that these “feel good” benefits do not only affect those receiving and performing the RAK, but they carry over to those who simply observe one taking place. I read that many times, just witnessing a RAK can lighten a person’s mood for the rest of the day and even inspire that person to pay it forward. I read one article that mentioned a study done on women with Multiple Sclerosis who performed random acts of kindness; the study revealed that the women with MS obtained more benefits than those who received the act of kindness.

In a nutshell, showing kindness and generosity, even in small doses, is a win-win situation for all involved, and even for those who aren’t involved.

You may be wondering what the point of this is, and what it means to you as a bereaved parent. What it “means” is that you may find a great deal of comfort and “feel good” moments when you do something for someone else in honor of your baby’s sweet memory. While doing so will not lessen your grief or make the death of your baby any less heartbreaking, it may do your heart some good to do something good. Bereaved parents often feel a sense of disconnect, and as noted above, doing things for others can promote a sense of connection to others. Therefore, doing kind tasks may help ease some of those feelings. Additionally, grieving parents often feel lost and unsure of their purpose now that their baby is not with them, and studies show that focusing on others can boost self-esteem and give meaning to one’s life.

There are so many possibilities and opportunities that I can’t possibly list them all, but in my years at Share, I have witnessed a great many activities that grieving parents have taken on in memory of their babies. In fact, it is quite common that one of the first things grieving parents wish to do once the initial shock of their baby’s death has passed is something…anything…for others that will help heal their hearts and give their baby’s too-brief life a special purpose. Parents often call within a very short time of their baby’s death, sometimes only a few weeks, and want to know how they can help, and what they can do to assist other parents in their situation. They may ask about starting a support group. Many want to know how to go about creating and donating memory boxes to their hospital.

I have met parents who sew tiny felt shoes for babies who are in the neonatal intensive care unit as well as parents who crochet and knit darling little hats, blankets, and wraps that will fit babies the size their baby was. One mom asked for pledges of money as she ran a mile every hour for 13 hours in honor of her daughter’s 13 birthday after she was born still. Another recently asked for donations to a children’s hospital in exchange for exercising every day for 100 days in memory of her baby who died.

I have been privileged to know countless parents and grandparents who have volunteered for Share in many different capacities: Volunteering at fundraisers or in the Share office, moderating chat rooms and message boards, serving on committees, preparing bereaved parent packets, singing at memorial events, making awareness pins to hand out at events.

It’s as if bereaved parents instinctively know that putting the abundance of love they have for their beloved baby to “work” will not only give their hands and minds something to do but will also help heal their hearts and soothe their spirits. Over all my years at Share, I have frequently witnessed firsthand so many beautiful ways parents bring comfort to their heavy hearts and meaning to their babies’ lives when they give their time and talents to others. That is how I ended up at Share in 2002—I had several miscarriages many years ago when those losses were not recognized, yet I felt compelled to do something to give some meaning to the lives of my four tiny babies, so I started volunteering at Share.

If there is something that touches you or inspires you in some way, use your own creativity, talents, and memory of your baby(ies) to guide you in finding a unique and meaningful way to honor them. In the process of making someone else smile, you may just bring a smile to your own heart at a painful time when smiles are likely rare. You do not need to wait for a special occasion such as a birthday or due date; any ordinary day when your heart needs some comfort can be its own special occasion. And know that no idea is too small, so do not tell yourself that if you do not have the resources for something grand that what you do will not be good enough. Keep in mind these words from Mother Teresa.
“We can’t all do great things, but we can all do small things with great love.”

You may never know how far-reaching your acts of kindness will be and whose lives will be touched because of you and the great love you have for your baby.

I will leave you with this thought:

A little spark of kindness can put a colossal burst of sunshine into someone’s day, especially your own. ~Unknown

About Rose Carlson

The post Kindness is Good for the Soul appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

For Harmony

Mon, 18 Jan 2021 09:00:00 GMT

By: Rachel Helden

This is my first time writing to you since you left this world only a few short weeks ago. How can it be? The excitement so fresh before me, before us, and now you are gone. Really gone.

This time I had a loving partner who wanted you as much as I did. The fact that I must talk about this in past tense is so unbearably painful.

We wanted you, we still want you, we will always want you.

On our way to the hospital that horrid night, I saw a street sign above me as I laid back in the front passenger seat. Out of the dark nothingness of the night sky came a name, Harmony. Which means,

agreement; accord; harmonious relations.
a consistent, orderly, or pleasing arrangement of parts; congruity.
Music, any simultaneous combination of tones.

Its origins mean “framework” and “to join together.” *

I’m left here trying to make sense of it all.

Why did this have to happen? Where did you go? And where are you now?

* Definition from dictionary.com

About Rachel Helden

Rachel is a photographer from the greater St. Louis, Missouri area. For the past four years she has been working on Free Way: An Adventure Through Loss , an illustrated memoir about a solo road trip she took after going through a divorce and her father’s passing. Rachel’s search for healing took her to all 50 states in the USA, most of our national parks, and twenty other countries. She sees the book as a grief manual, an account of how one person dealt with losing a past self. Rachel is currently working to self-publish Free Way . You can find more information about the project on her website at www.rachelhelden.com and follow her adventures on Instagram at @_photonomad_.

The post For Harmony appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

Faith in fearful times

Mon, 04 Jan 2021 17:22:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

I read a quote recently that says,

“Grief is like an earthquake.

The first one hits you and the world falls apart.

Even after you put the world together again there are aftershocks,

and you never really know when those will come.”

-Unknown

So how AM I holding it together?

I have had to work a little harder over the last several months to stay connected with these important people in my life.

My therapist is an invaluable part not just of my emotional survival, but also my ability to thrive despite what’s happening in the world around me.

To balance out the void left by my job, I have found that it has been helpful to set goals for each day – I am able to organize my plans and prioritize each task, giving myself direction and purpose, as well as a sense of achievement each day.

There are many other things that have played a part in my survival over the last year, but if I’m being completely honest I have to tell you that my faith has helped me move mountains.

May God bless you and give you peace.

About Kayla Leibner

New Year’s …. a time for hope

Sat, 02 Jan 2021 16:05:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

We always go into the New Year hoping it will be better than the last, hoping for change.

New Year’s 2015 – I was two months into failed fertility treatments, ready to say goodbye to a hard year for us personally, and hopeful that the next year would bring us a positive pregnancy test.

New Year’s 2016 – I was 6 months pregnant with my sweet boy, after suffering a miscarriage 8 months prior. 2016 was our hardest, year up until that point, with the fertility treatments and miscarriage but I ended that year so happy and hopeful for 2017. We were going to FINALLY bring home a baby after our struggle with unexplained infertility and I was ready to enter the year where that would happen.

Only 8 weeks into 2017, our world stopped when Asher’s heart did on February 18, 2017.

2017 went from a year of hope and excitement at the impending arrival of our firstborn child to the darkest of my life. It was filled with more tears than I had ever cried in my lifetime, prior to that point.

Yet, as we approached 2018, I found it hard to say goodbye to such a difficult year.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the year of my son, to the year he was born and changed our lives.

I wasn’t ready to enter a new year, one that he will never physically exist in.

I wasn’t ready to celebrate his first birthday, without him, that was only 8 weeks into 2018.

My biggest fear as we approached the time to say goodbye to 2017 and hello to 2018, was that Asher would be left in 2017, not by me, but by others. That the change to a new year meant that time was progressing, the freshness of our loss was fading for others, and Asher would become a distant memory to them.

My heart would break all over again at the thought of even the possibility of my firstborn child being forgotten.

That first New Year’s was a juxtaposition of emotions as it pained me to say goodbye to Asher’s year, but I was also happy to say goodbye to the worst year of my life. I was ready to hope again as our second IUI (Inter-Uterine Insemination), since returning to fertility treatment after losing Asher, was only 5 days before the end of 2017.

2018 held the possibility of starting with hope; hope that we would be able to bring home a living a baby that year and I desperately needed that after 2017. At the same time, that hope made me feel guilty. How could I be hopeful when my son died? How could hope even exist in my world after such a devastating loss?

2018 came and I carried two things into it with me: Asher and hope.

I was pleasantly surprised that I wasn’t the only person who carried Asher into the new year, so many others who love us (and him) brought him into 2018 (and every year since) too.

My fear was unfounded.

Asher would never be forgotten (and honestly, I would never allow that happen).

I’m sure that most of us are ready to say goodbye to 2020 and hopeful for a better 2021. It has been a shit year all around. Yet for those who have, unfortunately, joined this club of child loss this year, it can be really hard to face the further passing of time away from when they last held their child. It creates anxiety and fear that their child will be left behind in this shitty year for everyone, chalked up as another crap thing that happened this year.

To those of you who have lost a child this year, let me say, that your child will not be forgotten.

You will carry your child into 2021 and so will many others who love you. It is okay to also bring hope with you in 2021, hope for whatever you need to get through this life after such a devastating loss.

To those who love someone who lost a child this year, or any year for that matter, tell them that you see their pain. Tell them that you know it never gets any easier as they get further away from their loss. Tell them that you are here and that you will ALWAYS remember their child.

Sending you all love, peace, and wishes for hope as we enter 2021!

About Amy Lied
Amy Lied is a wife and a mother. Her son, Asher, was inexplicably born still on February 19th, 2017. Before losing Asher, she suffered a miscarriage and struggled with unexplained infertility. After losing Asher and struggling to conceive again, she went back to treatment where she became pregnant with her twin daughters; Harper and Scarlett. She has documented her journey from the beginning of her infertility struggles on her blog, Doggie Bags Not Diaper Bags . She is also a co-founder of The Lucky Anchor Projec t , an online resource for loss families that houses an Etsy store whose profits are donated to loss family non-profit organizations. Sharing her journey has helped her cope and she hopes it also helps others who are walking on this road of life after loss.

Never Alone

Mon, 21 Dec 2020 09:00:00 GMT

By: Lauren Turley

It was December 30, 2014. I was 33 weeks pregnant with a little girl, Catherine, who 14 weeks earlier received a diagnosis of Trisomy – 18. This meant she had an extra chromosome 18 which, for our Catherine, affected too many of her organs. We knew our time with Catherine would be unfairly short. Our prayer was she would be live-born and that she could meet her older sister.

I unexpectedly started contracting in the early morning hours of December 30th. At 6:45am, less than 2 hours after arriving at the hospital, Catherine Marie was born. She was 2 lbs. 5 oz. She was 15 inches long.

She spent her entire life in her parents’ arms. Catherine knew nothing but love.

Catherine lived for an hour and then 12 short hours later I was discharged. Physically, I was free to go. Emotionally, I didn’t want to ever leave. Since learning about Catherine’s diagnosis weeks earlier, I knew the time would come when I would leave the hospital after giving birth without a healthy baby in my arms. This part of Catherine’s story was much too painful for me to prepare for, so I didn’t. My mind just kind of skipped over this part because it caused my heart to hurt in a way I cannot properly explain. But now I couldn’t skip over it. It was actually happening. And it was even more physically and emotionally painful than I could have ever prepared for.

My husband, Wayne, helped me out of the wheelchair and into the car. As Wayne and I drove away, alone, I let out a wail I had never heard before. All of the sadness, fears, worries, heartache, and pain over the past 14 weeks were physically released in my sobs. And now the real struggle was officially beginning: How to continue living life for Wayne and our 22-month- old daughter waiting for us at home while I was grieving the loss of Catherine and all we would miss experiencing with her and knowing about her. It was a very lonely feeling.

Wayne felt this loneliness as well. We did not want to go home to an empty house, so we asked our immediate family members to be there when we arrived. They had pizza and drinks waiting for us.

There were hugs and tears when we walked into the house. But we were not alone that night.

Everyone stayed until we were so exhausted, we wouldn’t have any trouble actually falling asleep. We took great comfort that night being surrounded by so much love… and pizza.

It became our mission to share the lessons we learned during our short time with Catherine. We wanted people who encounter a prenatal or newborn life-threatening diagnosis to know they are absolutely not alone with their pain and heartache. And it is because of our Catherine, we were empowered to do this for others.

Just 10 days before Catherine was born, we launched a nonprofit, Catherine Cares. Catherine Cares provides Heartbeat Bears as well as restaurant and fuel gift cards to families of babies who receive a life-threatening prenatal or newborn diagnosis. Our mission is to uplift families.

Our Heartbeat Bears come with a recording device within a pocket in the bear. When a baby receives a life-threatening diagnosis, our hospital partners record the baby’s heartbeat on the device, place the device into the pocket and give the cuddly, soft bear to the family. Our Heartbeat Bears provide comfort to families.

Our restaurant gift cards provide meals when families need to eat but are overwhelmed by meal planning, grocery shopping and meal preparation because their hearts are broken.

Our fuel cards provide financial assistance when needed so families can attend all of the necessary doctor appointments that come with a life-threatening diagnosis.

All of our services are a reminder to families that they are never alone. We never assume we understand what another family is experiencing. But what we do understand is their heartache.

As the parents of Catherine, it is easy to get consumed with our own grief and heartache especially right after Christmas as her birthday approaches on the 30th. But we are absolutely not alone in our grief. In addition to being our daughter, Catherine is also a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, and a cousin. Our extended family, the same group of people who graciously waited for us upon our return home from the hospital back in 2014, also miss their Catherine. So, every December 30th we celebrate Catherine. The celebration looks different than a typical child’s birthday party. There are no balloons, no Disney character portrayals, no presents and no cake and ice cream. But our little family invites that same group of people – Catherine’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins – over for…what else… pizza. It’s a standing invite every December 30th. We gather to reflect. To hug. To shed a tear. And we celebrate Catherine’s life and her legacy TOGETHER (even if “together” means over Zoom this year) because we are most certainly NOT ALONE .

To learn more about Catherine Cares, visit catherinecares.org

_______________________________________________________________________________

Lauren Turley is the President and co-Founder of Catherine Cares, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit whose mission is to uplift families of babies who receive a life-threatening prenatal or newborn diagnosis. Catherine Cares has been in existence since December 2014 and provides its services throughout the country. In her previous life, Lauren was a middle school history and math teacher for 10 years. Lauren is now a full-time mom while running Catherine Cares. Lauren is married to her husband, Wayne, since 2011. They have three daughters- Madeline, Catherine in heaven, and Hannah. Nine months after losing Catherine, Lauren suffered a miscarriage. Lauren, Wayne and their daughters live in Kirkwood, MO, and together they enjoy cooking, coffee (for mom and dad), family walks, card and board games and photography. To learn more about Catherine Cares, visit catherinecares.org and follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

The post Never Alone appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

Gifts of the Holiday season

Mon, 14 Dec 2020 14:00:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

The holidays are here and they bring an assortment of emotions. The holiday songs, decorations and gifts to buy usher in the season. For myself, the holiday season starts at the end of September. Fall is in gear and Halloween is approaching.

October is the month we lost our son Hope. Fall used to be my favorite season. I still find beauty in the leaves changing colors and the weather changing.

The word I use to describe October and the holidays approaching is bittersweet.

There is sadness, yet bright spots mixed into the emotions.
When I think of holidays, I have an image of cheerfulness or happiness. Holidays are a time to celebrate and get together.

With the current times of sickness with COVID, that adds another layer to the grief and connecting to the holiday season.

The holidays are tough but the current things we are experiencing brings to surface grieving for our children and grieving for the times we are experiencing.

One way I have processed through my grief is by hanging our son’s stocking each year. I don’t take it down as it hangs in my creative space where I write. Each year I write him a letter and tuck it in the stocking. Sometimes I read them each year, while at other times I just hold onto the written words that were written. The first year I took his stocking down after the holidays was difficult. The next year, I thought the stocking could stay up and be a reminder of the gift he was to us.

Each day there are gifts. Sometimes they are hard to see and sometimes they are hard to focus on. The gift of the sun shining. The gift of trying to be an encouragement to others in difficult times.

When we have experienced difficult times, it creates an understanding of being real and knowing firsthand what it is to go through sadness and despair.

We all need gifts. Gifts of time…gifts of connecting…gifts of looking for the glimmers of light…sometimes one minute at a time and sometimes one day at a time.

During this holiday season, may we be grateful for the little things. The little things really are the big things. May we know that we are not alone, even if it feels like it. May we seek to use our gifts to support and encourage one another.

Robyn’s blog www.robynsnestofhope.com chronicles the journey of loss and hope. Appreciating the little things in life, while holding onto faith each day is the message she wants to share with others. Her interests include reading, home decorating, vintage markets, and community service.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/robynsnestofhope/

About Robyn Busekrus
Robyn Busekrus is a mom, wife, educator, and writer who makes her home in Washington, MO. Losing her third son Hope in the second trimester of pregnancy, was an unexpected part of her life’s journey.

The Good She Brought Into My Life

Tue, 08 Dec 2020 09:45:00 GMT

By: Ashley Opliger

It’s been six years since my daughter, Bridget Faith, went to Heaven at 24 weeks and 5 days into my first pregnancy in 2014. Some days it feels like just yesterday that I held her so carefully in my hands in the cradle my mom had knit for her, soaking in each second, trying to memorize her face and features. Other days it feels like there’s this infinite chasm that divides the only moment in time I had to hold her and the time that keeps on ticking now. Time is elusive like that.

If you’ve experienced the loss of a baby, you know how precious those moments are and how fleeting the time seems as it disappears into what was and what is now. On this earth, we know we won’t get those cherished seconds back. Time that was quickly stolen in a desperate attempt to strip us of all hope or joy. But, praise God that we are promised eternity in Heaven with our babies!

This November, as I reflect on all that I am thankful for, I can’t help but thank God for all the good that has come into my life because of Bridget’s short, but impactful life. I know that sharing the “silver linings” of loss can be a touchy subject. I would never want to undermine the anguish and pain that pregnancy loss wreaks on the human heart and I am very sensitive to those feelings. The loss of a baby is undoubtedly one of the most heartbreaking and soul-crushing experiences a person can endure on this earth, and with it comes a wide range of emotions: sadness, anger, grief, guilt, and loss of joy.

I’ve experienced every single emotion and more. I’ve walked in the depths of despair and allowed myself to feel every feeling of grief. It hasn’t been easy. I know you, too, have a broken heart and have wondered if you’d ever be able to experience joy again, smile again, or live life again. But, I would be remiss to not share all the good that has come into my life because of my sweet Bridget. Therefore, I view these sacred gifts within grief as the process of “holding both.” There is space for the and – sadness and joy, pain and purpose, grief and hope. We can hold both.

I often tell people that other than Jesus Himself, my daughter, who never took a breath on this earth, has impacted my life more than any other person in this world! God knew the number of beats her heart would beat inside my womb and had counted the days of her life before they even came to be. And even in those earth-limited days, she came and turned my world upside down and changed my life for the better for all of eternity.

Eternal Perspective

One of the most immediate changes that happened after Bridget went to Heaven was that my focus shifted from thinking only of my time on earth to now focusing on getting to spend eternity with her. Burying a child and frequently sitting at their grave in a cemetery has a way to remind you that we are all mortal. Though cemeteries used to be scary places I would avoid, Bridget’s cemetery is now a calming place of solace and acceptance. One day we will all die and end up there too. That fact, which used to be an uncomfortable truth, became a welcome promise. I will see her again. The hope of Heaven gives me peace that I do not have to fear my own death. Through Jesus, I am promised eternity with Him and with my sweet girl.

Calling

My renewed focus on eternity also shifted my mindset to making a difference here on earth. I want my life to count and I want to honor my daughter’s life each and every single day until I am reunited with her in Heaven. After Bridget’s birth and death, God gave me the calling to start a nonprofit ministry in her memory called Bridget’s Cradles . We donate small hand knit and crocheted cradles to over 1,000 hospitals in all 50 states for bereaved families to hold their precious babies born so tiny in the second trimester. We also host support groups for women and couples grieving the loss of a baby called Hope Gatherings. Annually, on October 15th, Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day, we organize a community candlelight vigil event called the Wave of Light .

Though leading Bridget’s Cradles was my specific calling from God, this same calling won’t be the same for you! Everyone has a different calling and each calling is uniquely important and special. He gives out assignments based on our own strengths, passions, and unique gifts! I know grieving moms who make customized pregnancy loss candles or jewelry, give journals to other bereaved moms, or write blogs or share inspiring memorial quotes on social media. No matter what it is or how big or small an act, serving others is a meaningful way to heal your heart and honor your baby in Heaven. You have time and God-given talents to use and you have the power to comfort others who know your pain!

Friendships

Many of my closest friends today are women that I met because of Bridget and the ministry we started in her memory, Bridget’s Cradles. I am so thankful to have other bereaved mommas to walk alongside on my grieving and healing journey. I would be so lost without the loving support and encouragement of friends who truly understand my pain. We have been a shoulder to cry on for each other and have held each other’s baby’s memories close to our hearts. We remember their important milestones (due dates, Heaven days, holidays) and say each other’s babies’ names frequently. I am honored to serve with so many kindhearted bereaved moms in our ministry and consider them all to be my dearest of friends.

A Changed Life

This thanksgiving season, sweet momma, I pray that you would be able to reflect on the blessings your baby in Heaven has brought into your life. Though sadness and heartbreak surely still wash over you (as it does for me), I hope that you would also discover the gifts your baby has given you and the opportunity he or she has to change your life forever. I know I will never be the same after meeting Bridget and I pray you would feel the same.

Prayer

Dear God, thank You so much for the gift of our babies. Though our arms long to hold them again and our hearts ache from missing them, I pray that You would give us peace and comfort this holiday season to remember and celebrate their lives in a positive way. Help us, Lord, see all the blessings they have given us and all the lessons they have taught us. Keep us focused on eternity and give us ways to honor our babies by serving others. Thank You for the hope of Heaven that we are promised to see them again one day! In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Ashley Opliger is President and Executive Director of Bridget’s Cradles 501c3 nonprofit organization based in Wichita, Kansas. After the birth of her first child, Bridget Faith, who was born into Heaven in 2014, Ashley left her career as a Speech-Language Pathologist and founded Bridget’s Cradles in her daughter’s empty nursery. Ashley’s mother had knit a small cradle for Bridget that allowed their family to hold and bond with her in a special way.

Under Ashley’s leadership, with God’s guidance, she has grown the organization from first donating cradles to their local hospital in 2015 to now donating cradles to over 1,000 hospitals in all 50 states and comforting over 26,000 bereaved families a year from their own headquarters space.

Ashley also leads Hope Gatherings monthly Christ-centered support groups in person in Wichita, Kansas and online for women and couples throughout the country. She also organizes an annual event on Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day, October 15th, called Wave of Light that impacts hundreds of grieving families.

Ashley is married to Matt and they have three children: Bridget (in Heaven), Branton, a baby boy on the way, and a golden retriever. She is a fully-devoted follower of Christ and longs to glorify Him with her life. Ashley’s desire and mission is to share the hope of Christ and Heaven with families grieving the loss of a baby and to comfort others with the same comfort she was given.

Connect with Ashley: Instagram | Facebook

Follow Bridget’s Cradles: Instagram | Facebook | Website

new holiday traditions

Tue, 01 Dec 2020 12:30:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

In preparation for this month’s article, I reread the one I had written last December. That article goes on to share the myriad of ways in which we include Asher in our already established holiday traditions, the things we do to include him as a very much loved and missed member of our family.

This year I want to talk about the new traditions we’ve established BECAUSE of Asher, the ones that force me to sit and devote time solely to him, which can be hard to do these days with twin 2 year old toddlers running around.

Over the last four years, we have received a myriad of ornaments to honor and remember our boy, so many that his ornaments kind of took over our family tree. Last year, we decided that our boy deserved a special tree of his own to hold all of his beautiful ornaments.

I wanted his tree to be different. I did not want a green tree. I wanted an angelic tree to honor our boy, so I went with a 6-foot white artificial tree. I purchased blue lights to wrap around it and blue glass ornaments to place on his tree, in addition to all the ornaments he already had.

Initially, I felt “mom-guilt” about the idea. I worried that giving him his own tree separated him from our family. I push so hard to make sure Asher is always included as a member of our family, yet here I am giving him his own tree with only his ornaments on it, separate from our “family” tree. I rectified this feeling but including a few of his ornaments on the “family” tree. I also noted to myself that the kid literally has enough ornaments to completely fill our family tree, so he needs his own tree for the overflow. Decorating his tree last year was one of my favorite parts of the holiday season.

I loved going through his ornaments, remembering who gifted them to him, sharing them with his little sisters, and focusing on him for an extended period of time. I will not lie and say that the tears didn’t flow, they always do, but it was a wonderful way to kick off the holiday season by remembering our son.

Another “Asher” tradition that we have started, after seeing other loss families do it, is asking others to send him Christmas cards to put in his stocking.

On Christmas day, when his little sisters are in bed for the night, my husband and I sit together and open each card to Asher. I am a person who loves getting regular old mail. As December progresses seeing the cards come in addressed to my son, as if he were physically here with us, makes my heart soar and a smile spread across my face. I love seeing his name written by others.

It seems like such a small gesture but ANY gesture that honors our child who is missing is priceless.

Asher doesn’t get presents in the traditional sense like his sisters do. He doesn’t get to be the center of attention as we watch him open up his presents.

Sitting with my husband on Christmas opening cards for our firstborn, by the light of our Christmas trees, is emotional but, oh so, wonderful. It means the absolute world to us to know that others took the time to remember our son, to write him a card in celebration of Christmas.

It is our way of sitting and watching our son open presents on Christmas. It is the best we can do given the circumstances and it has become one of my favorite parts of Christmas.

2020 has been a rough year, to say the least. We are entering a holiday season where we won’t be able to spend time with our friends and family, like in year’s past. The welcomed distraction from our grief, that is time with others, won’t be there.

I encourage you to lean into the grief this year, spend time focused on the missing piece of your heart, and create new traditions as a family that remember and honor your child.

Sending you wishes for a safe and peaceful holiday season.

Helping a loved one when the holidays Hurt

Tue, 01 Dec 2020 12:00:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

As a bereaved parent, I am always searching for ways to weave peace and comfort into our daily lives. Our family has survived heartache beyond words and experienced disappointment that we ourselves still do not fully understand. We can’t really describe what has happened to us or how it has changed us, but the deaths of our babies have irrevocably changed us forever. We are each grieving differently on a daily basis, and the holidays are no exception. If anything, our grief and the emotions tied to it are amplified during this season.

I would like to use my own personal experience to share some tips for being a supporter of a loved one who is grieving during the holidays. It isn’t easy, pretty, or predictable. It is, however, more necessary, and meaningful than your loved one could ever express.

If you care about someone who has lost a child, you can be assured that they struggle more during the holidays – even if it’s just slightly.

I have heard grief described as love that painfully overflows because it belongs to someone that is gone. This is all too true, which means that grief doesn’t end because our love doesn’t end. This is possibly the most important thing to remember when supporting a bereaved parent because this singular idea will help you remember the other advice I have to share. Because we will always love our children, we will always miss them. Even if you can’t see our grief, it is there. When a child dies, we miss every hoped-for-experience afterward – including holidays. Our grief will impact more than just our first holiday season without them, because even if we’ve been through it before we don’t miss them any less.

Another thing to remember is that grief isn’t predictable , and therefore we cannot know when it will rear its ugly head and wreak havoc on our emotions. Simply put, grief is messy. Sometimes we feel it coming, but other times the waves crash in unexpectedly. Because of this, we may feel compelled to change plans or suddenly decline an invitation at the last minute, but don’t take it personally. Extend invitations without pressure or expectations and be gracious if those are declined – we are already so conflicted and feel guilty, but these changes are often necessary for surviving the added weight of our grief during the holidays.

Be supportive of the choices of your grieving loved one during the holidays because each decision, great or small, is more difficult than it was before the death of their child.

I’ve found that people want to help, but often do so in ways that are unintentionally hurtful. Remember that your loved one isn’t something to be fixed. While part of them is broken, it’s deep and rooted in their very soul. Part of them will forever be missing because of the absence of their child, but please don’t approach a grieving parent as a project or something you can repair. Instead of unsolicited advice, maybe try offering practical assistance during the holidays by way of helping to decorate or shop. What once brought joy can be difficult and even bring pain, and so it becomes a dreaded chore because of stirred up memories or longing for what could have been. Instead of suggesting solutions for curing “the holiday blues” ask what you can do to make your loved one’s holiday season easier, and in doing so remember to listen without judging, trying to fix it, or offering advice – and absolutely do not minimize any part of their grief. It isn’t yours so you don’t get to decide what it looks like, and honestly neither do they.

If you want to help your loved one remember their child during the holidays, there are special and meaningful ways to do so.

You can send a thoughtful card letting them know that you recognize that this is a difficult time of year for them. I’ve received many of these, and I can’t express how much it means for someone to reach out, even if they can’t understand the ways that I am struggling, to let me know they care and that they remember my babies. You could also consider a memorial gift or a donation in memory of their child. There are many options for this type of remembrance such as windchimes, special candles, figurines, memorial ornaments, memorial bricks, and so much more. An intimate way to remind your loved one that you remember and that you care is to light a candle for their baby and letting it shine during a holiday gathering. Having something like this available has such potential to make holiday events more peaceful and comfortable for them. Gestures like these provide a truly impactful and loving support for bereaved parents any time of the year, but even more so during the holidays when they are painfully aware of that empty seat at the table.

Don’t hesitate to let them know that you remember and that you love them wherever they are in their grief.

The holidays used to be the most excitedly anticipated time of the year for my family and me. While the magic is still very much alive, at times it is a bit dimmer in the shadow of our grief. We push forward and give as much of ourselves as we can to make Christmas a truly wonderful experience for our living children, but the support and love of others fuels us to make the most of the holiday season and give our children moments to cherish as we celebrate and honor their siblings, too. If you love someone who has lost a child, help them make the most of the holidays by embracing them in their grief and remembering their child with them. It will mean more than you’ll ever know.

Happy holidays, and God bless.

About Kayla Leibner

Thanksgiving Onesies

Mon, 23 Nov 2020 12:15:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

Brilliant sunbeams awaken my eyes. It is a beautiful May day and I have a mission. The night before I scoured the local papers and the internet for garage sale’s advertising baby cloths. Coffee and cash in hand I charge (waddle) out the front door and into my petite Ford Focus. My destination is a nearby neighborhood, the one with the big houses. Usually I see garage sale-ing as a slow and social event but today I will go it alone. Speed is necessary for this mission. I am after baby boy cloths, an entire years’ worth if possible. With a thirteen-month-old bouncing baby girl at home, I doubt that a baby shower is in our family’s future.

Arriving at the first house, I see what I have feared most, the enemy of my mission. Grandmothers. Holding my breath, I dive in. Big belly. Pointy elbows. Nesting instincts. I may not be a grandmother, but I am still a force to be reckoned with. House after house, the piles in the back seat of my Focus begins to climb. Finally, I come to the last house. Two Thanksgiving onesies await me. “Perfect”, I think. Thanksgiving will be Kuyper’s first major holiday. As I waddle to the car I dream about Thanksgiving, about snuggling my little boy. He will be the cute boy, in the cute onesie and I cannot wait to see him.

Once home I take stock of the days plunder.

NB boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.

Three-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.

Six-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.

Nine-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.

Twelve-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.

Total cost: $65

Mission accomplished.

I wash the cloths.

I put them away.

Two weeks later, I deliver Kuyper stillborn.

We have a funeral.

We place him in the ground.

I put the cloths in a plastic bin.

I store it in the basement.

Maybe it is meant for another little boy. Maybe.

I awake with a start in the stark dark of the early morning hours. The box in the basement, which has gone largely unnoticed over the last few months seems to haunt me now. It is Thanksgiving Day. My son is in a grave instead of in his Thanksgiving onesie. After rummaging through our storage area, I return to our bedroom with the onesie in hand. I lay back down and place the onesie on my heart. Wet faced and tired, I fall asleep, no longer haunted. I sleep peacefully, as if he is safe in my arms.

Six years pass. A newborn, baby boy in our extended family is in foster care. He is about to be adopted. After all the years spent in storage, the garage sale cloths are ready to serve their purpose. I package them up and take the box to the Post Office but first I hold back a onesie (a Thanksgiving onesie) that I put it in Kuyper’s memory box. Even though I cry a little as I leave the Post Office, I am thankful that God has allowed a part of our grief to be turned into good.

Dear Mama or Papa,

The first holidays after the loss of a child are hard. Hopes of the past may seem a cruel memory. Thanksgiving 2020 will be my eighth Thanksgiving as a bereaved mother. Will you believe me when I tell you it won’t always be this hard? It will be different but not like the first year or two. Would you promise me you will take care of yourself? Be kind to yourself? Cry when you need to? Say, “No” when you need to? Visit your child’s grave or a place of memory when you need to? And always remember that this pain and grief is not a sign of weakness (No matter what Aunt Karen may say)? It is a sign of your love.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

How To Show Up For A Grieving Mother

Tue, 10 Nov 2020 12:00:00 GMT

By: Autumn Purdy

Gifts come in many forms and any kind offering can make a world of difference to a woman who has experienced pregnancy loss. Gentle words and time spent sharing, handmade presents, a simple meal, a letter scrawled in imperfect handwriting, even a litany of text messages stating “I’m here for you,” will help to lift the spirits of a grieving mother who has lost her child.

When I miscarried the first time, I received an abundance of phone calls and texts, cards, letters, emails, and even a bouquet of flowers from an aunt and uncle. My mom sent a book, Our Stories of Miscarriage , knowing I’d seek out literature to help heal my broken heart. One of my work colleagues left a Styrofoam cooler of food, snacks, and beverages outside my apartment door. Knocking quietly without a response, she followed up with a text, expressing her sympathies and to let me know she had stopped by. When I opened the door to a stack of simple-to-prepare comfort foods, I was touched beyond compare. My village at the time was vast and strong. I appreciated each level of kindness offered to me.

Family and friends showed up for me in a plethora of ways and their efforts were instrumental in helping me to overcome my grief over losing my child.

The second time I suffered a miscarriage, the calls, food, flowers, and sentiments lessened considerably. It’s as if no one knew what to say, what to do, or how to handle my grief. I remember hearing “I’m so sorry” a great deal, followed by lulls of awkwardness and deafening silence.

As my pregnancies continued to end in loss, I don’t recall receiving many thoughtful gifts or words of affirmation after I miscarried a third and fourth time. Maybe I was too dulled by the pain and shock to remember.

Though, the one gift that stands out from this particularly harrowing time arrived in the form of an email from an old friend. In the correspondence, she extended her love, prayers, and support, and also shared some Bible verses to help lift my spirits and to offer me hope. I printed a copy of the email and placed it in my bedside table where it has remained ever since. Over the years, I have referred to her typed words of encouragement to get me through subsequent losses and personal trials.

Due to my recurrent miscarriage experience, I learned many self-care methods and discovered some tangible ways to honor the children I had lost. One fall day when I was out shopping for Christmas presents, I found and bought a set of crystal angel ornaments. These delicate trinkets hang on my family’s Christmas tree every year as a physical reminder of the first, four children my husband and I created together.

During my fifth miscarriage, the support I had initially received a decade prior when I lost my first child, returned to me in abundance .

I was convalescing on the couch when a friend stopped by with a handmade shawl, some literature, and treats. She sat beside me and cried tears of remorse. She, too, was a bereaved mother and her understanding presence was a balm to my weary heart and aching body. Another friend, going through her own health crisis at the time, came by to visit and left with my young son and daughter in tow for an afternoon playdate with her kids, all of them friends. I was able to nap and have some time to myself, a welcome reprieve in a suffering time, all because a friend stopped by and offered help. On another day during my lengthened recovery, I walked out to the mailbox and found a flat, cardboard envelope. Inside was a gift from one of my best friends—an art print featuring my family tree with all the names of my children, living and deceased. After framing the lovely piece, I hung it in the stairwell leading to the basement playroom where we have built an eclectic art gallery of homemade art and sentimental prints. Every day I walk past the gift and am filled with gratitude for such a beautiful gesture and a loving friend.

After my sixth miscarriage, I recall comfort foods, Edible Arrangements, and cookie trays. Some close friends of mine brought over an entire meal, including a homemade chicken pot pie. The warm crust was flaky, buttery, delicious, and the filling inside, hearty, soothing, an expression of consolation and deep care. I can still see the steam rising from the ceramic cookware, can taste the satisfying blend of poultry and cooked vegetables, and I’m once again filled with awe of the dedicated preparation to create such an exquisite meal. What impressed upon me the most, though, was the well-intentioned visit, the hugs, and the tears shared between us.

Because of my experience with recurrent miscarriage, I’m well-versed in showing up, offering comfort, and sitting with sorrow when another mother has lost her child.

Over the years, I’ve offered help and comfort in the ways that had the biggest impact on me. My motivation to support grieving mothers stems from the insight I’ve gained and knowing what it’s like to have lost so much. When visiting, I always bring food. In a pinch, a chocolate bar followed by a hug and an offer to brew some hot tea never fails. I sit with the devastated woman and welcome her tears. Placing a box of Kleenex between us, I nod my head in understanding, express my heartfelt sorrow, empathize and say with conviction, “I’m so sorry for your loss. I understand how you feel. Please share as much or as little as you want. I am here for you, always. You will get through this, I promise. You can count on me.”

About Autumn Purdy

Thankful For The Unexpected

Tue, 10 Nov 2020 12:00:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

The holidays are a time that I find myself especially compelled to reflect on the things for which I am most thankful. Before our life-changing losses, these reflections usually included things like family, friends, and faith. While I am still grateful for these things (and so much more) each day, it is during this season that I find myself considering the most unexpected places I’ve found thankfulness.

The deaths of my babies were the worst moments of my life. Those traumatic events changed me forever, and in ways I may never be able to explain or even fully understand for myself.

One of the ways I was changed was so unexpected – I never saw it coming. When Melody and Jamie died I was so broken that I couldn’t see beyond my pain and suffering for so long. I was at my lowest point, wrecked and defeated.

My first holiday season after Melody died (2017) was dark and heavy with grief. Everything was tainted with the agony of our loss and what our holidays should have looked like. The following holiday season still had a hollow place where our babies should be, as we’d lost Jamie that year (2018). However, I had taken a turn in my grieving process and I was able to see things a little differently despite that void we felt. Now, as I am still missing my babies I am able to consciously focus my thoughts on what I am thankful for.

Losing Melody and Jamie broke me in more ways than I could ever count, but I am still so grateful that I am their mom. I am thankful that God chose me, even if I am only able to carry them in my heart now. I didn’t arrive at this place quickly or easily, but rather through continual prayer, self-care, and time.

I still think about what I am missing and wonder often about what could have been, but I use those thoughts and feelings to help myself dig deeper into how my babies have changed me in the most surprising ways. I believe these changes are gifts from my babies, and I would like to tell you about them.

Compassion.

One way I feel I have been blessed is that my eyes were opened to a whole new realm of emotions and struggles that I hadn’t felt before. I was given the gift of compassion. While I have indeed been shown a tremendous amount of compassion on my journey, I’m not focusing on that. What I mean is that I have found myself to be more deeply compassionate toward others. Because of the labyrinth of feelings I have navigated since my losses, I am more able to look beyond the reactions and behaviors of others. I did not always act like, speak like, or even look like myself in my darkest moments, and because of this I have learned that people behave in certain ways because of tragic or otherwise difficult situations that are out of their control. I have found an inclination to have compassion on others not because I can see the source of their pain, but rather because I cannot . It isn’t my place to judge anyone for their reactions to life – just to be compassionate and loving in return. Because of this eye-opening gift I’ve received, I often remember a favorite scripture of mine:

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

the Father of mercies and God of all comfort,

who comforts us in all our affliction,

so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction,

with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

(2 Corinthians 1:3-4)

This verse is the perfect reminder I always need to continue the chain of compassion by paying it forward to others who are suffering. I am so thankful for the gift of being able to give more compassion to others because I myself experienced receiving this kind of compassion from others firsthand.

Strength.

I have heard so many times, “You’re so strong. I don’t know how you do it.” I usually respond with, “I just do the best I can” or something similarly worded. The truth is that I don’t have a choice, and if I’m being honest I usually don’t feel strong at all. At times I still find myself walking around feeling like I’m on the verge or just a few steps away from my breaking point – but because of the strength I’ve found I am able to work through those moments and bring myself back to a more secure place. The gift of this strength is one I don’t take lightly, and I know that I have not come by it on my own. As a Christian, I know that I am nothing without God – He is my strength. When I lost my babies, I remember going through a time when I couldn’t admit that God was the strength I needed to survive. I had shut Him out and tried to carry on by myself. That was the loneliest and most difficult season of my life. Again, I think of several scriptures when it comes to the gift of strength, but this one is my favorite:

“Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid,

nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God

is with you wherever you go.”

(Joshua 1:9)

I know that wherever I go, that no matter what I go through God is always there to carry me because I can’t do it on my own. There’s another verse that comes to mind that is a great reminder to me about where I find my strength when I feel weak:

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

(Philippians 4:13)

Strength is a gift I have received by way of my faith. I am not strong on my own, and I know that, but God overcomes my weakness when I rely on Him fully. My babies have taught me that in the most powerful way. Losing Melody and Jamie is the most devastating thing to happen to me, and the only way I have survived the pain of those losses is by leaning on God and allowing Him to bring me through the darkness. Learning this has brought me so much peace in overwhelming moments and confidence when I feel unsure.

I did not immediately become deeply compassionate, and I wasn’t instantly strong when I began my journey of grief. It took a lot of time to feel ready to accept these gifts. I believe now that these blessings have allowed me to live my life to the fullest despite having my world twice shattered. I do have setbacks and I wrestle with my grief at times, but by gaining insight about the compassion and strength I now have, I pray that my experience allows me to use these gifts from my babies to help others who are grieving through the holidays, too.

May God bless you and bring you peace.

About Kayla Leibner

Everyday Memories

Mon, 02 Nov 2020 17:30:00 GMT

By: Casey Zenner

Anytime anyone sends me something and says “I thought you would like this, It reminded me of you and Avery” my heart melts.

Every day I fight an internal battle and desire to fight for Avery’s memory to not be forgotten.

All the love,

Avery’s Mom

About Casey Zenner

Like He Never Existed

Mon, 26 Oct 2020 20:12:00 GMT

By: Chrissy

I don’t pay much attention to social media or celebrity news, but it was hard to avoid hearing that Chrissy Teigen had lost her precious baby boy, Jack. It seemed like everyone was talking about it in the loss community. Being the average human that I am, I of course couldn’t then resist going to Twitter and Instagram to read her story and was blindsided by the pictures she shared. Even more shocking, however, were some of the comments and reactions to those intimate pictures.

For too many of us, our losses were handled less than gracefully by medical professionals, the situation surrounding our loss didn’t lend itself to photographs, or we were simply too shocked to know how to proceed or what our options were. Had I known, at five months pregnant, the only time I would have seen my baby was in the bathroom where I delivered him I would have acted so, so differently. Had I known that the nurse would simply bring him to the lab and send his body out for testing without asking or telling us, or giving us the chance to say goodbye, I wouldn’t have left him with her. Had I known that bereavement photography was even a thing, I would have taken advantage of it.

Most people get a lifetime to take pictures with their children, and their phones are full of shots that they’ll probably never look at again. But too many parents have only a brief window of time, a matter of minutes or hours, to capture the love for and life of their precious babies.

When even that moment is stolen from us, it makes the grieving process that much harder. How I wish I could remember what his face looked like, and that I’d had the chance to plant kisses all over it. How I wish I could show the world how perfect his ten little fingers and ten little toes were, or even share the devastation on my face after losing him.

Because those pictures would tell the world that he was real, that he was here, that he was a deeply loved baby, and that the pain of losing him is unbearable. Instead, sweet James is forgotten by the world as if he never existed.

So I applaud Chrissy Teigen for her bravery in sharing such an intimate moment with the world. And at the same time, I am so, so jealous of those beautiful pictures and the precious gift of time that she had with her son. This year’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month feels especially hard. Now, all that I see are the beautiful pictures and mementos, such as handprints or locks of hair, that other loss families have. And what do we have? One lousy sonogram that’s too blurry to see anything because the doctor was in a rush.

It makes me mad, but above all it makes me sad. My baby deserved better, he deserves to be known and cherished and celebrated by the whole world. I’m glad the world gets to know about and mourn the loss of Jack, but I wish it knew about James too.

Meet Chrissy

Chrissy is a loving wife to Shaun and mother to James, who went to heaven far too soon, and his little sister Madison. Although she is a history buff, it was purely coincidence that she named her children after the fourth U.S. president. She hails from Sacramento, CA where she works in politics and enjoys traveling, reading, running, and hiking in her spare time.

I think it’s safe to assume that anybody who criticized Chrissy Teigen for taking or sharing these pictures has never experienced such loss. You see, the pictures themselves didn’t bother me, nor the fact that she decided to share them. What bothered me most was the fact that so many women, myself included, never even get that chance to have those pictures of their own.

Kindred Strangers

Mon, 26 Oct 2020 02:47:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

I never saw it coming.

Tear soaked face.

Thrown together carry-on.

Royal blue, malodorous, Grey’s Anatomy scrubs.

I must have been a sight that day. Sitting among strangers, waiting for the plane, I prayed, “Lord, I need an everyday miracle. Please sit me next to another Christian I can pray with during the flight.” An everyday miracle did occur right then and there. In my spirit I felt it, the word that was not spoken but instead known, “no.” All the sudden I understood; I was being put on this plane to encourage someone else. It seemed unlikely that I could be an encouragement on a day that I needed such encouragement myself. How will this work out? I resigned myself to the answer I had been given and went back to my prayers for my grandfather. If I were lucky, this plane would get me to Detroit before he passed.

A little while later boarding was underway when I turned my head to see a young woman running down the hall. Full of energy and charisma, she seemed to nearly crash into the back of the line. I had a suspicion. “No, Lord. Please, not a college student.” Is this the person I am here to encourage? Selfishly, hoping I was wrong, I sat down in my assigned seat and waited for the seat next to me to fill. Nearly the last one on the plane, the teen girl toted her bag down the aisle and plopped down next to me.

No longer fighting it, I settled with God in my soul. Curious to see what this every day miracle would be, I said, “hello”. Full of words and thoughts, she was not shy. I hardly spoke a word for the first 45 minutes. A kind smile seemed all she needed, and the story of her life came pouring out. Her story is one that no young adult should own. Trauma. Loss. Betrayal. At one point she said, “I have a nephew, but I don’t want kids.” With understanding I said, “I did not want children at your age either, you might change your mind down the road.” “Well, actually,” she hesitated, “I don’t know if I can have kids.” I never saw it coming, not from one so young. I listened as she spoke about two miscarriages and a full-term, stillborn baby girl. At first site, she had seemed a child but now I saw her as she was, a mother of incredible strength, mourning her children, trying to make sense of the hard parts of life. What grit and courage! So, gutted by her story I managed an “I am so sorry for your losses” and then “I too had a son that was stillborn.” As the plane descended, I told her the short version of Kuyper’s story. Once landed, I confessed the truth. “I was praying that God would sit me next to the right person today. I know he did. I think he wanted us to talk about our babies.” “I agree,” she definitively replied. During a time, we both needed encouragement, we received it, each from the other.

We parted ways that day in the Detroit airport. I will never forget her or the story of her babies. I still think about her. I still pray for her. I hope that she is well. She is a woman of genuine grit and my guess is that she is making her way in the world, finding a path and joy.

In the seven years I have been a bereaved mother, it has never ceased to amaze me how many other loss mamas I encounter. We often are not looking for each other but somehow in the chaos or the mundane of everyday life we find each other. We are kindred spirits, are we not?

Women who have so much in common, no matter our age, culture, education, ethnicity, religion, or personality. The loss mama club certainly is a club no one ever wanted to join but one thing is for sure, its members have hearts that are knit tightly together. Our hearts beat for our babies, they beat as one.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

An Epic Journey To Motherhood

Wed, 21 Oct 2020 19:37:00 GMT

By: Autumn Purdy

The first time I miscarried, I was at the tail end of my eleventh week of pregnancy and 900 miles from home. It started with a shocking jolt, a sharp pain directly below my belly button, my skin flushing, and a wave of nausea before I felt the hot gush of blood between my thighs. An immediate ER visit was warranted, and a subsequent visit to my obstetrician confirmed my horrors: no heartbeat, fetal demise, miscarriage . It was my husband’s thirtieth birthday. We had only shared the news with our extended family on Easter Sunday the weekend before. It was not supposed to be this way.

At age 16, I had the first of many ER visits and pelvic exams in my lifetime due to menstrual cycle complications and irregularity, heavy bleeding, and debilitating cramps and back pain. My older sister had found me passed out on the floor of the bathroom we shared, my slim body wedged between the wall and the toilet, lying in a pool of my own blood. During the messy internal exam, I squeezed my eyes shut and crushed my mother’s hand inside my own. As I focused on slowing down my shallow breath as clots pushed through me soaking the paper-lined table below my bottom, the gentle and kind doctor remarked to my mother, “When the time comes and she is ready to get pregnant, I’m afraid she’s going to have a difficult time.”

The treatment team would discharge me with no diagnosis I was aware of, a prescription for Ibuprofen and rest, and a doctor’s note excusing me from school three days a month, every month, for the rest of my high school days for “menstrual cycle irregularity and excessive flow.” It would take fifteen more years of agonizing period complications, infertility, and repeat miscarriages before I was properly diagnosed with Stage III Endometriosis, luteal phase deficiency, uterine fibroids, and perpetuating hormone imbalances.

Achieving pregnancy after my first miscarriage wasn’t easy. After a year of trying to conceive, I had a positive home test. Two weeks later, the bleeding began.

I called my obstetrician and explained what was happening. She offered little consolation and expressed confusion by my emotional reaction to “barely a pregnancy.” At my courtesy check-up where I received confirmation of my second child’s dead-still heartbeat, I cut ties with that doctor and began my search for a more compassionate practitioner, concrete answers, and the meaning behind the suffering I was enduring.

Through friends, I found the caring OB/GYN I was seeking. An attentive listener from the initial consultation, he showed remorse for my losses and took copious notes on my entire medical history. He wasted no time in sharing he believed all signs pointed to Endometriosis, and devised an intricate plan for helping us achieve again and maintain pregnancy beyond the first trimester. Once certain my husband’s fertility wasn’t in question, I underwent the first of the four surgeries I would trust my new doctor to perform on my abdomen in nine years’ time. The laparoscopy would reveal his assumptions were true, and he proceeded to remove 90% of the Endometriosis wrecking my female organs, though, needing to leave the cysts and lesions on other internal organs he wasn’t trained to excise.

For eighteen months following my laparoscopy, I would attempt to reduce stress, shunned lattes and alcohol, switched to gentler forms of exercise, swallowed high doses of folic acid and vitamins, and ingested Clomid pills as my husband injected hCG into the back of my arms and in a circle formation around my stomach to jump-start my fertility into action. Under this time-consuming and often painful program, my slender physique would swell up like a balloon from retention. I formed tender and unsightly black and blue marks on my arms and stomach, and above my hips from countless hormone boosters. The crooks of my arms would remain permanently bruised and red-marked from frequent blood draws to measure my body’s levels. And I would become pregnant three more times, miscarry twice, and my doctor would successfully deliver my first-born son by caesarean section.

After my son’s surgical birth, my husband and I would have little trouble conceiving my daughter when we were ready to grow our family. The day I held the positive pregnancy test in my hand, I would see my doctor for blood work to measure my baseline hormone levels, and start progesterone support. Despite experiencing early contractions at 30 weeks along, my daughter was born a healthy, full-term baby by caesarean section at the skilled hands of my adept physician.

After her birth, I had a moment of respite; actually, thought my pregnancy troubles were a thing of the past.

Sadly, this belief would prove untrue as our doctor would see me through another stretch of infertility and two more, quite traumatic, miscarriages before my husband and I conceived our youngest son. At age 39, I was automatically categorized as “high risk,” and was prescribed hormone support through the second trimester. I’d never lost a pregnancy past twelve weeks, so panic ensued when at 15 ½ weeks along, I suddenly started bleeding profusely. Because my doctor was at the hospital delivering another mother’s child, an unfamiliar practitioner would examine me. He plopped cold, blue gel on my rounded belly as I failed to hold back tears, and he stated plainly, “You know, there’s nothing we can do for you now if I can’t find the heartbeat.” My trusted OB/GYN would call me at home to say he had ordered a repeat ultrasound for the next day when he’d be back in the office. This successive appointment would expose my son’s wiggling form in 3-D and a strong heartbeat, as well as the diagnosis: placenta previa.

Six years have passed since my last miscarriage.

Five years have gone by since the caesarean birth of my son. Three years have elapsed since I held a child to my breast. Now in my mid-forties and perimenopausal, I’m beginning to let go of the trauma of early pregnancy loss and recurrent miscarriage. Despite the harrowing climb, I can honestly recount I would travel that treacherous road repeatedly for what I gained: the discovery of my inner-resolve and endurance; a definitive diagnosis of my menstrual cycle and fertility woes; ample opportunity to strengthen my marriage in the face of adversity; the eternal joys of building a family; and after an impressive feat, finally , being allowed to cherish the beautiful sound of the words I longed to hear for so long: “Mommy. Mama. Mom.”

About Autumn Purdy

Autumn Purdy earned a B.A. in English from St. Vincent College in Latrobe, PA, and is a Reviews Editor for Literary Mama. Currently writing her first book about the path to motherhood and her experience with recurrent miscarriage, she lives in Westerville, Ohio with her family. You can read more of her writing at https://asadsongbetter.com/ and https://bookjoy.blog/ and find her on Instagram and Twitter at @purdywords.

The post An Epic Journey To Motherhood appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

Forever Loved, Missed, and Carried Daily

Mon, 19 Oct 2020 20:38:00 GMT

By: Keisha Wells

There are many keepsakes I have for my twin sons. Delicate and treasured items made and purchased for and in honor of them—blankets, bracelets, and the crocheted hats that framed their angelic faces in our final earthly moments together. I keep them stored safely and take them out from time to time, thinking back lovingly on our precious time together.

Aside from these keepsakes are other articles associated with our loss such as the medical records that list diagnoses, terms, and codes to chronicle my five months of pregnancy and the day of my sons’ first and last breaths. I have a copy of these records, stored in a bright red folder. It’s not easily approachable. It’s a folder I see and instantly feel a mix of uncomfortable emotions. It’s not one I take head on—not because of the reality of loss, but the medical terms assigned to it.

Unlike my sons’ keepsakes preserved in a dedicated space, this folder has moved from room to room in my home, from filing cabinet to tucked away in a deep drawer. In reorganizing, I recently came across this folder and was met with the usual heaviness. I reached out to a friend and fellow angel mom to discuss this trigger and mix of emotions associated with this aspect of our grief journeys. Our losses vary, yet we share many universal emotions as grieving mothers. Our exchange comforted me, in which we freely voiced our frustration about these taunting clinical labels.

Miscarriage

Nonviable pregnancy

Stillbirth

I know we are not the only ones disheartened by these words. Unfortunately, there are many of these hard to get by and hard to process terms, so casually said and listed in medical records that contribute to the shame, guilt, and stigma of pregnancy and infant loss. They are not accurate words to describe or provide an explanation of our children’s lifetimes and our motherhood.

We did not fail our babies. We did not carry them in error. In my view, no mother does.

There is nothing false about my bond with my sons. I nurtured my sons to live—for a brief yet powerful lifetime. I cared for them. I loved them. I wanted them. I prayed for them. I nourished them. I was careful with them. I did not reject them. I carried them tenderly yet fiercely, as if our lives depended on it. And I still carry them in my DNA, in every breath I take, and with each beat of my heart.

The sterile medical terms—used to define the basis of our hurt or summarize our experiences and induction in this community of parents who have survived perinatal loss—are derogatory. We are cast aside and rejected, as if we did not prepare for joyful and abundant lives with our children. Lives full of milestones, struggles, hopes, and intentions. These terms scream guilt, judgment, error, shame, and ignorance. That we got it wrong. That we did wrong. That we are inherently wrong and void. That love was rejected. These terms do not articulate a mother’s love for her child or how deeply we miss our children and how our love for them continues to grow.

There are so many factors beyond our control in grief and loss. And these words are an example of that, but I also recognize my power today in silencing and not using these hurtful, false words in my narrative. Words that seek to invalidate a grieving mother’s truth. Words that seek to diminish the value and meaning of our children’s lives and the power of their legacies.

Our babies are not a statistic, a medical case gone wrong, or a study.

My sons, my dear children, are bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh. Their lifetimes are forever valued. They are forever loved, missed, and carried daily.

About Keisha Wells

Keisha Wells is a mom to twin angels, Kyle and Kendrick, and author of From Three Heartbeats to One: A Gentle Companion Offering Hope in Grieving Pregnancy and Infant Loss . Keisha is also a licensed professional counselor and owner of Transformation Counseling Services in Georgia. Her practice focuses on grief counseling and perinatal mental health services for women and moms. Keisha is an avid reader and writer, contributing to articles in ESSENCE Magazine, The New York Times, Bustle, Parents Magazine, and HuffPost. Connect with Keisha at www.keishawells.com and on Instagram at www.instagram.com/kwellslpc.

Your Love Is Legendary

Tue, 13 Oct 2020 00:56:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

Mother Bear first noticed the faint smell of smoke that morning as she wandered about her home of skyward reaching trees, brambles, berries, and trickling streams. She paid it no heed. Her two cubs wrestled about in the underbrush, ear gnawing, rollie pollies that would jump to a battling bear stance at a moment’s notice.

Lumbering about that morning, it was as it always was, peaceful perfection.

After a lunch of fish and berries, two sleepy little bears and one big mama bear found themselves nestled in the warm sand along the lakeshore for a mid-day nap.

Maybe it was crackles or suffocating air that woke Mother Bear to the hissing flames. Lapping heat stung her fur as moisture-sapped air dried her mouth. Her lungs searched for oxygen with every breath. Through tear-filled eyes she looked down upon her precious cubs. The inferno feasted greedily upon their pine forest, leaving only one way of escape, the lake.

After waking the little two, mother bear, dove into the cold waters of the crystal-clear lake where she and they had played daily. Baby cubs, ever trusting in a mother bear’s love followed behind, swimming towards the distant shore.

As waves rolled over waterlogged fur, Mother Bear looked over her shoulder to see two cubs treading not far behind. In geese-like formation the family of three battled wind, waves, and smoke for hours.

Afternoon was turning to evening as the brown figures became visible from the flameless shore on the other side of Lake Michigan. The big orange globe became one with the pine forest inferno as Mother Bear finally collapsed on the shore. The land shook beneath her like that of a small earthquake. Raising her head just a little, she looked out to see her cubs, still swimming, drawing nearer to the beach where she lay in exhaustion. Two instincts warred within mother bear. Her eyelids longed to succumb to sleep, yet every bit of motherly love demanded she stay awake until her little cubs’ paws reached the sand. She looked out over the water.

Blink.

Two Cubs.

Blink.

Two Cubs.

Blink. Blink.

Two Cubs.

B-L–I—N—-K…

Waves.

Birds.

Smoking trees on the distant shore.

Where are my cubs?

Turning round.

“ROAR!”

Silence.

Where are my babies?

“ROAR!”

Silence.

For days only the silence called back to mama bear.

Waiting.

Pacing.

Roaring.

The silence was all she could hear.

Grief stricken, Mother Bear would not leave the beach to hunt or forge. She watched and waited in the heat for what would not come. Faint and on the brink of death, that dear mama bear, heard the Great Spirit’s voice on the wind. Before her dreary eyes arose two islands in the lake where her cubs had drowned. The Great Spirit had created the islands from the cubs.

Roar.

She called to the islands, to her cubs.

In the roar every creature could hear her heart, “Forever my cubs, I will love you forever.”

The Great Spirit kissed Mother Bear goodnight and laying her there eternally, buried her in the dune. Mother Bear and her cubs will forever be remembered in the story of sleeping bear dunes.

To this day you can go and see them, the dune and two islands across the way. To this day Mother Bear’s love is remembered. Legends are made of the everyday brave like her.

Dear bereaved mother,

Is Mother Bear not us all?

We wait not on the beach but in the daily life. We live as if we hold a secret that no one else knows. Others may see the island, but we see the memory and meaning it holds. Our cubs reside just beyond the breakers, just out of reach from the shore. To us, their presence is as tangible as sand beneath bare feet. We do not sleep like Mother Bear does but like her we hold our cubs in our hearts with the fiercest of loves, the love of a mother bear.

(The Legend of Sleeping Bear is an ancient story handed down by the storytellers of the Ottawa and Chippewa tribes. The site of the story is now Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lake Shore located on Lake Michigan.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Finding Beauty in Grief

Tue, 13 Oct 2020 00:52:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

The season of Fall has quickly transformed the trees. The hues of red, orange and yellow are bountiful in color. Seasons of change are difficult for those of us who have experienced pregnancy loss. There is beauty in the seasons changing, yet an ache as we wish our children were here.

This October marks three years since we lost our son. Fall used to be my favorite season. I still find beauty in leaves changing colors and the cooler nights. However, it is bittersweet as I long for our son to be here. As the holidays start to approach, this season becomes more difficult.

Awareness is important so that others know they are not alone in this journey. Experiencing a loss of a child is something that is heartbreaking. As we pick up the pieces of our grief, having others sit with us in our pain and to encourage us in this new season is needed in our healing.
“It’s not fair.”
“I have had a similar experience.”
“I don’t know what it feels like and I am sorry.”
Phrases like these are sentiments that won’t bring peace, but will bring empathy that is much needed.

There are times in our lives when things can’t be fixed. It’s knowing that even though others can’t take our pain and sadness away, their presence can be felt with care when given out of empathy.

I think back to that first month of grief, when I couldn’t function. Friends that sat with me when words could not be spoken. Friends who knew by just reading my emotions that care was needed.

I have also experienced words that I perceived as hurtful. Words like, “There was a plan in why you lost him.”
“At least you have your other two sons.”
“I thought you would be over your grief by now.”
Whether the tone or intent came across as not empathetic, certain words hurt. Until you have experienced the loss of a child, it’s a pain that is deep and can be felt by others who also have experienced loss.

The rainbow of leaves reminds me of the brightness of colors. For some of us, we have rainbow babies after loss that bring joy.

For myself, a rainbow baby will not happen. It took a long amount of time for me to accept that I will not have the opportunity to feel that joy. Through writing and bringing words of empathy and encouragement, I hope that a rainbow of care will shine through to others.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/robynsnestofhope/

Speak The Unspeakable

Mon, 12 Oct 2020 02:12:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

In all walks of life, it’s important to be able to tell your story. The elements of our story help shape us into the people we become. We get to influence some of the plot and choose some of the characters in our life, but other times we can’t control what or who crosses our path.

As a Christian, I tell my story to give glory to God. As a mother, I tell my story to show pride for my children. As a wife, I tell my story to honor my commitment to my husband. As a whole, our stories are multi-faceted with many chapters detailing the journey of our life, and just like a book, the events of each chapter begin a ripple effect that impacts the chapters to come. The losses of our babies are not an exception.

Something I’ve noticed from watching parents and from being a parent is that it is important to us to be able to tell others about our children. We share about how smart they are, how much they’ve grown, and about their accomplishments. It’s one of the many privileges of being a parent.

When our babies died, we lost their entire lifetimes of these “parent pride” moments. I don’t believe this means we shouldn’t and can’t speak about our children. On the contrary, I believe that it’s vital to the development and eventually the resolution of our story to be the voice of our children.

When we lost Melody and Jamie, we experienced a pivotal moment in our story. Those very moments changed the rest of our lives. If Melody and Jamie had lived they would have continued to be physical parts of our story. The fact that they now exist in our hearts and in heaven does not change the impact they’ve left on the remainder of our journey here on earth.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It’s an amazingly inspiring time to reach out into the world and to speak out – to share about our beautiful angels in heaven, to tell our story and, therefore, tell their story – but what about the other 334 days of the year?

One thing that rings painfully true is that no matter the day, week, month, or year, I am always intensely aware of the absence of my children. There is no break in my acute attention to this matter.

It’s been three years – three very long years. Life has continued on, I have moved forward, and I have achieved a sense of healing. Yet every morning I wake with a feeling that something is missing. There’s a nagging feeling – and I don’t mean the feeling that I may have left the oven on or forgot to lock the door. This feeling is a bit of emptiness that lives in my very full and blessed life. It’s a constant wondering of what could have been and what I am missing, despite how much I recognize my many blessings.

Even as I grow and progress in my life, learning to cope with the void that’s left, I still occasionally find myself feeling as though I’m screaming out in a crowded room with no one to hear me.

People don’t like to talk about it, hear about it, or think about it.

It’s uncomfortable to imagine what it would be like to switch places with me, and I get that. But when reading a book, to understand the whole story – especially the resolution – you can’t skip chapters.

Oftentimes, I feel our grief is stifled and suppressed. But why? This topic seems to be “unspeakable” in our society for different reasons – because we’re told to be strong, or we want to shield others from our pain, or because we’ve been shamed into a deafening silence. Why is our grief so stigmatized? Why are we told to “be strong” and “move on?” One thing I have learned on this journey is that I can move forward in my life, but I’ll never be able to move on from the deaths of my children. You can move on from a breakup or a bad habit, but not the loss of a child.

I believe we should be able to be bold and speak up.

Our unspeakable stories may bring discomfort to some, but what they feel for a short while is only a minute fraction of the heartache and unease we live with every day. The telling of our tragic tales, while they’ll cause some to feel uncomfortable or alarmed, will also produce an awareness that is so imperative to our collective stories.

If we are honest about the ways that societal expectations hurt our already grieving hearts, could we clear the air? Could we help those on the outside realize and grasp a small portion of the yearning we have to be able to tell our stories fully ? And could we help those who join this community after us to feel as though they’re able to speak out, too? I believe so!

It’s not easy because our stories are more than tragic. They are heartbreaking in the most obviously agonizing kind of ways. But each of our stories are also unique. I may be able to reach many people with my personal story, but there are also many people I will not be able to make a lasting impact on because of various reasons.

But if we each take the bold step of speaking about our babies, by telling our stories, how many more people can we reach? How much more of a difference could we make? How many more parents might realize that they’re not alone?

Speaking out and telling my story has personally helped me find healing by allowing me to gradually process my tragedies. By opening up my life book and “reading people in” I have been able to allow myself to be loved and supported by people in deeper ways than I could ever have imagined. I have truly seen God’s handiwork in this process. I hope that by sharing my story I am not only achieving awareness, but that others are also encouraged, inspired, and strengthened to step forward and say, “I have a story, too.”

About Kayla Leibner

Remembering Together This October

Mon, 05 Oct 2020 02:05:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

October is an important month for the loss community. It is filled with events to honor our children who are no longer here. I always find myself slightly dreading October because it can be so heavy yet also, looking forward to it because it gives me the opportunity to focus on my son. It gives me things to do in his honor, which can be seriously lacking throughout the rest of the year.

However, this year is one that will look a bit different. With the current global pandemic situation, most of the events have gone virtual.

Personally, I’ve found that I’ve signed up for more events this year than in previous years, simply because they are virtual. Over the last 3.5 years that I have been a bereaved mother I’ve connected with women from all over the country who now have their own events for infant loss. This year I am able to support their local happenings by virtually attending their 5Ks and remembrance events.

It’s nice to be able to feel connected to these women and contribute to their causes.

However, that being said, I know I am going to miss the in-person connections with my fellow local loss families this year. I will miss seeing the same people we have seen year after year at our local events, giving them hugs, and remembering their child/ren along with mine.

2020 has been quite the year of isolation. For many (myself included) the beginning of quarantine was eerily reminiscent of those first few weeks/months after losing a child; where it is too much to venture into the outside world and just easier to stay in the comfort of our own homes, avoiding anyone and everyone. Given the current circumstances, it would be easy to just call this October a wash and skip doing anything for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

Don’t let this year, and the lack of in-person remembrance opportunities, make you feel like you are alone in your loss.

There are so many wonderful organizations offering a myriad of virtual remembrance events for us this October. I encourage you to find some that speak to you and sign up for them with your virtual and real-life friends.

Losing a child is painful enough, let’s not let 2020 take away the few events we have to express that pain and honor our dearly missed children.

Sending love to you all!

Delicate Dance

Thu, 24 Sep 2020 16:15:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

The other day I was wearing a Share t-shirt from one of our local chapter’s Walks to Remember that we attended. It’s been worn quite frequently in recent weeks. Since I’ve been working from home, all my t-shirts have become my new work attire, and I’m not mad about it.

While sitting on the sofa, Harper climbed into my lap and sat facing me. She pointed to the Share logo on my shirt which is two hands, one on top of the other, and she said “Asher’s hand”. I said “yeah?”. Then she pointed again and said “Mama’s hand”.

Tears sprang to my eyes.

Here is this 22-month-old child pointing at a shirt that, I only have because of her brother and the loss of him, saying his name, and making a connection between him and her mama. It just took my breath away.

I have no idea what even caused her to make the connection because I have never told her anything about the shirt or Asher’s connection to it before. Yet here she was, looking at it and thinking of her brother.

My heart burst with happiness, plus a side of sadness. I was so happy that she thought of her brother without prompting, that she said his name (which she does quick frequently and every time it brings me joy). I was also so sad that she will never get to meet him. That she and her sister have a sibling they will never get to grow up with.

This is parenting after loss.

It’s a delicate dance of gratitude for the children you get to raise and longing for the one(s) that you don’t.

It’s simple moments that can take your breath away.

It’s wonderful and it’s painful.

I know as my girls continue to grow they will start to ask questions about Asher and why he isn’t with us. Questions I know I won’t fully be able to answer because I don’t know why he isn’t here. Nothing about those moments will be wonderful. They will only be painful; a painful reminder of how unfair life is.

So…for now, I am going to relish in the moments that bring me joy with a twinge of sadness; moments where our beautiful little girls say their brother’s name, where they carry his bear around but struggle to do so because of the 4 lbs. 13 ozs. that it weighs, all the moments where their brother is incorporated into their lives without the complication of explaining his absence to them.

I Am With You

Thu, 10 Sep 2020 16:30:00 GMT

By: Casey Zenner

Close your eyes…take a deep breath.

Do you feel that?

The peace coming over you?

That’s me.

That’s me telling you I am okay, so please don’t worry.

That’s me waving hello and goodbye, please hurry home, I can’t wait to hear your stories.

That’s me grabbing your leg and squeezing tight in the afternoon as your day drags on.

That’s me kissing you goodnight when you lay your head down with a big yawn.

That’s me watching over you, making sure you stay.

One day you will come to Heaven and we will get to play.

Not too soon though, as my mommy and daddy need you to help them ride the waves.

I know this is hard for you, but remember you need to stay brave.

I can’t be there to tell you I love you, but I promise if you look around you will see that I am jumping up and down saying;Hey! Look at me!

Do you see that butterfly fluttering in front of your window?

Or the beautiful cardinal perched on the tree?

Do you sometimes hear the wind chimes when there is no breeze?

You will feel and hear me, wishing you could see me.

I am all around you if you just take a minute and breathe.

So please don’t forget me

To all the grandparents who hold their grandchildren in their hearts instead of their arms, especially Avery’s grandparents, may you know we love you on this Grandparents Day.

About Casey Zenner

Love Bears All Things

Thu, 03 Sep 2020 16:30:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

The journey of a bereaved parent is full of misconceptions, false impressions, and understatements. It’s uncomfortable and unthinkable. There’s no possible way to help someone to understand unless they, too, are walking in our shoes. At some point, we were all on the misunderstanding end of this scenario. I know I once was. Until I wasn’t.

Growing up I was always aware that I had another brother that wasn’t with us. I knew that Wade had died before my brother, DJ and I were born. However, in my childhood and teen years – even into my early twenties – pregnancy and infant loss was more of a taboo subject than it is even now. Of course, I knew what had happened and how Wade’s life had ended so abruptly and too soon, but some questions were unasked and many feelings untold. This wasn’t just in our home, but it was the unfortunate norm of the time. Nobody knew how or wanted to talk about dying babies.

When I think about my mom, grieving in silence all that time, I can’t be anything but in awe of her strength during those years of emotional solitude.

She carried the burden that we all do, but without the many resources for support that have been such a blessing for me and for so many other families. I know the weight of my own sorrow, but I have many others to share the load with – friends, family, and a community of other parents like me.

Looking back on the day that our newborn daughter Melody died, even then I had no idea how my mother’s story would impact and support me in my own. I’m ashamed to admit that it didn’t even dawn on me that my own mother had experienced the waves of anguish that engulfed me that day.

It was a day of devastating tragedy. Melody lived an hour and twenty-seven minutes, fighting for her life with every second. Doctors strove desperately, pouring love and passion into their work. When it was realized that she wasn’t going to survive, I was brought from my recovery room to the NICU to hold her as she passed from this earth. I’ll never forget the brief moment I had with Melody before her last breath was gone. It is forever seared into my memory.

The next thing I can remember is my mom standing next to my hospital bed. I handed her the heartbreakingly beautiful, but sadly still and quiet bundle that was my baby girl. “I don’t know how to do this, mom.” I remember saying that like it was this morning. I had never been so lost in my life. I remember the question running through my head like a scrolling marquis…

How am I supposed to live my life without her ?

My mom stood quiet for a moment, choosing her words thoughtfully. She simply said, “I know.” There it was. She knew . All these years…she knew what it was like, before I ever even had to consider what it would feel like to live without my babies. My mom knew. I don’t think I realized the profound nature of her response in that moment. That fleeting, but intimate conversation played over in my mind repeatedly in the days to follow – and still now.

My mom knew the heavy grief that awaited me once the initial shock of the trauma wore off. She dreaded the pain and suffering I would endure as I journeyed through the darkness with my family.

She prayed more than anything that she could take it away from me and wished that I wouldn’t understand the agony to come. My mom wanted nothing more than for me to be able to wake from this living nightmare in which I’d found myself, that I would be spared the unquenchable ache that was inevitable as I would long for my babies for the rest of my life.

Needless to say, my mother has been a willing and undying support to me and my family – twice over as we experienced this trauma yet again nine months later when we lost our son, Jamie, through a miscarriage. My mom has been a listening ear, an understanding heart, and a giver of encouragement. She’s expressed to me on multiple occasions that she is grateful to be able to understand and to help, but that she wishes I wasn’t the one who needed it.

I get that. As a parent, my first instinct is to protect my children, to take all their troubles away – all the things that hurt and bring them pain. I want to get rid of it all and make them feel better. And I desperately hope and pray that they will never experience the trauma and devastation of child loss.

When I think about the love I have for my children, that my mom has for me and the maternal instincts we have to take away the pain of our children, I am reminded of one of my favorite scriptures in the Bible.

It reads, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (1 Corinthians 13:7-8) This says it all.

My mom has, through her love and despite her own sorrow, helped me bear my burden of loss in so many respects. The most evident way is that she has experienced this loss, too, and therefore knows every thought, feeling, and struggle of this life. But she was also a mom of children with questions. She has supported me in my motherhood of my living children in a way that no one else possibly could. She has helped me learn how to support my grieving children while also walking through my own grief.

When I think of all that my mom has gone through in order to be this resilient and constant resource for me, I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. She and I have had many conversations over the years about how God works in our lives to prepare us for things to come. I certainly envisioned these strength-building scenarios quite differently .

I know that the loss of my brother thirty-four years ago was monumentally devastating, but I also know that it gave her the strength, experience, and wisdom that has supported me over the last few years.

Knowing that my mom weathered such a debilitating storm – unknowingly for my benefit – brings me such mixed emotions. I am deeply sorry for the unspeakable pain my mom has endured – pain that I, too, now understand – but at the same time I am undeniably comforted by how her life-changing story has influenced mine.

I can only hope that I can continue to show my mother’s love by paying it forward, so to speak. She has poured herself into my healing and my grief, all while also grieving her son and grandchildren. It is my wish to use the strength and wisdom I’ve gained through my own journey and from the remarkable influence of my mom to help someone else like me – just as she did. I believe that as a community, we can help one another bear this burden. I think if we believe in one another, we can do this, and I know that if we help one another endure this journey we can find hope in our healing.

About Kayla Leibner

What Now?

Thu, 27 Aug 2020 16:32:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Dell

My husband and I laughed and joked with each other on the way to our doctor’s appointment. It was February 18, 2020. I was teasing him about some pictures he had hung up recently. They were in a formation that I, personally, would not have chosen. But I asked him to hang the pictures and he hung them. So there’s that.

We had just had an anatomy scan 2 weeks prior, but our baby girl (like her mama) was being stubborn and did not want her picture taken that day. We were asked to come back just so we could get some more pictures of her face, which I was anxious to see.

I was under the care of my regular OB, along with a high-risk OB. I was 37 weeks at the time, and had some kind of blood clotting “thing,” which required daily shots of a blood thinner into my stomach. I did it happily each day because, after all, it was for the baby. That particular day we happened to have a regular OB appointment at 8:00, and then a follow up to our anatomy scan at 10:00.

It’s important to note that all of our tests/scans/genetic testing up to this point had all come back perfectly normal. Baby girl’s heartbeat was always right where it should be, and there was nothing else of concern to either doctor.

That day, with my regular OB, she asked if we wanted to hear the heartbeat (even though we were about to get a more in-depth scan shortly after this appointment). Did we want to hear the heartbeat??? Of course we did! We never turned down a chance to see/hear our sweet girl. The doctor pulled out the little travel-sized machine and put it against my stomach. She moved it around awhile before suggesting maybe we try a portable ultrasound machine. Having no success with that (but not being concerned,) she sent us over to the ultrasound tech. The doctor mentioned she thought the way the baby was facing was making it difficult to find the heartbeat on the machines she was using but a “real” ultrasound would help. Then, everything changed. I got undressed from the waist down, as I did every 2 weeks. My anxiety was “normal,” for someone who is high anxiety all the time. After all, we had nothing to worry about. Everything had been fine so far.

My mom had joined us for this appointment, as she usually did. This was her first grandchild! In the room it was me, my husband, my mother, and the ultrasound tech.

What seemed to be out of nowhere, I heard the words that would literally change me forever. “There’s no heartbeat.”

What??? Check again. I couldn’t say that, because I remember my hand going up to cover my mouth and the tears just started flowing. The ultrasound tech left to tell the doctor, who we met with shortly after. Most of that conversation was a blur but I remember the look of shock on her face when she came in the room.

The rest of the day was spent crying, sending texts that I didn’t want a response to, and basically not knowing what else to do. We had already sold all of our furniture in the guest room because it would be her room. I was 21 weeks pregnant and we had already gotten tons of gifts and items people had given us. Her room was full of stuff already. 21 weeks. Nearly 5 months. Babies are born and survive at 5 months, right???

The next thing I knew, it was 2 days later, and I was at another hospital with another doctor. She explained the procedure they would be doing, and then had to “prep” me for it. That’s ridiculous. How do you ever prep someone to lose their child? Physically, she had to make sure my body was ready to deliver my baby. The prep was physically one of the most painful things I’ve ever dealt with. Mentally, I couldn’t even compare it to anything else. The next day, I went in for my procedure. It wasn’t until 1:00 pm. I was already angry about that. I was hungry and thirsty, not to mention the fact that I was going to the hospital to have my baby taken from me.

The weeks following the procedure were painful, both physically and emotionally. People would ask “how are you?” How do you even answer that? “Eh, ok,” is what I would normally respond.

Fast forward to the present. It’s 6 months later. I am still here, I am still grieving.

Our due date, 6/29/2020, came and went. My therapist recommended that I write a letter to my baby. I decided to wait until that day to do it. It was a Monday and I took off work. It was the first time I would really allow myself to feel my feelings. I lit a candle, went into her room and sat down. I finally looked for the first time at her tiny footprints, in purple ink. They were perfect. I wrote until I had nothing left to say. I thanked her for blessing us for those 5 months. I thanked her for making me realize how much I really did want to be a mother. Until I met my husband, I never wanted to have kids. Kids are annoying, right? I apologized to her for things my body did, knowing full well they weren’t my fault. But I told her everything.

What some people didn’t realize is that we had originally gotten pregnant in late August. We found out about the baby on a Tuesday, and by Friday, I was miscarrying at 5 weeks. The doctor had no reason to think anything was wrong with me. We should be able to have a normal, healthy pregnancy. And luckily for us, we got pregnant again in no time. In October, we found out about our rainbow baby. I knew right away I was pregnant. I just felt it.

So what am I left with? What now?

I’m left with about 15 pounds of “baby weight” from a baby I didn’t get to take home with me. I’m left with her footprints on a piece of paper. I’m left with all the grief and questions and “why me?” We found out a few weeks after our loss that our baby girl had a chromosomal issue that was considered “mosaic,” therefore it was only in 30% of her cells. This would explain why it didn’t show up in any of the testing we did.

I wish I had advice for other grieving mothers. I am not a writer, a blogger, or anything else. I am just someone who went through something tragic. I had many people reach out to me with their advice, so I write this in the hopes that it will even let ONE person know that their feelings are valid. I have gotten tons of advice and I listen to all of it and take it to heart. I don’t have anything to offer, other than to say you are not alone.

After all the gifts and flowers and everything else we received after the fact (which were beautiful and much appreciated), it feels now like the whole world kept moving and I am stuck on February 18, 2020. I am still stuck in long pants and boots and jackets because it’s still February. And our baby was still with us.

If you feel like the whole world has moved on without you, you’re not alone. I am with you, where you are. Whatever date you are stuck in. I am with you.

So, what now? Anxiety over getting pregnant again, anxiety over trying to get pregnant again but not being pregnant yet. Anxiety over everything. My husband and I have much to be thankful for, but our hearts will never be 100% full. There will always be a missing piece. So again, I say if this is where you are, I am with you.

______________________________________________________________________________

About Lindsey Dell

Lindsey is am a soon-to-be 38 year old, born and raised in the St. Louis area. She lives in Cottleville with her husband and their wheaten terrier puppy. They are both healing and still hopeful that one day they will get their double rainbow baby.

The post What Now? appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

The Deep Roots of Legacy

Thu, 20 Aug 2020 16:30:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

“Tough it out.” “Don’t cry.” Don’t be a girl.” We have been told for years that to show pain, or to speak of it, is weakness. We are the children of stoicism. The American roots run deep into this ancient philosophy. At the heart we know something is wrong with it but from day one this belief has been a part of us. Growing in this harsh soil of stoicism paired with the miracles of modern medicine we as a people find ourselves wholly unprepared for the unexpected death, the death of a child.

Unlike most, my introduction to bereavement was gentle. It happened over years. I learned through stories, the memories of my grandmothers. It seems that I always knew about Jonny and John. Great Grandma Margaret would settle herself into a chair and then call all the children to her, saying, “I am going to tell you about all the naughty things your parents did when they were children”. And she did. She told us stories of little boys ruining their Sunday best, of nighttime bicycle rides through the countryside, and of the history of our family. She told us about our great grandpa, her first husband, who died before his time. She told us about her parents who worked the grounds on a Scottish estate until they took a boat to America. A poor family looking for a better life. Among all these stories and more were the stories of her son Jonny, who died at the age of eight from appendicitis. Great Grandma Margaret was a poet. Her poem, “Jonny”, is my favorite.

“Is he close to your breast, Gentle Jesus,

And by wondrous Celestial Grace,

Have you taught his lips once more to smile

And erased the pain from his face?

He is so small to be away

Lord lead him by the hand

When you walk by ‘The Still Water’

Upon the Heavenly Strand.

Was he taken from us Father

So our unseeing eyes might see

A beckoning hand,

A radiant face

And a glimpse of Eternity?”

My great grandmother was not the only storyteller in the family. My Grandma Ina, her daughter, is as well. Grandma Ina’s stories are not as dramatic, but they are no less interesting or poignant. As a child, I loved to hear her talk about life on a farm; how things were when she was a girl. She would also tell us about John, her second child, who was born premature and died two days later. As a child it seemed a normal thing to talk about those who were gone. It did not matter that we never met them. John is my uncle and Jonny my great uncle. They are a part of the family that has made me. We are part of the same linage. I love Jonny for his bravery in the face of death. My heart breaks for John and my grandmother; he was never held by her because she was never allowed the chance.

No one is prepared to become a bereaved parent, but I have always said that I was as prepared as humanly possible. When those around you, those you love, speak about the realities of grief it gives a perspective, one that our culture frequently ignores.

My cousin Josh and I were the oldest of the grand kids that Great Grandma Margaret would gather around her chair. As the oldest two, Josh and I have always shared a bond. I was in college when Josh married his sweetheart Kim.

They were in their early twenties when they decided to get pregnant for the first time. Kim was healthy. They were young. Although, there was every reason to believe the pregnancy would go perfect, at 20 weeks they were informed that baby Calvin had Trisomy 18. Josh and Kim spent the next 21 weeks enjoying every moment they could with their little boy. Both wrote and talked about their experiences, even going into their thoughts on heaven and life after death. I read most of what they published which was on a topic I am sure I would have not given much thought to otherwise as a college student. Then the day came. After a hard labor Calvin was born still, but beautiful. A photographer friend of theirs documented his birth. Beautiful pictures of their family of three and of the entire extended family flooded my Facebook home page.

Josh and Kim were saying hello and saying goodbye. In the months following, Josh and Kim continued to blog about their journey, describing raw grief and bittersweet memories, keeping on during the impossible. Although I tried, I could not wrap my head around what had happened to them. One thing is for sure though, I was watching. I was paying attention.

A few months later I hopped in my ‘96 Ford and headed east to visit them. Eight hours of driving and I was tired. Plopping my bag on the wood floor, I was greeted by Augie, their incredibly happy little dachshund. Looking up and to my right I saw Calvin’s picture on the wall. Never forgotten. Always loved. Prominently displayed next to Josh and Kim’s wedding pictures.

These moments of life shaped me. I have grown in the soil of this American culture but my beliefs about death escaped the shade of its indifference. No. The legacy of my uncle, my great uncle, and my cousin’s son, this is how I learned to interact with grief. It is good to remember. It is good for us all, no matter what our culture may say.

Earlier I stated that I was as prepared as is possible for any person. The truth is though, that no one is prepared to become a bereaved parent. No one is prepared for that moment when the doctor comes in and tells you the news, the unthinkable.

I was 23 weeks along with Kuyper when I stopped feeling movement. I came into the hospital a half hour prior to my shift on the Same Day Surgery Unit and headed up to OB. It was not long before every nurse on the unit and the ultrasound techs had been in my room. The doctor walked in and time froze in place. Then came the induction. One pill and I was in labor. Seven hours later and I was holding my son.

My husband and I did not have long to make decisions. The example of my family guided us. We knew already that we wanted to bury and not cremate. We knew we wanted pictures with our son. I knew it would be traumatic to hold Kuyper but for me, to not hold him would have inflicted a greater trauma. My heart swells with gratitude for this choice which my grandmother never received. We wanted to celebrate his life, inviting friends and family to a graveside service. We talked about our son.

Seven years later and we still talk about him. He is our child. A part of our hearts.

Our little girls know about their brother and love him. He is no less a part of our family for the brevity of his life. When all my hair is gray, I will tell my grandchildren and great grandchildren about Kuyper, Calvin, John, and Jonny.

Bereaved parent when you tell the story of your child, you do more good than you realize. You are opening the doors to an alternative perspective. You are letting others know that their grief is safe with you. The things that you say about your baby, which fill your heart, may fill the hearts of others.

You may help a niece, nephew, neighbor, daughter, or grandson to face the worst days of their life. It is your choice and only yours to share. What is right for me and my family, may not be right for yours. If it is your desire to share, I hope you will not be diminished by those who hold onto stoicism. I pray that kindness and tender hearts forever meet you along your journey. Your story and your child’s story hold great power. Love always does.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Missing More Than Milestones

Thu, 13 Aug 2020 16:30:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

I often find myself wondering what life would be like if I wasn’t a bereaved mother. I wonder how different I would be if I wasn’t on this path. The truth is, this is my reality, and I’ll never again know life the way it was before this journey of grief began. It seems so far in the distance of our past that it’s sometimes difficult to remember what it was like to live without the constant reminders of the absence of our children.

They’re always in my thoughts and in my heart, but there are times when grief rushes over me in a way that leaves me breathless and aching for Melody and Jamie.

These overwhelming moments are often experienced during missed milestones. These time markers are no small weight to bear, and they have a tendency of filling us with guilt and about a million “what ifs” as they approach and then inevitably pass us by. Even though our world was shattered, we quickly learned that the world itself wouldn’t stop for us to grieve.

Time did not wait for us to feel lonely, angry or disgusted with our situation. It kept up its usual pace as we were frozen in time.

Though we’ve learned how to manage and how to move forward with our lives, we are still struck by certain moments and days. Sometimes they’re largely significant days, such as birthdays or holidays, but other times it’s just because it’s Monday. Whether largely significant or a routinely familiar, these milestones can leave us with many wonderings about our children…

I wonder what she would look like if she were still with us…

I wonder what he would enjoy if he were here today…

These are two of the most frequent thoughts that visit my ever-wondering mind in regards to my daughter and my son. Birthday parties and baby showers are very specific triggers for me, and I still have a tendency to avoid them like the plague. Don’t get me wrong – I am beyond thrilled for those celebrating! They should be joyful. It’s just one of those things I have a hard time participating in because of my own sadness.

I am happy for those being blessed, but I feel an emptiness and longing that is impossible to explain as I am reminded of what I am missing.

My personal missed milestones include family celebrations, birthdays, and holidays. There are others, but these are the big ones. It’s not always easy to push through those moments when the weight of loss hits you like a ton of bricks – not in the slightest. These moments, great or small, can bring about a realization of what life could have been. This awareness can result in deep wonder about your children.

Wonder isn’t a problem. I do it often. During various outings, activities, and celebrations I wonder and think about how things would be so different had our lives not be altered with the deaths of our babies. I imagine seeing my daughter’s face light up when she finally chooses the perfect wedding dress. I can see my son learning how to drive in my mind’s eye. But these images that cross my mind aren’t a reality, but rather the reminders that come with the loss of more than just a moment. When we lost our children, we lost their entire lives – the hope of all the things a parent looks forward to. Middle-of-the-night-feedings, first steps, first and last days of school, graduations – the list goes on and on. These are all things we lose when we lose a child.

For us, the holidays are a time for family and togetherness. This is wonderful and I have always felt an outpouring of love during these special moments in life. However, remembering a lost child during the holidays can, in itself, foster a loneliness that just can’t be dissolved. Hugs are helpful, food is comforting, and the togetherness is the icing on the cake. But knowing there should be another chair (or two) at the table, that there should be another set of gifts under the tree – the empty feelings that result from seeing what isn’t actually there is indescribable.

Birthdays are different. Everyone has one. My husband and I celebrate our birthdays, and we plan birthday parties for our living children. We also celebrate the birthdays of our angel babies. These days mark significant moments in our lives, and even though we aren’t able to celebrate with them, we do our best to celebrate together – whatever that may look like. We set aside a special day to do things together that help us remember our babies in a special way. Often, these include a cake, balloons at the cemetery, and a family outing of some sort – usually followed by a family movie night.

While we cannot be with them to celebrate these milestones and significant dates, as bereaved parents we can be sure that our children are not forgotten.

We can do so by continuing to include them in parts of celebrations and traditions throughout the years, as well as by remembering the milestones that we’re missing with them. Doing this will look different for each family, but it’s a heartfelt and intimately unique experience for us all.

Remembering your baby and recognizing milestones can include tears of sadness, or maybe even laughter and joy. Whatever it looks like for you, know that your way of honoring your child is profound and largely meaningful. You have every right to feel what you feel during these times (and all the other times), and you’re equally justified to do what you must to survive those times. May the rest of this year bring you blessings, and may you find peace and comfort on your journey. Remember, especially on those days when you feel your missing out on these special events, be gentle and patient with yourself.

About Kayla Leibner

Milestones

Thu, 06 Aug 2020 16:03:00 GMT

By: Rebecca Stockwell

A close friend had a baby a few weeks before my son was born. We live a few hours from each other, so I wasn’t around for most of her milestones. When she was seven months old, we were invited to her baptism and to spend the night at her house. We don’t practice the same faith, but something about this event left me feeling incredibly sad. Not only did I feel sad, but I felt resentful that my friend didn’t acknowledge that this might be hard for me.

Truthfully, I was caught off guard by the way I felt. I hadn’t thought about it being difficult to witness and it wasn’t something I planned on doing with my own children. But it was the first time I realized there would be a whole lifetime of things I wouldn’t be able to experience with my son.

The thing I find most useful is simply acknowledging to myself that the event I’m attending (a baptism, kindergarten graduation, birthday) will be hard and not judging myself for it.

Sometimes we run from those feelings because we feel bad for being sad during a happy event, but the truth is those two emotions can live together at the same time. I could be happy for my friend and her daughter and sad that my son was not with me and wouldn’t have a similar experience.

And sometimes I have to excuse myself from certain things because it’s just too hard. When I go to weddings I quietly get up and walk away (go to the bathroom, get an appetizer, or simply go for a walk) during the mother son dance. It’s too much for me. I cried uncontrollable when my cousin danced with his mother at his wedding and that’s the last time I watched a mother son dance. I’m so happy for the groom but the emotion it brings up in me is too great to contain. I wasn’t even able to watch my mom and brother and his wedding. Sometimes I feel a little weird walking away, but it helps me keep my head in a celebratory place for the rest of the reception.

Over the past 10 years I have learned what works for me. Be gentle with yourself as you go on this journey and are finding what work’s for you.

About Rebecca Stockwell

Rebecca, RN, is the author of the “ Guide for Trusting You Body After Miscarriage. ” Stockwell’s own experience with pregnancy loss, and insights from other women who have lost babies during pregnancy, prompted her to create the guide, which is aimed at helping bereaved mamas feel in control of their bodies again.

Stockwell has enjoyed a career as nurse since 2005, which helped feed her desire for preventative health and wellness as a means to living her most fulfilled and joyful life. She is an avid gardener and fitness enthusiast, and is training for her first triathlon this spring.

Stockwell lives in Vermont with her husband and two daughters.

The Little Yellow Butterfly

Thu, 30 Jul 2020 17:00:00 GMT

By: Casey Zenner

One of the greatest things about being a parent is watching the bond your children have grow over the years. When you have one child in Heaven the fear of missing out on witnessing that bond for me, at least, has been one of the toughest parts of this journey. Not only have I lost my daughter, but I’ve lost the chance to watch my son grow up being a big brother. Everything from listening to the laughter from the swing set in the back yard, to the yelling over a silly toy. Those are things I will only ever get to dream of. Avery will never get to run around chasing her brother, run to him for a hug when a boy is mean to her, or have him by her side on her first day at a big scary new school. Brayden is growing up, in essence, an only child. No one to laugh with in the backyard, or to ride bikes with…I was so devastated when we made the difficult decision to terminate my pregnancy for medical reasons not for myself, but for my son. We took away his opportunity to be a big brother. Well, so I thought. You see, life has a funny way of working out.

I was so worried that he would never get to experience that special sibling bond, but I am more certain now that he knows the bond more than most.

Brayden is almost 5, so when we try to explain Heaven, and who his sister Avery is to him, it’s been a bit of a challenge and a huge learning curve for us. She was never tangible to him. At this age, they thrive off tangible things. For the longest time he thought his sister was an actual butterfly, who lives on the moon. I am sure to a small child, that idea is really cool. In fact, I remember one time we went to the zoo, and the next day at school he told his teacher he visited his sister at the zoo. Kind of funny when you think about it. He was so confident, that I think had she not known our story she would have been very concerned as to why his sister lived at the zoo! It wasn’t until recently that he began to understand that Avery isn’t actually a butterfly, but the butterflies are signs from his sister who lives in Heaven; or the moon if you ask him.

As we embark on year 3 without Avery, I have had a lot of ups and downs on the ride I like to call the grief roller coaster. I visited a medium last September on Avery’s second Angelversary. If you’re like most people I have told, you think I am crazy. The thing is though, when you lose a child, you will do anything to try and feel connected to them for even just five minutes. This was my attempt at that, and it was the most healing experience of my life. My Grandpa came through right away and the first thing he said was “I have her.” The medium then told me he could see a little girl playing peak a boo behind this man’s legs, and I instantly knew it was Avery. Before meeting with him, he had no idea I had lost a child, let alone that I was looking for validation that my Grandpa was taking care of her. He knew nothing about my story or how we lost Avery. She came through and told the medium that she knows her time on earth was short because my body failed us, not my heart. That we were always supposed to have each other, just not in the way that I thought we should. She confirmed to me that she loves to say hello by way of butterflies, her favorite being the little yellow ones.

I worried my children would not get the opportunity to have that special sibling bond siblings have. Boy, was I wrong. You see, the bond is still there, it’s just a different kind of bond.

He still blames messes he makes on her, except its “that silly ghost Avery” who makes the messes. There is always a little yellow butterfly around for him to chase when he plays in the back yard, and on really difficult days, she sends the most beautiful cardinals. She is always with us, and she never lets us forget it. What I love the most about her signs though, is that she sends them to her brother, and at just 4 years old he recognizes them.

I am not raising my children the way I had always envisioned. To be honest though, I cannot imagine it any other way. Writing those words is heartbreaking, but I believe it’s really just the last step of the grief process talking. Acceptance. I have accepted that I had to make the most difficult decision a parent could ever make. I have accepted that my children will never get to physically hold hands or help each other when one of them gets hurt. I have accepted that to strangers I will always look like the mom of only one child. I have accepted that the closest I will ever get to my daughter is little yellow butterflies. I have accepted that Brayden’s sibling bond will never be the “sibling bond” people think of when they hear that phrase. It’s okay though, because they have their own sibling bond, and as a parent that is all I can ask for. Along this journey I have been thankful for many things. My biggest gift though, is the ability to believe in these signs from above. To have a connection with Avery even though she isn’t physically here. To know that she still loves me even though I fight daily to love myself for being the reason she isn’t here today. For the chance to be the mom to a beautiful little yellow butterfly.

About Casey Zenner

Seasons of Love

Sat, 25 Jul 2020 16:30:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

The deep green and blue ocean waters rise and fall before me. The deep blue horizon looks to be a million miles away. Sand wedges between my toes and the warmth of the air envelopes me. As I search for hidden sand dollars, my eyes are set on the tan sandy beach, but my mind is focused on one thing…
I’m already thinking of you, Hunter. You are an embryo already delicately formed, awaiting for when I am ready to do another transfer.

You were loved more than you’ll ever know, before you were even formed…before all of the surgeries, the injections, and every heart wrenching twist and turn along the way.

As summer ends, the tree’s change colors, and pumpkin spice fills the air. Auburn, orange and yellow leaves fill the woods. The morning fog sifts through the crisp air, and although my eyes are set on the beauty of Autumn all around me, my mind is yet focused on one thing…

You are now in my belly, your heart beating under mine. We are able to see you on ultrasound, your little hands and feet..all so perfectly seen in the picture we are sent home with. We love you even more…we’ve waited so long for this moment.

Snow falls and the air is blatantly cold around me. The leaves have fallen from the trees and the sky is pure white. My eyes are set on the beauty of the white snow filled field before me, but my mind is focused on the loss of you.

Tangible and Intangible reminders of you flood around me.

Your blue blanket you were so gracefully placed on, pictures of your perfectly formed fingers and toes, your perfect nose and chin. The sound of your heartbeat saved on a heart shaped recorder. Reminders of you are
everywhere, and for that we are so, so grateful.

With every season, reminders of you swirl around us. Before you were formed, while your heart was beating under mine, and even when you were gone too soon, we carried you through each and every season…whether in our hearts or in my belly.

We loved you then, we love you now, and we will love you forever

Longing for the Hyphen

Wed, 22 Jul 2020 16:30:00 GMT

By: Ashley Turk

Recently my husband and I went to the cemetery to pay our respects and plant some bulbs at our son’s gravesite. While my husband planted the bulbs, I walked around the cemetery looking at the other headstones admiring the many flowers, names, and quotes. I imagined what these people’s lives had been like. That is when it hit me, while they may share the same resting place as my son, they have been fortunate enough to have a hyphen.

Who would have known that one could long for a hyphen? You see when there is pregnancy loss or stillbirth there is only one date. The day of delivery is also the day you start your goodbyes. This just shows how closely joy and grief are linked together, one cannot exist without the other.

It probably sounds bizarre to someone who has never experienced a pregnancy loss that there is joy involved, nevertheless joy can exist. Even though there was total heartbreak and devastation. I still did it, I went through labor and delivered my baby. I experienced all the feelings a mom has when she holds her child for the first time, feeling the weight of her baby knowing it’s weight will increase over time, are still there. The biggest difference is that the weight of a stillborn baby will never increase, and your arms won’t stay full. The weight in your heart however will increase, and always be full. Sometimes I think that Gavin was given to me because God knew I could love him best.

Growing up my mom used to always warn me that I loved deeply and strongly and that with that could come pain. In Gavin’s case I loved him deeply and strongly, but I also like to think that is what kept him with us 4 weeks after we were told we would deliver our son silent and still within 2 weeks.

Today on my son’s 2nd birthday, I sit here pondering. I like to think about how much our little boy taught me. First, he made me a mom in every aspect of the word. We learned halfway through the pregnancy of Gavin’s initial CDH diagnosis and his father and I stayed strong while moving mountains and advocating for the best treatment and doctors for our son. Second, he taught me love at first sight , like only your child can. Seeing Gavin for the first time was difficult as his skin had already started to break down from the heat of my body in utero. Yet seeing his face and holding him was an experience far too great to describe. He was perfect to me because he was mine.

Finally, Gavin’s short life reminds me to use my hyphen well, to live my life to the fullest.

We are not promised our days on earth and while my faith teaches me, I will be reunited with my son I still have more to learn, enjoy, and experience before that time comes. I would like to end with this, although Gavin has one day. May 22, 2018. He is very much a part of my hyphen, very much a part of his father’s, his grandparents and all our friends and families who are not afraid to speak his name, remember his story and continue to let his story live on through good deeds, prayers and laughter. I thank you my sweet boy and promise to continue to live my life valuing my hyphen.

About Ashley: Ashley Turk is a Program Assistant for Our Lady of Lourdes Hospitality North American Volunteers. Ashley grew up in the suburbs outside of St. Louis, Missouri and upon graduating from college she trusted Christ and did a year of service in Syracuse, NY. While in Syracuse, a nun set her up with the man who would later become her husband Rob. Ashley lives in Pennellville, NY with Rob and their daughter Molly. Ashley’s heart aches the same as many other mother’s with empty arms, as she experienced stillbirth with her first child, Gavin. Ashley and Rob learned they were pregnant with Gavin in 2017 and were overjoyed. During their anatomy scan they learned that their son had CDH (Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia). While seeking treatment and expert opinions, Ashley and Rob learned their son had some other challenges and that they would be delivering Gavin still. Ashley delivered Gavin on May 22, 2018 just two days after their first wedding anniversary. Ashley and Rob are honored to be Gavin’s parents and live their lives in memory of him everyday.

Sailing

Thu, 16 Jul 2020 16:15:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

Twenty-five feet of crystal-clear water rolled between the pier where I stood and the smooth, colorful boulders on the lake floor. I was enchanted by this simmering window into aquatic life, mesmerized, in my own world. “Ann-Marie, the line is moving,” a voice called out. My parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and I were all about to board the ferry for Mackinac Island. Each step in the line gave a new perspective on the world below my feet and of the majestic sail boats that effortlessly floated by the pier on the waves.

I think of these things as I stand in the cemetery where my sweet baby boy is buried. Feet firmly planted in this world and my mind in another, I look down to see this inscription:

“I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing out to sea, and oh but it was laden, with children good to see

Strong arms that held the sails tight, red cheeks that laughed at cold, and every child upon it

Was worth his weight in gold”

My finger rests on my lip as I gaze up, trying not to let the tears fall to my cheeks. It lasts for a moment. I give up, close my eyes, and sigh, as I feel the hot tears stream to my chin. I think about that ship. I think about my little boy: whole and healthy, as he should have been in another life. I wonder, “Is this how he made his way to heaven: on a ship in a crystal sea?”

My mind wanders down the halls of my memory to that Saturday, the Saturday before his delivery. A pile of clean baby boy cloths lay folded on the living room sofa – a garage sale haul from the weekend before. The sounds of my husband and eldest daughter playing outside can be heard. I sit on the living room floor. Repositioning my achy, pregnant hips from side to side, I paint a sailboat under a crescent moon. It is gift to put in my little boys’ nursery, something from mommy, just for him.

That day is the last day that I know for sure that I felt him kick. It was not a contraction that I had mistaken for movement but a good hearty kick. Was this his last day alive?

I clench my eyes tight. Recoiling from the thought, I rewind through the corridors of my mind, firmly planting myself back in the cemetery, body and soul.

I open my eyes to see the plaque again and the little garden around it which denotes “Babyland”: the area where my baby boy and many other little ones are buried.

I never imagined that sail boats would be one of the things that would remind me the most of my son. I guess we, as bereaved parents, do not get to choose these things. They somehow choose themselves. I suspect that these little signs and moments of remembrance mean all that much more for this reason. If we chose them, they would not hold our wonder.

Last summer, instead of our usual trip to Indiana to visit my family, we packed up the vehicles with all the grandparents, aunts, uncles, kids, swimsuits, and snacks and headed up to northern Michigan. This time it was my children who stood on the dock, full of excitement, wonder, and imagination as we waited for the ferry to take us to Beaver Island. In their view, to sail on a boat was just as exciting as the destination itself. As the ferry motored into the deep waters of Lake Michigan, I looked out and saw a sailboat in the distance and imagined my little boy on it – healthy, strong, and free.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

An Artistic Walk Through Grief

Mon, 06 Jul 2020 18:08:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

The suddenness of grief is disorienting. It leaves us grappling for a way, a path to walk. We as bereaved parents had no choice. Grief came and we did our best. We kept waking up. We kept on. Our paths all look a little different, but the emotions often feel so familiar. Journey with this mother on an artistic expedition through the beginning stages of grief.

Part I. The Truck

Today is every day. I awake tired, longing for a few more minutes of sleep. The mirror seems unfriendly. Coffee! Coffee is friendly. It is a pretty day. The sun is shining. Cloths. Hair. The whole nine yards. A bit of rushing. Why does every morning involve rushing? I grab my bag and keys. My car is parked across the street. Street sweeping day. Look left. Right. Foot off the curb. SLAM! One exceptionally large six-wheeler, carrying couches, driven by a sweaty guy named Bob has literally come out of nowhere and plowed directly into my body. Grief is absurd! I never saw it coming. It does not belong on my residential street. It does not belong in my every day. And then, there it is. From here on out there is before and there is after the semi-truck.

Part II. The Sea

The movements following the semi-truck: I used to breath without thinking about it. Didn’t I? I think I did. Every breath now is conscious, painful, slow. A verse in the Bible talked about breakers going over me. Breathe! Before the water goes over my head. Breathe! In the cold harsh elements. Breathe! As my body is thrown and thrashed about. Hour after hour. Breathing. Gasping. Trying not to let tears drown me, push me down.

Part III. The Dream

The week following the semi-truck: I awake into a movie of someone else’s life. The edges of my vision are fuzzy. Nothing that I touch or see seems trustworthy. I look down at my hands and I do not know them. People talk to me, at me. This alien body responds, engages. But it is just a dream. A lot of decisions are made. But it is just a dream. A precious body that once contained a precious soul is put into a cold and hollow globe. But it is just a nightmare. I awake and look into the face of the mirror. Red, puffy, and swollen with tears. And into the void I say, “This is real”.

Part IV. Determination

The months following the semi-truck:

I will get through this!

Walk two miles. I may not want to move. It is healthy. It is what I need.

I will get through this!

Eat healthy food. I may not want to eat a bite. I have no appetite. It is healthy. It is what I need.

I will get through this!

Sleep. Go to bed early. Ward off the crazy. It is healthy. It is what I need.

I will get through this!

CRASH!

A glass coaster hits the wall.

I will get through this. Eventually.

Part V: Time

And then time passes. Not weeks. Not months. Years pass. Many years. And with the passing of years comes a slow change. Through years of working out the events of one day, acceptance and resilience grows in place of shock. And when it seemed that the years of struggle have gone on too long. When it seems that all is broken and that the heart will surely bleed out, hope sneaks in through the back door of the mind. That heart is still scarred. It is still broken. Acceptance cannot bring back the heart that existed before the semi-truck. It is not the same heart that felt the shock or the flood or the nightmare. It is not even the same heart that kept on in determination (because there was no other choice). It is a heart that accepts the broken and has found relief in knowing the true nature of life. Hope exists in this life, but perfect healing is for the next. It has been the acceptance of this that has made all the difference. “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Revelation 21:4

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at ann-marieferry.com and on Instagram @ann_marieferry.

Signs From Asher

Mon, 29 Jun 2020 18:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

In preparation for this month’s article on signs that we’ve received from our child, I went back and read a post I had written on my personal blog, only two weeks after our son was stillborn.

That first week without Asher back in 2017, he sent us numerous signs to let us know that he was still with us.

First, while in labor with Asher, my neighbor visited us in the hospital and brought us a keepsake box. She works at another nearby hospital and took one of the boxes that they give to families who suffer the loss of a child. In that box was a set of bracelets; one for baby and one for a parent to wear.

Within that box was a short line from an E.E. Cummings poem, “I carry your heart.”

This poem is one that is very popular in the loss community. However, it is one that has been a part of our lives for years.

While my husband and I were dating in college, he sent me that poem and told me that E.E. Cummings was his favorite poet. (He is an English teacher.) For his college graduation, I got him a book of E.E. Cummings poems as one of his presents.

At our wedding, it was shared as one of the readings.

It is something that held great meaning to us even before the loss of our son. The fact that THAT verse was in THAT box was a sign from Asher that he knows us.

He knows our history as a couple.

He knows we are his parents.

He knows that we will always carry his heart with us.

Second, later in the week, my husband was on Amazon purchasing some workout equipment. He was using a gift card that was given to him back in November, 4 months prior. He had me read the code to him while he typed it in.

The first 5 letters were “A-S-H-3-R…”. Asher. It spelled his name.

My husband freaked out and was like “Oh my god! That is so weird! WHAT DO I DO WITH THE GIFT CARD NOW?!”

Obviously, we kept it because it could only be described as a sign from Asher. He was with us.

Third, while in the hospital in labor with Asher, we had my parents go to our house and remove all of the baby items from the main floor. We had them put everything in Asher’s room and close the door.

My husband and I decided we wouldn’t go into the room until we had Asher’s ashes to put in there, to put our son in his room the only way we could.

On Thursday night, 4 days after Asher was born, my husband said that he knows we want to wait until we have Asher’s ashes to go into his room, but that he feels like that was the last big hurdle for us. He didn’t want to wait a few more days for his ashes before going into the room.

While my husband was verbalizing this to me, my phone rang.

It was the funeral director, telling me that Asher’s ashes were ready and we could pick him up.

It was a sign from Asher, telling us it was time to go into his room and face everything we had hidden behind that door for the last couple of days. He was listening to us and wanted us to take that next step in our grieving process.

Lastly, the next morning, after we picked up his ashes, we were on our way home with the radio playing in the background. While we were driving, the song playing suddenly piqued my attention.

It was Motley Crue’s “Home”. The lyrics to the song are “I’m on my way, home sweet home.”

Tears started streaming down my face.

“Are you listening to this?!”

Asher was giving us another sign. He was coming home with us. His spirit was still going to be with us at home.

I like to think that Asher knows how important music is to me and that is why he chose to have that song played at that exact moment in time.

It’s been over three years since Asher sent us these signs and I still remember each one vividly. All of these signs were exactly what we needed during those first days without him. Each day was a battle to get up and out of bed, but he continued to show us he was near by sending us these symbols of his presence, encouraging us to keep moving.

As time has passed, the frequency of them has decreased, but he still sends me signs that he is near.

He sends me cardinals on my fence, letting me know he is close.

He sends me four-leaf clovers in our back yard, telling me that he is outside playing with his little sisters.

He sends me butterfly visitors to the bush in his garden, bringing a smile to my face.

All I have to do is my eyes open and pay attention.

I encourage you to do the same.

On the days when I really need to know he is close, he has a way of letting me know that he is.

What My Miscarriages Taught Me About Life, God and How to Heal

Tue, 23 Jun 2020 16:00:00 GMT

By: Lisa Hromada

It was New Year’s Day in 2013 that my husband and I found out I was pregnant for the first time. We were so excited. Honestly, the thought never crossed my mind that anything could go wrong. I had friends pregnant without complication and I assumed it would be the same for me.

At our eight-week appointment, my husband and I saw the heartbeat on the ultrasound, and it was amazing. But around week nine, something odd began to happen. I began to have vivid dreams that something was wrong with the pregnancy. To my knowledge, I showed no signs of miscarriage.

In fact, I felt great starting toward the end of my ninth week; I no longer had morning sickness. (Little did I know at the time, this was sign of miscarriage.) It wouldn’t be until four weeks later that we found out we had lost the pregnancy.

We arrived at our 12-week appointment feeling excited to hear our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. After several minutes of searching, the doctor said the words that no one wants to hear, “I’m sorry. There is no heartbeat.”

I felt like my life was completely turned upside down. I was shocked, confused and gutted with grief. I cried a lot, day and night. Through an ultrasound, it was discovered that around week nine—around the time that I started having those dreams—the heart stopped developing. Four days later, I had a D&C procedure, which left me feeling empty and defeated.

I vividly recall the shock of finding out there was no heartbeat and the sorrow I felt when I had to tell my family and friends. I had so many questions for God. My biggest question was, “WHY?” I thought that knowing an answer could help me heal my suffering.

Several months later I experienced my second loss. This time, I had a feeling that something was wrong because I had no pregnancy symptoms. It was confirmed at eight weeks that, again, there was no heartbeat. And again , I asked God, “Why?”

Despite being disappointed, and honestly, quite mad, I wasted no time trying again. I was almost obsessed now, and I spent months making myself miserable wondering when it would happen.

I finally came to a point of mental and emotional exhaustion that I decided to relinquish control and allow God to take over.

Rather than obsess month after month about getting pregnant, I decided that I would do my best to take positive actions toward moving past my grief. And when I did, I began to notice how my relationships got stronger, my body healthier and I began to have vivid dreams of having a healthy baby. Nearly a year later we had our first child—our first rainbow after our storm.

At this point, I was just starting to get a glimpse into what happens when we release our struggles to God and do our best to stay positive. But there was still more that I was meant to experience and learn.

My third pregnancy loss was a turning point for me. Upon coming into my second trimester, and the day I planned to tell my family and friends I was pregnant, I discovered I would need to have another procedure done. I was devastated and cried the heaviest tears. I was completely shocked, and again, I wondered WHY this was happening.

It took time, but I eventually came to a point of acceptance and complete surrender to God . I completely let go of my desire to control what I couldn’t and put my faith in a greater plan.

Upon surrendering, I went through a series of incredible, life-changing steps that would ultimately lead me to a greater understanding of how we can co-write our life story with God. It would also lead me to being able to have our second child—our second rainbow.

What I learned from my journey to motherhood about love, life and how God works, I believe will completely transform the way you look at your life, your experiences and what you do next. (Shared this in the video clip – link below.)

I believe we are never alone in this life, and I believe that we can get through our times of challenge and suffering and come out of it more empowered and more complete.

VIEW VIDEO: How to Heal After Miscarriage: What I Learned About Life & God

About Lisa Hromada

Lisa Hromada is a wife, mom, speaker and author of Love is the Seed: Teachings from the Spirit World and The Three Supreme Gifts: A Practical Approach to Self-Mastery and to Transforming Your Life Here and Now. Through her YouTube series, Knower Soul™, Lisa explores empowering teachings on love, life and God. After experiencing her third pregnancy loss, she realized profound steps to healing and how to create a life of greater joy, peace and purpose that she now shares with audiences. Free resources and videos at www.LoveIsTheSeed.com .

Listening To the Voices of Bereaved Fathers

Tue, 16 Jun 2020 16:00:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

Fathers often get the short end of the stick when it comes to grief support. It should not be. However, for a variety of reasons it often remains the case. When I was asked to write an article for newly bereaved fathers, I was apprehensive. I am a bereaved mother. How do I do right by all these men? Just like I have not had to walk this grief journey alone, I found that I did not have to write this article alone. Over the years my husband and I have met so many wonderful bereaved fathers, all with their own story to tell. Four of them agreed to be part of this article. Each gave a short bio about the child/children that they lost and answered a series of questions. The admiration I have for these men is tremendous. Each of them is a different age, working in a different field or industry, and all with a different set of life circumstances.

I hope that the thoughts of this diverse group of Dads will give you comfort and hope during this month of remembering fathers (bereaved fathers too).

How did you become a bereaved father?

Nathan B: “Our daughter, Natalie, was stillborn in November of 2009, at 37 weeks gestation. Natalie became entangled in her umbilical cord, which was later found to be wrapped around her neck at birth.”

Hal Bush: “Our son Daniel, the firstborn child with my wife Hiroko, died June 15, 1999 at the age of 6. He was at a daycare facility and the people were not watching him, and he slipped into an Olympic size pool and drowned, surrounded by other kids.

Frank: “My wife and I had two first trimester pregnancies that ended rapidly within one year of each other. The first we only knew about for a weekend. The second for roughly a month. “

Josh B: “Our son Calvin, was diagnosed with Trisomy 18, a severe chromosomal abnormality at our 20-week ultrasound. The Doctors described his condition as ‘not compatible with life’. We were fortunate to carry him to term until he died during labor, just prior to being delivered.”

Will this affect my relationship with my partner?

Every relationship is as unique as every child. The pain of death can have a profound impact on all aspects of life. The relationship between partners is no exception. When asked how grief affected the bonds in their relationship this is what Frank, Nathan, and Hal had to say:

Frank: “I internalized my grief and tried to move forward. My spouse tried to discuss it with me, but it was a topic I wanted to avoid. Meanwhile, due to this and other pre-existing issues, she crumbled into depression. It was a major contributing factor to our divorce… I recommend going to counseling, both individually and as a couple. Though I am a Christian and do believe spiritual guidance on navigating grief and the concept of death is essential, a licensed and trained counselor who has studied counseling beyond applying scripture is extremely helpful. By seeking professional help you and your spouse may receive the tools you need to navigate grief and preserve your marriage.”

Nathan: “Grief grew our love & faith stronger. My biggest struggle was seeing her go through so much sorrow/grief. I wanted to take that pain away. I devoted myself to being with her and my family.”

Hal: “In my book (I stress) the ‘caregiver’ role of the parents – meaning, that one must care for the other, in times of duress and meltdown. Caregiving takes a toll, but our vows – “in sickness and in health” –are relevant here… Take extra special care with each other as you grieve in different ways.”

Should I connect with other bereaved fathers?

Following the loss of a child, it is common to feel alone and misunderstood by those who have yet to experience the sting of death in their own life. The men were asked to talk about friendship and bonds that were formed with other bereaved fathers following the loss of their child/children.

Nathan: “I connected with other bereaved fathers after our loss…most had been friends for many years. Our stories were different, but the pain was the same. It strengthened our friendships. You are not alone. There are others who have dealt with the same anguish and sorrow and are willing to lend an ear or share stories. It is OK to open up and cry (let the pain out). Tell your story and your pain, it will help throughout the process. Do not bottle up your emotions.”

Frank: “I did connect with friends who had suffered loss, but arguably less than I should have. Death is a taboo subject. It shouldn’t be because we all face it. But I didn’t discuss it much until my marriage was failing.”

Josh: “As you struggle through your loss and all the corresponding feelings, reach out to others around you, and share your thoughts. Try to make sense of how evil in the world and death fit into your world view. I found tremendous help and aid through Jesus Christ and His death on the cross on my behalf. I have not found a better reasoning for why tragedy strikes and how it will one day be resolved than in orthodox Christian teaching. Seek truth.”

What is a normal timeline for grief?

Hal Bush is a Professor of English and author of the book “Continuing Bonds with The Dead”. Hal shared some of his thoughts on the grieving process and female vs male grief born out of his own study on the subject.

“ It’s OK and predictable to grieve for a very long time – basically, it will likely be a lifelong experience. You will get better at handling it, but a sense of ‘getting better’ will likely take years to get to that point. Some people may tell you to let go and get on with your life ASAP, but that is bad advice and usually comes from people who have not lost a child. Bereaved parents typically feel bonds with the dead child for the rest of their lives, and that is not only clinically true but in fact predictable, normal, and healthy. Often, it is true that one of the parents suffers much more, right away, while the other ‘seems ok’: but later, can fall into a steep decline – even 18 months later, or 2-3 years. So, the old cliché of one year of grief, then ‘get on with your life,’ is not true to clinical experiences of bereaved parents. Models for grieving have largely been abandoned; they came out of older Freudian concepts that everyone grieves the same. They do not…Some might expect mothers to grieve more emotionally than fathers, or to struggle more, or be more open… But in fact, fathers often grieve more openly.”

How long until I should go back to work?

FMLA, sick time, work expectations, and preferences all can play a role in a dad’s decision on when to return to work. Nathan and Josh share their stories of getting back on the job.

Nathan: “It takes time to heal and do not go back to work until you feel that you are ready. I believe that I went back to work too soon due to the fact that I never allowed myself to grieve. I devoted all my time to taking care of my wife and not myself. I struggled through the grieving process after going back to work.”

Josh: “In my experience there was a tremendous outpouring of love and support during the initial days and first few weeks surrounding our loss. Then, gradually, as time moved on others went on with their life while (we were) left to pick up the pieces of (our) new broken life. When I went back to work, I felt like a different person. While life marched on all around me, I felt like (I was) at a standstill. I went through the motions at work seemingly in a daze. Yet, with each passing day, I regained a little more of myself – I found my new normal. It is true that time heals all wounds. The scars remain, yet the wound closes. My advice would be to take it slow, give yourself and others grace as you pursue your new normal with a loss as part of your story.”

It was my intent to write a closing remark. However, Nathan did it better. “My biggest worry is that our daughter will be forgotten (to the outside world) because she never lived outside of the womb and is no longer with us. I love to celebrate her life and tell her story in memory of her. It keeps her spirit alive. Please know that others will not understand or always show empathy to your loss. However, there are others that do understand you and stand along with you to keep that spirit alive. That’s what SHARE is all about.”

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annyeferry.blogspot.com and on Instagram @annyeferry.

Full and Broken

Mon, 08 Jun 2020 18:44:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

My heart is full and broken.

I am sitting in my quiet living room as a sweet little 11-week-old girl sleeps on my chest. The time since her birth has been a peaceful one. We have experienced all the crazy sleeplessness and the insanity of transitioning to be a family of four. However, the peace and contentment I have in knowing my child is now safely out of my “womb of death” outweighs any of the difficulty and stress of the transition. After not being able to care for my eldest daughter for almost nine months, the daily difficulties of motherhood seem even more rewarding. My life has been lived on a roller coaster the last few years. Three bad pregnancies in three years and the loss of Kuyper have broken me down. This little girl, however, has helped to mend my heart.

It would be easy for those who sit on the outside to think that having another baby would somehow, take away the pain of losing Kuyper.

That somehow, I would forget him with the birth of his sister. It is not the case and I never expected it to be. The peace, the contentment, the mending of my heart was also something I did not expect. When Kuyper died my heart broke and a piece of it was forever lost to this world. What I never anticipated was that a patch would be put over it. My daughter’s birth was that patch. My heart is now broken and whole all at once. Like the scares that I carry on my body from the birth of my children, my heart will always be a testament that my son lived and is always loved. My heart is filled a little more these days. It works a little better. It is a patch work quilt that tells the stories of my little loves and how they have forever changed me.

In three days it will be September 20th. The hardest day in my year. That is not the day that I delivered Kuyper. It is the day he should have been born. The day that reminds me more than any other day on the calendar of what should have been. The one day when my PollyAnna tendencies are sure to take a hike.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annyeferry.blogspot.com and on Instagram @annyeferry.

And so, like my first sentence stated my heart is full and yet broken. I am happy and yet sad. I am living with a patch work heart and I am thankful for the little people who have each scared and mended it. All three of them are worth the price of pain.

Dad’s Arms Are Empty Too

Mon, 01 Jun 2020 08:00:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

Swollen eyes, pink tinged cheeks, and a steady stream of tears.

Dark circles under the eyes, a solemn face, and forced words of strength.

The definition of a newly bereaved mom and a newly bereaved dad.

Yet we both are experiencing the same hurt and shared grief, the expectations are so different for each of us. Dads carry so much on their shoulders trying to hold their loved ones up, keeping them steady throughout the heartbreak.

They are the binding to our book; the glue that holds us together. Somehow someway, the pressure of being strong falls on them. They are expected to carry the weight of it all so easily and so lightly, but his arms are as empty as ours are.

As a little girl I was more than afraid of storms. I was absolutely terrified, so scared that it would turn into a tornado and I wouldn’t be able to hide from it. Tornado warnings would be announced on the radio and my heart would start pounding, my breathing would get heavier, and I would start to panic. But then my stepdad would say the four magic words, “It will be okay,” and the panic would ease, my heart rate would slow, and I could breathe normal. Of course I was still scared, but it alleviated so much fear. I looked up to him, I felt like he had so much strength and that he could keep me safe through anything. I never saw him cry and in fact, I never saw him down. He was the binding to our family; he was expected to stay strong for us.

Would I have seen him as weak if he would have cried? I can honestly say, not at all.

Nothing of that sort could have changed the way I thought of him. Think of how much more meaningful a moment is when you and your friend laugh together. When you cry together and share meaningful memories, you grow so much closer. We need this so much! I encourage dads to cry when they need to cry because losing a baby is more than difficult! Share memories and don’t be discouraged when others only ask how mom is doing. A bereaved dad has every right to grieve the child they lost, to let their guard down and be a man who is grieving. Even Jesus, our own Father wept! In fact, we are told in Romans 12:15 to weep with those who weep.

Remember; society may tell us that dad’s must stay strong at all times, but it’s more than okay for dad’s to mourn also.

Please remember on this Fathers day that you are a dad to a son or daughter that you lost. No one sees you as less if this is a difficult day for you. Us wives, significant others and bereaved moms love you more than you’ll ever know and we care and respect for all that you’ve done and do for us. Even if you shed a couple tears, feel down, or feel lost without your baby, we still see you as the stitching that holds us together.

Two lives intertwined, two people grieving the same loss. The definitions of a bereaved mom and dad should be so much more alike than not.

Instead we can hold each other up, steadying each other when the path gets rocky and strenuous. We can be a teeter totter lifting the other up with strength when the other is down.

We can change the definition.

Dear Husband, Thank You

Mon, 01 Jun 2020 07:25:00 GMT

By: Casey Zenner

Oftentimes on this loss journey, I find myself forgetting that there is another person on this journey with me. While I, of course, never actually forget about my husband, it is hard in the midst of my grief, to remember he is grieving too.

I think that is because our husbands fill the role of protector not only to our children, but protectors of their spouses as well. I know that is true for my husband anyway. I know he hurts. I know he wonders what life would be like if we had ten more fingers and toes running around, but I get so lost in my own grief that I forget he is grieving too. Our grief is different because I felt the physical pain of losing our daughter. I felt like I was given no choice but to pick between my children. Although we made the decision together, when you terminate for medical reasons, at least in the state of Texas, it is an incredibly lonely experience.

He, however, didn’t only face losing our daughter, but was facing losing his wife and mother to our son.

I cannot imagine the fear that he was constantly faced with, not knowing if I would survive another day. If he would soon become a single father having to explain to our son that not only did his sister go to Heaven, but so did Mommy.

Father’s Day is never lost on me, but we also have a living son I have to make sure gets Dad something for Father’s Day, as well as plan a meal. You know, all of the typical Father’s Day plans, and it just doesn’t leave a lot of time to think about what he may be missing. Selfish of me, I know. Part of me thinks it is sort of a coping mechanism. Although we made the decision together, because I was the one who physically went through the experience, part of me feels guilty that my body failed me. My body is the reason he never got the chance to hold his little girl. With that being said, all I can say to you today is “thank you.”

Thank you for being excited when I told you I was pregnant, even though I know you were as anxious as I was after such a traumatic pregnancy with our son. You never showed it.

Thank you for taking such great care of our son and carrying the weight of worry for me once the Hyperemesis started and I became unable to be a good mom to him. Even though, I know you weren’t sure how you were going to juggle being a single parent, working full time, and taking care of me. You did it perfectly.

Thank you for driving me to my appointments because I was too sick to drive. Your patience on those drives and sacrifices due to your work schedule to make that happen did not go unnoticed.

Thank you for supporting me when my OB said we would have to choose between my life and our baby. Not giving me an ultimatum or questioning my decision to save my life and have the ability to be a good mom to our son allowed me to make it through an impossible situation. Your continued support means everything.

Thank you for sitting in the lobby of the abortion clinic, helpless while I ventured to the back when my name was called, alone. Listening and validating my immense disgust for Texas abortion laws on our drive home gave me the peace I needed to make it through that horrific day. You are a great listener.

Thank you for wiping my eyes the day we officially became loss parents. I am sure yours needed wiped too. Putting my grief first and staying strong when I needed you most gave me the encouragement I needed to continue to put one foot in front of the other for the months to come.

Your strength and love for our family is admirable.

Thank you for having my back as I faced controversy over our decision to terminate for medical reasons by family and friends. Knowing I would have you in my corner, no matter how isolating life felt, gave me the confidence to grow Avery’s legacy and raise awareness about medically necessary terminations to anyone who would listen. You are always going to be needed in my corner.

Thank you for supporting me on Avery’s angelversary and birthday every year by letting me do whatever I need to do to survive the day. I know both of those days must be difficult for you too. Always putting me before yourself makes me thankful our son has you to look up to as a father, and Avery has you to point out to all her Angel friends in Heaven. Your selflessness does not go unnoticed.

Thank you for being the reason I am the mommy to not only our son, but to our beautiful little girl Avery. I love that you include her in holidays and sign her name on all my cards. It means more to me than I can put into words. Knowing you will never forget her brings my heart joy.

Thank you for being my best friend and walking this journey with me. I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. You are the most loyal person I know.

Today is a day for you and all the other Angel Daddies to be reminded that we see you. We love you. We need you more than you will ever know. You matter and your grief matters.

Dear Husband, Happy Father’s Day.

Love Always,

About Casey Zenner

These are controversial topics and many that people don’t realize other families face.

Share’s mission is to support those whose lives are touched by the tragic death of a baby through pregnancy loss, stillbirth, or in the first few months of life. Share does not take a political stand on these issues. Share is not responsible for guiding or counseling families in their decision-making process. We all grieve and mourn for our babies. Some of our parents have had to choose the day that they were going to lose their baby. But the truth is still: each family wanted and love their babies. We all search for support, healing and hope. All grieving parents deserve that.

As a support organization it is always our goal to provide a safe and compassionate place for every family who has suffered the great loss of their baby.

We hope this conversation allows for continued healing and an understanding from others of the great need for long-term support for every family making difficult decisions. If you are in need of support after making the decision to terminate for medical reasons, please reach out to our Bereavement Care Manager at info@nationalshare.org or call 800-821-6819.

Knowing there is someone in this world who loves her as much as I do, makes me feel a little less crazy day after day.

When ‘Happy Father’s Day’ Has a New Meaning

Mon, 01 Jun 2020 04:25:00 GMT

By: Steven Lied

Happy Father’s Day. These are three words that have taken on a new meaning since the loss of my son, Asher Ray Lied. As I reflect on Father’s Day in my life, I find myself remembering when I was a kid and all of the things that we did for my dad on this day. Whether it was doing his chores so he could relax, helping my mother cook a meal for him, or watching him open his presents from us, it was always a fun day that I hoped would look the same for me when I was blessed with the ability to be a dad someday. Unfortunately, the loss of my son has changed what that day will look like for me for the rest of my life. While some of the tasks we did for my dad may still take place, it still serves as a day that even further reminds me of my beautiful boy who should physically be here with me.

When you lose a child, holidays tend to serve as more glaring reminders of the child that should be there and are never quite the same as they used to be. That being said, it does not mean that this day should not still be celebrated.

I am the proud father of three children, two daughters (Harper and Scarlett) who I hold in my arms every day and one son (Asher) who I hold in my heart. As I approach my fourth Father’s Day without my son here with me, mixed emotions arise as I want to spend time with my beautiful girls and do all the stereotypical Father’s Day tasks, but I also want to spend time mourning my son (which is not always easy for me as I fall into the stereotypical emotional void that men tend to find themselves). Some fathers have schedules they like to follow or tasks they do every year, but for me I simply allow the day to come and see what opportunities arise and what my little boy brings for me.

My advice for fathers who have lost a child as they approach this day for the first time, third time, or fifteenth time, is take this day in stride and do what feels right for you.

There is no right way to celebrate this day or some magical mindset that can make it hurt less, you just need to find something that works for you in that moment and do it. While I do not know what lies ahead for this Father’s Day, what I do know is that I will hug my girls as tightly as I can, thank my wife for giving me the three amazing children I have and allowing me to have the title of father, and I will find a way to spend time with my son.

About Steven and Amy Lied
Steven and Amy’s son, Asher, was inexplicably born still on February 19th, 2017. Before losing Asher, they suffered a miscarriage and struggled with unexplained infertility. After losing Asher and struggling to conceive again, they went back to treatment where she became pregnant with her twin daughters; Harper and Scarlett. Amy has documented their journey from the beginning of her infertility struggles on her blog, Doggie Bags Not Diaper Bags . She is also a co-founder of The Lucky Anchor Project , an online resource for loss families that houses an Etsy store whose profits are donated to loss family non-profit organizations. Sharing their journey has helped them cope and they hopes it also helps others who are walking on this road of life after loss.

To all bereaved dads out there, Happy Father’s Day.

Dear First Trimester Loss Mama

Mon, 25 May 2020 08:15:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

I walk in through the glass double doors and flash my badge to the lady behind the desk. Head down the hall and clock in, then up the stairs to the Same Day Surgery Unit. Once my things are put away, it’s off to look at the schedule board.

I stop. There you are, on it. Twelve-week miscarriage for D&C. My stomach falls. We have not met before but already I am grieving with you.

It is not long before you arrive. I know you are in shock as you walk up to the registration desk. I have seen that hollow look before. You carry with you a dear and precious child. And you cannot believe all this is real.

I walk you to your room, look you in the eyes and say, “I am sorry for your loss.” You nod. And I wish there were more I could say… something that would help.

This cold, sterile place must be frightening to those who do not work here. This is not where you and your baby should be. You both should be at home. You should be choosing what to have for breakfast based on cravings and what is least nauseating. Not here in this little room with white walls and a creaky, metal stretcher.

My hope is, that a soft smile and kind words will help to make this place a little warmer. I wish I had more than that to give to you.

I leave the room so you can change. As I go, I say, “you are my number one patient today.” I hope you know this is true. I may have hernias, gallbladders, and ACLs to care for, but you are on my mind every step of the day.

The surgery team soon comes for you. You are surrounded by lots of people and lots of questions. In the chaos of it all, I see you kiss your partner. I see the courage and resolve that you hold. The anesthesiologist asks if you are ready. You say, “yes,” and bravely off you go.

When you return you are dizzy, woozy, and in pain. With the right tricks, we have you feeling quite a bit better in no time. This, however, is the pain that I can fix but there is another pain that I am worried about.

Before you leave, I ask you if you would like information about support groups. You see, today is the only day I will get the opportunity to take care of you, but there will be many other days you will need care.

This loss is great. The pain of losing your baby will need care.

Your partner goes for the car and a few minutes later we get you into the wheelchair. Down the elevator. Through the lobby. You are leaving the hospital, without your baby. I know the incredible emptiness of your arms feels tangible.

As the car pulls around to pick you up, I say a silent prayer, “comfort her.

” Dear First Trimester Loss Mama,

It is my hope that on the day of your D&C, this was the kind of care you received. I know it is not always the case. Nurses and doctors, just like the broader culture, can be awkward and scared of grief. It often takes our own losses, to teach us what to say and not to say to a grieving mother. No matter what your story, please hear this.

You are strong and brave.

You ARE a mother.

It truly was my privilege to take care of you today.”

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annyeferry.blogspot.com and on Instagram @annyeferry.

Back to Normal

Wed, 20 May 2020 16:30:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

When normal seems on its way

And tears have now ceased

When all the thoughts in my head

Have settled in a calm place

The flood gates open

Destroying my glimpse of peace

When my mosaic heart is crumbling

And I can’t take a breath

When tears start in my throat

Burning their way to my eyes

Those are the days

Normal seems like a curse

“Normal you are a tease”

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annyeferry.blogspot.com and on Instagram @annyeferry.

What Medical History Doesn’t Say: The Loss of Hopes and Dreams

Thu, 14 May 2020 16:40:00 GMT

By: Ann-Marie Ferry

Jon pulls the car up to the door of the hospital. I know where to go and what to do. I’ve done this many times before. He drives off to find a parking spot and I waddle towards the elevators. As I wait with several other people for that “ding,” I feel eyes on my stomach. The elevator door opens and there goes another contraction. It starts low in my abdomen, working its way up, and finally constricting everything from the bottom of my sternum to the top of my pubic bone. The elevator door opens again, on the third floor and I waddle off in pain.

I register with the lady behind the desk. She calls a nurse. I hear her say, “We have another twenty-eight weeker. Rule out labor,” as another contraction starts.

A young blond nurse appears a few moments later. She looks me over and quickly says, “You’re having twins?” “No,” I laugh nervously. “That would be too many babies?” she asks. “Oh, no. That’s not it. I just don’t think my body would be able to get twins here safely.” Now I see her wheels turning. She is trying to figure out when she has taken care of me. What’s the story? I recognize her too, but I am too exhausted to try to remember.

We walk into the triage room and she hooks me up to the monitors. Cool jelly and round hard disks on my sore abdomen. She turns on the computer as Jon walks in the room. Her face looks overwhelmed and concerned as she scrolls through my obstetric history.

She begins to ask me questions about my son’s stillbirth, if I’m nauseated, about my preterm labor issues in previous pregnancies, what medications stopped labor in the past, and about my youngest NICU stay.

Contraction after contraction comes up on the monitor. Not the small little ineffective ones. The big ones that last a minute and a half. I’m trying to answer her questions, but it hurts, and I am so tired. Her face looks more concerned the longer she stays in the room. She finishes checking me in and tell me the house doctor will be coming in to see me soon.

She leaves the room and my hazy mind begins to wander through the stories that my medical history does and does not tell. The chart tells the short version, the bare facts but it leaves out that I am a human.

It won’t tell the roles I played, how I saw myself at the time, who was there to help and who wasn’t, what I learned, how it changed me, how I reacted, or what emotional scars it has left that are still open.

My chart will not state that I was an idealistic, optimistic, 24-year-old, hardworking, full time RN, who had only been married two months when I discovered I was pregnant with my first.

I was so ecstatically and contentedly happy when I found out I was pregnant. From the moment I saw those two little pink lines, I had a plan. I would work until the day I delivered. I would eat super healthy and exercise as long as possible. The doctors would not be inducing me. When I went into labor there would not be an epidural or other medication and of course, I would breastfeed my baby. That was just a given.

My medical chart doesn’t state that those dream started to shatter only weeks later as I was unable to keep food or fluids down. It won’t state that I gave into IV fluids and anti-nausea medication with tears and fears. Fears that my baby wouldn’t survive. Fears that my baby would have birth defects because I wasn’t “strong enough” to hold out; to tough it out without medical intervention.

Only I could tell the story of how every day was a battle with my identity and my faith. Only I could recount that it was agonizing to no longer be a hardworking, caretaker or all natural or unshakably rooted in my belief in God, and the list just went on. Only my husband saw Mark 9:17-29 written on the mirror in our bedroom: “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.” That was my only hope on the good days. The only thing I knew to be true was my unbelief.

My chart will state that I have a history of 23 week stillbirth of second pregnancy but it will never describe the numbness and surreal experience of delivering my son seven hours after I walked onto my unit to start work that May day. It won’t describe how I ate the lunch I had prepared for my nursing shift at six o’clock p.m. while I held my still, sweet boy in my arms for the first and only time.

The blond nurse with the concerned look will never fully know from an accurate history what toll the preterm labor issues and placental insufficiency took on my mind and my heart as I daily grew my third baby. All the while knowing she could end up in the grave next to her brother.

I sit and contemplate these things as a very different woman. I am 30 years old. My faith has stronger roots.

Roots that have grown into a God who does not answer why questions often. A God who slowly, softly, and compassionately reminds, “I am good. I am trustworthy.” The idealism of perfect births and perfect parenting and well-behaved children is long gone. In some ways this is sad and at times it is a little jaded but mostly this is acceptance of the truth of living in a broken and cursed world. God does not expect someone else’s best from me. He expects my best, in my circumstances, with my body. Sometimes this means taking supplements for milk production and pumping every three hours for six months to give to my preemie the best start and sometimes that means formula feeding to keep the postpartum depression at bay and at other times it means just getting out of bed on the day my milk comes in for a baby I love who is already gone.

Yesterday my best looked like barely hanging on as I labor for six hours in hopes that I would walk out the hospital door, still pregnant.

Eight hours after coming into the hospital the blond nurse walks into my room. She tells me that the doctor and her feel confident that my labor has stopped. I am now safe to go home.

I remember now. She had been my nurse only weeks earlier when I had gone into triage for bleeding. As I gather my things she says, “Maybe I will get to be your nurse when you come in to deliver.” “Yes, in ten weeks.” I smile.

Only God know what tomorrow will bring. Only God knows why my past brought so much pain.

Three years later and now I am thirty-three. I have three little girls on earth and a baby boy in heaven. My third baby girl was indeed born 10 weeks later at 38 weeks. Her being born healthy and full-term was more than I ever expected.

About Ann-Marie Ferry

Ann-Marie can be found blogging at annyeferry.blogspot.com and on Instagram @annyeferry.

I can only imagine what she sees: hyperemesis gravidarum with twenty pound weight loss with first pregnancy, home health needed, hemorrhage, stillbirth of second pregnancy, kidney infection, placental failure, preterm delivery of third baby, NICU stay, post-partum pneumonia, third degree tear, etc, etc, etc!

Take heart mama. You are doing the best you can with the circumstance you have been given. No one deserves more cheering on as they walk through conception and pregnancy than those who are doing it after loss. I am cheering for you.

The Bittersweet Song of a Wren

Mon, 11 May 2020 06:27:00 GMT

By: Shirley Brosius

The trill of a jenny wren still sends a pang of sadness through me. Many years ago, 45 to be exact, my youngest child, my only daughter, died a few hours after her birth. It was a chilly spring, and as I hung out laundry, a jenny wren sang from a tree. But its cheerful song sharply contrasted with the chill that gripped my heart. That birdsong continues to remind me of what might have made my life just about perfect.

From the moment I realized I was pregnant, I pictured us as a family of five. In those days you didn’t know if you were expecting a boy or a girl, but in my mind I saw us seated around our kitchen table—my husband Bill, two sons, the baby and me—a perfect family. I prepared a nursery in shades of green and yellow.

My church family prayed for me. My sisters held a baby shower. Surely all would be well. Christy Marie arrived five weeks early, but the only cries came from my husband and me. Within a few hours she returned to her heavenly Father. I flipped through my Bible, searching for hope, but the pages rustled like dry leaves. How could this happen? Why would God permit this tragedy?

I begged to see Christy in the hospital, but the head nurse leaned across my bed, took me by the shoulders, and said they knew what was best for me.

Only my husband was allowed to see her. A good friend bought Christy a white dress with red-threaded tucks across the bodice, and we scheduled a private viewing.

At our graveside service our pastor spoke on 2 Samuel 12:23 where David said of his deceased son: “I shall go to him, he shall not return to me.” That was true but hard to accept. We went home, and I felt people dismissed my pain, since no one talked about the baby.

People seemed to think that since that chapter of my life had closed, I needed to move on.

Wanting to be helpful, my sisters took away the shower gifts before I got home from the hospital, so I had no mementos of our little girl. Years later I saw the gifts on my mother’s attic and quickly turned away. Why didn’t I retrieve them? I guess it just hurt too much.

Nowadays hospitals let grieving parents hold their babies. They give them bereavement blankets and tiny caps to treasure a baby’s memory. But in those days, hospital personnel didn’t know the comfort such things might bring to a mother’s broken heart.

It’s devastating to lose a child, even a child you’ve never held. But God sees your pain, and He sees you through the darkness.

God provides scriptures to help and to heal. For me it was Psalm 42. The Sunday after Christy’s funeral, Bill took our boys to church and I heard the song “As the Deer Pants” on the station. That chorus led me to Psalm 42 (KJV), which expressed my feelings.

The psalmist spoke of thirsting for God as the deer thirsts for water. A deer needs water to survive, and I thirsted to know God better to survive this tragedy. I wanted to understand what had happened from God’s perspective, in light of eternity. I wanted again to feel God’s peace and comfort.

Like the psalmist, my tears were my “meat” day and night. Just when I thought I had my emotions under control, I would again start to cry. No one taunted me, but I felt my friends expected me to be over my grief. After all, as one reminded me on a card, I had two sons. Like the waves and billows described by the psalmist, grief washed over me.

The psalmist wrote of feeling “downcast,” and I certainly felt depressed. But then the psalmist remembered what God had done in the past and trusted him for the future. That gave me hope that things might get better, that I might move through my grief. So I reminded myself of the good things God had done for me. After all, the card was right—I was blessed with two sons and a wonderful husband.

I memorized the Psalm and ran it through my mind as I cried myself to sleep. Gradually, over time, my tears subsided, but because I had never talked about my grief, some stayed bottled up.

About 30 years later I spoke at a women’s retreat and again tears surfaced as I referred to Christy’s brief life. Afterwards, two women came up and asked to pray with me. I don’t remember their words, but what they said helped me to picture Christy in heaven. I began to include a “Please say ‘hello’ to Christy” in my daily prayers. That gave me a different perspective, a heavenly perspective.

Through my pregnancy, I had lost my hearing and needed surgery and a year later needed a hysterectomy because of cancer. In those days they put you in the maternity ward to recuperate. By the time I came through all that, I felt I would never again lead a productive life.

But a few years later, I enrolled in seminary, and my studies got my mind off my grief. In time I returned to my profession as a teacher and later served as a director of Christian education. Then the Lord redirected my life to include writing and speaking.

I’m grateful that God restored my life and helped me again find purpose and meaning. And I’m grateful that He helped me to accept a different path than what I had expected.

Like anticipating the birth of a child, I look forward to a reunion with Christy in heaven. Yes, I still chill to the trill of a wren. It stirs a bittersweet memory of what might have been. But it’s a much softer pang of sadness.

About Shirley Brosius

Shirley Brosius is an author and speaker from Millersburg, Pennsylvania, who enjoys reading, doing jigsaw puzzles with her husband Bill and keeping up with two married sons and five young adult grandchildren.

Her inspirational and devotional articles have been published in many magazines such as Guideposts for Kids, The Upper Room and adult Sunday school take-home papers. She speaks at women’s events as a member of Friends of the Heart, three women who share God’s love through skits, messages and songs (www.friendsoftheheart.us).

www.shirleybrosius.com

www.friendsoftheheart.us

Quiet Heroes

Mon, 04 May 2020 08:44:00 GMT

By: Jennifer Haake

I spent many years in a clinical capacity in healthcare. I don’t think anyone would ever disagree that nurses are the unsung heroes of medicine. For a newly bereaved parent, they are often the ones to shape where the journey begins.

In my case, I was laying on a stretcher getting my weekly non-stress test (NST). A young nursing student was trying to hook up the mom with multiples in her belly. She was supervised by Marti (the nurse I had been seeing for weeks). When it got time to get the third band on, she struggled. She tried and tried and just couldn’t find his heartbeat. Marti tried, and struggled too. The nursing student turned white and walked away. I didn’t see her again. Marti walked us over to the ultrasound room. She held my hand as they confirmed the worst. She called our doctor, who dropped everything and sprinted down from his office. She held the trash can as I hysterically cried and threw up the water I drank earlier. As they walked me off to surgery, she hugged us and consoled my broken and confused heart.

Fast forward about an hour…it was a nurse in the operating room who held our son and rocked him and sang to him while I was sewn up, and my husband looked on in stunned agony through a small window as they worked on my two daughters.

It was she, who forced a very emotionally broken husband to hold his son. He was paralyzed with fear and so overwhelmed. He will tell you how grateful he is to her that she did that. She helped him calm his fear and look at our boy. He held him first. The next night, as my mom lay in the hospital bed next to me. I couldn’t sleep. I got up. Walked out of the room and shuffled down the long hall from the perinatal wing. I sat in a red chair in the main area and sobbed the kinds of sobs that come from the very tips of your feet and very deep inside a broken heart. My nurse followed me. She sat with me while I sobbed, silently offering me tissues.

Nothing more, she was just there for me, and I am sure had I needed anything more, all I had to do was ask. What else could she say or do, but simply care and be by my side.

But, the nurse who likely inadvertently shaped my grief journey was the nurse who discharged me. She came in to give me my paperwork and take out my IV. She looked at me with such emotion and compassion. I don’t know that I understood it until she paused at the door, and returned to my bedside and spoke of her son. She had lost her son when he was young in an accident. She too began to cry with me. She told me how time does not heal all wounds, but that the pain lessens. The intensity lessens. Like any newly bereaved mother, I couldn’t wrap my head around that, but I tucked it away and referenced it often.

I left the hospital and did not return until 3 years later. My youngest daughter decided she didn’t want to stay in for the required 38 weeks. She wanted out at 28 weeks.

The day Abigail was born, I had the same nurse. She didn’t remember me from 3 years before, but I remembered her.

The minute she walked in my door. She had been watching Abby on the monitor all day. She had watched her tracing show signs of distress. I reminded her of our previous discussion. I think I caught her off guard, but then she held my hand. Told me everything was going to be okay. And off I went to the operating room.

I certainly cannot forget Nancy. She was a nurse representative for the support group I attended for the first 3+ years of our journey. She checked on me and counseled me while my girls were in the NICU. She sat in our meetings as I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. She validated my anger when there was no one to direct it at, yet I was so full of rage. Nancy assured me that I would indeed be okay. She supported me. She supported all of us. She didn’t have to, it was volunteer work, but just one more example how people like her go above and beyond to make those that are ill, in many ways and not just physical ones, get better.

She keeps doing it, an unsung hero, holding someone’s hand just because they need it and she has supported hundreds of parents over her 30+ year career – just one shining example of tens of thousands that help those in need.

Nurses see hundreds of patients a year. There are always cases that touch their heart for one reason or another. Rarely do they expect gratitude to be shown, gratitude that they dearly deserve. They are the first to hold your hand when bad news is given. They are the ones who walk through that journey with you in the beginning, quietly checking on your wellbeing without you realizing it. They offer simple words of encouragement and hope when you likely won’t hear them until much later if ever.

I am grateful to them for all of the small gestures and the simple act of listening when my heart was broken.

About Jennifer Haake

Jennifer Haake is a parent companion with Share. She found Share when her son, Charlie, was stillborn in 2010. Jennifer lives in the St. Louis area with her husband of 17 years, Derek, and their three daughters. Volunteering for Share is a family affair. Derek serves on the board of directors for Share while the girls can always be found passing out water and helping out at the Walk for Remembrance and Hope.

In Their Darkest Moments: A Nurse’s Experience Helping Families Say Hello and Goodbye

Mon, 04 May 2020 06:06:00 GMT

By: Lisa Zorn

Oh, “you work in Labor and Delivery as a nurse, you must have the best job!” This is the comment I would hear from people when they inquired about what I did. I was quick to remind them that it’s not as glamorous as most may think; we don’t sit around rocking babies all day.

I would share with them that one of the most fulfilling parts of my job was working with the families whose only time with their babies was spent saying hello and goodbye at the same time.

This often stopped them right in their tracks and stopped the conversation. However, I didn’t let it stop. I would continue to say that these were and still are some of my favorite patients that I had the privilege to care for.

The ability to care for an entire family and be invited to be with them during one of the darkest moments of their lives can be scary. I strived to give them not only quality care but friendship. The ability to help them slip into shoes that they never thought they would wear, and trying to make them fit correctly, was a challenge and a privilege. Although anyone who received a pair of these shoes knows they never fit right, because you’re not supposed to have to parent your child from the grave.

In my very first experience, I was a new graduate nurse. I remember the parents coming to deliver their first child, a boy. She was so uncomfortable looking as they walked past the desk in the middle of the night. I began getting her room ready, thinking she would be in my care for postpartum before morning. A few hours later, I walked to the labor and delivery area and found that when she had arrived, they had learned the frightful news that their son had passed before arriving at the hospital. I didn’t get to take care of that mom that night or early morning, but returned the next evening to care for her. It was then that I learned about Share and its wonderful mission. Ironically, I had recently read an article in a nursing journal about caring for bereaved parents. I only have a few visions that have remained with me over the years from caring for her, but I can recall one very vivid one. I made sure the nursery didn’t bring any babies out for the few minutes she had to walk down the hall to the sitz bath room. She told me ‘Thank you for not letting me see the other babies, it’s hard to hear them during the day.’ I offered to go get her little guy for her to have time with him, as this was before the time of Cuddle Cots and babies staying with parents during their stay. The parents declined. I think their time with their little guy was just a few hours after he was born.

The courage I have learned from families who have footprints placed on their hearts and continue to strive forward, full of fear, is simply amazing.

One couple’s daughter left too soon at full term, but they were successful in having children to raise here on earth. Yet in between those children, they sent several others to heaven to parent from afar. At the service for their last daughter, I was able to be present at the grave site. I learned that when the baby’s grandpa would come to visit, he always left a penny on the baby’s headstone to let someone know he had been by to visit. This was such a heartwarming way of letting others know these little ones are remembered. They displayed great courage to continue to bring children into the world, knowing that some they would get to have for longer periods than others.

Families placed so much trust in me to help guide them on this journey, during the first few days of their world being completely changed.

I always encouraged them to invite extended family: grandparents, uncles, aunts, and other siblings to come and meet their child. Often these suggestions were followed by a look like I was crazy, but I would ask them if the circumstances were different, wouldn’t they be inviting the family to come meet the new addition? I reminded the parents that the extended family may not accept the invitation, but to make it available to them. I shared that it had been my experience that when extended family would come and meet their baby, it made things more real and people seemed to be more accepting. I also encouraged them to allow any living children to come and meet their sibling. Regardless of how young a child might be, most parents have done some preparing by telling them they are getting a new sibling or they are going to be a big brother or sister. One family didn’t think that they would want their older son to come meet their new baby. But they told me this was something they had never done and that they prayed about it, and the Lord told them to trust me, as I had seen this before. So they made plans for their older son to be brought to the hospital. The experience was simply amazing! He came in and immediately went to the bassinet that his brother was in and said, “Hi, I’m your big brother. I brought you a car to play with.” This little guy thought nothing of the fact that his baby brother didn’t respond. He simply put the car in the bassinet with his brother. It was such a privilege to be trusted by families when I suggested we take pictures, do hand and foot prints, and make memories with their baby. I would always encourage them to make as many memories as possible in the short time that they had.

Some of the most humbling experiences have been from you, the bereaved parents and grandparents who have allowed me into one of the darkest moments of your lives.

To the parents of a beautiful little boy, who was given the same name as my own father: whenever I see an elephant, I will think of you and your family.

Thank you to a beautiful baby girl who shares my zodiac sign of Aries: I think how brave your momma was receiving the news at a doctor’s office visit, and your dad was halfway across the country for a new job. She waited for him to return so he could be by her side before you were born. And how she was the “night owl” of our support group, telling others, “I’m awake at night, message me and we can chat.” She was simply amazing.

To the sweet little boy, whose parents and grandparents I met months before you were born, when they found out you had Potter’s syndrome. I was able to help them plan their time here. I still remember all the outfit changes that you had during those days at the hospital, and their generosity to the Share organization still today through allowing them to use your pictures and volunteering at events and fundraising. I share your story when encouraging families to go outside by the lake to take pictures and get out of the stale hospital room.

For the adorable little girl who was born the day after Thanksgiving, I remember when all the extended family came to visit. No one was holding you, but your big sister had a doll that you had brought for her. When I asked her what she named your doll, she had named her after you. And your grandma shared with me how she always made holiday pajamas for the grandbabies. She asked if we could dress you in your pajamas, and we did. They were bright red. How beautiful you looked.

When I see a Raggedy Ann doll, it reminds me of a precious little girl whose grandma made her a handmade doll and brought it to the hospital for her. Your grandma undressed your doll and dressed you in the dress and panties, which fit you perfectly. The smile on her face was irreplaceable.

The dad who was with his wife while we were waiting for their son to be born. His one request was to have an answer as to the cause of his son’s passing. When you were born, we saw how you got tangled in your cord. Later that evening, I had the privilege to help your grandma bathe you and get you dressed before the rest of your visitors came.

When I see a turtle, I remember a little boy who was born to a healthcare member; his room at home was decorated in a nautical theme. He is the first grandbaby on both sides. I remember the kindness of your uncles, who reached out to their fraternity family to donate stuffed animals so that future families having a loss would have something to hold onto when it was time to leave the hospital.

My days not rocking babies brought so much more, especially when caring for families who were saying hello and goodbye. To say thank you never seems like enough.

Learning from the families in their darkest moments has led me to meet some of the most amazing people. People whom I now am so happy to call friends. I can only hope that others, working in the world of bereavement, can find that happiness too.

About Lisa Zorn

Lisa is an RN who learned about Share as a new nurse, having met Cathy Lammert. Cathy was an inspiration in her care for Share families. Lisa fell in love with Share and the program because her parents laid 2 of their 11 children to rest by the time she was 5 years old. They had also suffered several early losses. Lisa told her dad about the program (my mom had passed when I was 16 years old), and he commented that there wasn’t anything like that for them “back in the day.” It became something as important to her dad as his fishing and family. Lisa has truly enjoyed the opportunity to serve families and give them as much as they would like to have memories and time with their precious babies. Her husband is her rock, and they have been blessed with 4 children. They are currently empty nesters and enjoy working on our small farm, crafting, and traveling to visit our kids.

To Be A Mother, All You Must Do Is Love

Fri, 01 May 2020 13:59:00 GMT

By: Casey Zenner

What makes someone a Mother? This is something we recently talked about in one of the Ending a Wanted Pregnancy support groups I belong to on Facebook. When you think of the word Mother , what is the first thing that comes to your mind? It may be your own mom. It may be the person who raised you and is a Mother figure to you, or maybe it is the word love? If you are like me, it is your children. My children made me a Mother. Now that I am a Mother, love is the best word I can use to describe being a Mother. The definition of love is simply, an intense feeling of deep affection. As mothers, not only do we love our children more than we ever thought we could love another person, but we love being a Mother. My proudest accomplishment in life is my title of Mother.

The best part, and unfortunately in the loss community, one of the hardest parts about being a Mother is that no matter how little time you got to spend caring for your child, no one can ever take the title of Mother away and your love will never end.

Peri Orrin’s Mom said “I see a lot of loss moms who suffered miscarriages being embraced and lifted up on Mother’s Day and it’s truly beautiful, I do not think I would be welcomed into that world as a person who terminated for medical reasons (TFMR). Even though the choice we made took all the strength and love and mercy we could muster in order to save our son from suffering. I don’t feel my loss and motherhood are socially accepted, I guess-.”

This resonates with me to the core. The idea that there is any Mother out there that has ever experienced the loss of a child is tragic.

Knowing that there are women who feel exactly like Peri Orrin’s mom, though? Unacceptable. The ugly truth is that we live in a society where termination for medical reasons is such a controversial topic, and when you are on this side of termination, you suffer not only the loss of your child, but the backlash and lack of support from those in your world because of how you lost your child.

I have a living child, as well as Avery, my angel, who I know is looking down on me proud to point me out to all her friends in Heaven as her Mom. Our Mother’s Day will likely look something like this. We will have breakfast, I will get a card from my Husband which will have both my son’s and Avery’s name in it, and then a card from my son that will have cute little scribbles all over it, unless he’s in one of his moods, then it may be blank- got to love toddlers. We will then open presents, and my husband will impress me once again. He really is the best gift giver. Then the rest of our day will look like any other Sunday. I may get a few Facebook comments, or texts saying Happy Mother’s Day, but it is unlikely many of them will say anything about Avery, they rarely do. I struggle to understand why more of my friends and family don’t engage with me when I mention Avery on my social media accounts.

Like Peri Orrin’s mom, I see so many beautiful uplifting comments and support for those mentioning their children who they have lost in some other kind of tragic way, such as miscarriage, stillbirth, or in the early days after they are born. I want so badly to believe it has nothing to do with the fact that it is because I terminated, but what else could it be? Like all these other Moms getting this support, we too are Mothers. So many Moms like me feel that we must justify why we have earned the title of Mother because of the controversy surrounding our losses. When, in reality, it shouldn’t be that way. Ivy’s mom said to me “She was my child, after all; who was I if not her Mother?” She is right. Who are we, if not their Mothers?

Peri Orrin’s mom continues “It’s so hard because I feel like a mother, like I had to experience the worst possible choice a mother would ever have to make but that no one else will see it that way because my baby isn’t here. Like somehow I’m going to celebrate and mourn in invisibility forever.”

Many of the moms who took part in this discussion fear they will be completely forgotten on Mother’s Day because they don’t have any living children. Some have not even shared with anyone that they have terminated for medical reasons. They are too afraid of the backlash they will receive, so in return, they don’t get to celebrate the baby who made them a Mother with those in their lives who should be the first to want to celebrate them on Mother’s Day.

Lily’s Mom goes on to say “Most parents don’t have to make the horrible decisions we’ve had to and we have so much love for our baby girl, Lily.”

While October Skye’s mom says, “The decision to TFMR was a parenting decision. The hardest decision I have ever made. My husband and I made that choice for our angel October Skye because we didn’t want her to suffer (among many other reasons).

You see, us TFMR moms were parenting before we even held our babies in our arms. We were Mothers. We are Mothers. We will always be Mothers.

Paris’ mom says “Just because the circumstances surrounding my loss are different and because my son isn’t here with me doesn’t mean I’m any less of a mom.“ She is right. It should not matter how you earned your title of Mother, but that you remember every person who has lost a child is a Mother, and deserves for their children to be remembered and celebrated.

Ultimately these brave, selfless warriors deserve to be celebrated. Ivy’s mom continues “…so the biggest thing I would want others to know is to reach out to moms like us on Mother’s Day and let us know they are thinking of us and recognize our motherhood.

TFMR moms are hard enough on ourselves for the decisions we had to make, what we really need is for someone to pick up the phone and say ‘Hey, I am thinking about you today. I know your heart must be heavy because a piece of you is missing.’

You could single handedly change someone’s day by mentioning their angel’s name. Be the difference in someone’s life, a bright spot in their world on one of many difficult holidays they will face year after year.

I always try to be a bright spot when I can be. I know what it’s like to live under a dark cloud, and it is important to me that those in the TFMR community live under that dark cloud as little as possible, so with that being said; It is important to me that Paris, Eleanor Marie, Isabella Dora, Vincent Carmine Reyes, Peri Orrin, October Skye, Yashi, Lily, Liam Lucas, George, Zoey, Ivy Elizabeth, Nora, Isaiah, Finn, Chance, Theodore, Kenneth Angel, Emerson, Isaac, Nova, Finch Aviv, Maisie Parker, Anneliese, Hunter Ray Brown, Maya, Noah, Jonathon, and Stella Lena’s Mom’s all know that today, I am celebrating you.

Your strength, your selflessness, and your ability to do whatever it takes to be the best mom you could be for all your beautiful children. For those of you reading this who have not shared with anyone in your life that you have lost a child, no matter the circumstances, I am celebrating you today.

For those of you who feel like you or your angel are being forgotten on Mother’s Day, I see you.

I remember you.

Your Motherhood matters.

You are not forgotten.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mom out there who wears the Motherhood badge on top of her broken heart.

– Avery’s Mom

About Casey Zenner

These are controversial topics and many that people don’t realize other families face.

As a support organization it is always our goal to provide a safe and compassionate place for every family who has suffered the great loss of their baby.

Still a Mother’s Day: Honoring Motherhood During the Pandemic

Thu, 30 Apr 2020 14:06:00 GMT

By: Keisha Wells

Thirteen years ago, I faced my first Mother’s Day without my sons—just 29 days after they took their first and last breaths. Although a bitter-sweet celebration, I was gently supported by family and received thoughtful gifts and love on this premiere day in my motherhood.

Of all the birthdays, holidays, and anniversary dates weathered on my grief and healing journey, I have never been quarantined. Never balanced the joy and pain of my world with that of a chaotic and wounded global world. Never been challenged to steady my grief in loss with the grief felt while sheltering in place, in isolation, during a pandemic. But I, like you too, have felt the sting of a depressive, deadly, hidden, and divisive enemy in loss.

In some ways, our experiences with pregnancy and infant loss mirror our experiences now in withstanding the adversary that is COVID-19.

As loss moms, we experience a loss of control.

We feel isolated.

We ponder an unknown future.

We feel raw and yet numb.

We fear and question the unknown, unseen, and unexpected.

We feel panic, regret, rage, and confusion.

We also feel hope, love, and gratitude.

We are not foreign to these emotions as many bombard us now in managing a new normal in this pandemic. We have survived the harshest, most heart-breaking days in life, and will continue to master loss in the face of COVID-19, even as our needs and comforts seem so out of touch.

I hope you realize this: COVID-19 cannot disrupt your motherhood or the fact that it is to be honored daily.

Many facets of our everyday lives have changed, but you are a mom—we are moms—before, during, and after the pandemic. There are choices in and rights to motherhood that COVID-19, as well as pregnancy and infant loss cannot diminish. No virus and no physical separation from my boys can tarnish my motherhood. I believe the same for you and your little one.

Traditionally, my Mother’s Day practice is to respect my motherhood and celebrate it how I choose. To honor the gift of my twin sons in making me a mom. To acknowledge our connection and bloodline. Mother’s Day has looked different each year. Some years have been quiet and introspective, while others have been more festive. And here we are now, Mother’s Day 2020, facing a unique challenge in honoring our motherhood during a time of mandated lockdowns and social distancing. Still, I don’t plan to change my position. My only expectation for this date is to be the best I can for the day and do whatever suits me. To allow my emotions to come and rest as they will. I intend to do just that this year—quarantined and all. I trust the same will be for you.

I hope you will resist imposing any expectations on yourself about what you should or should not do. You dictate your day—not COVID-19.

So, if you spend time journaling, writing a letter to your precious baby, watching your favorite movie (or three), planting flowers, or doing absolutely nothing as it’s your right—whatever it may be, let it be. But please acknowledge you and your rights on Mother’s Day.

You may feel a mix of emotions from joy to sadness to rage, but know my thoughts are with you. Please accept the following kind words as my gift to you on this Mother’s Day. Let them rest in your heart as positive affirmations. Let these words of light and power brighten the dark places in your life. Receive them as a fragrant, floral bouquet because you are deserving.

About Keisha Wells

The first of so many days I worked to brace myself and prepare for all the emotions a loss mom can feel while hoping for the best in enduring and honoring the forever bond between mother and child.

I believe in you and your ability to make it today and each day. Our tribe values you. We are many in number, but there is only one quite like you. Only one quite like your precious baby. You both matter so very much. Grief and loss will never defy the bond you have with your little one. I celebrate you today because you are a survivor. You are a beautiful and loving mother with such a caring and vibrant heart. The love you have for your sweet baby will always endure. It cannot truly be measured, nor will it be forgotten. Sweet mom, you matter. I celebrate your motherhood today and every day.

A Letter to the Newly Bereaved Mom on Mother’s Day

Thu, 30 Apr 2020 09:15:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

Dear Mom,

I know you’re not the kind of mother you imagined you would be, but that doesn’t make you any less of a mother. In fact, you are the strongest kind of mother. Your baby lives in heaven instead of in your home. You hold your baby in your heart instead of in your arms. It’s not what you planned. It’s not what you wanted. It’s not what you could have ever possibly imagined.

I’m sorry you’re here. I’m sorry you know what it’s like.

In moments when you’re dying to say your baby’s name – say it. Other’s may feel uncomfortable when you mention your child, but you can’t feel guilty about that. You live with the discomfort of living life without your child every day and saying your baby’s name may be what provides you with some comfort – you deserve that.

In moments when your emotional burden is so heavy that you don’t know if you can go on, take one more step. Feel the anger. Feel the exhaustion. Feel it all. Let it out. It’s okay to feel anything you feel. There will be moments when your body and soul feel completely shattered, like you can’t go on. But you will. It won’t be easy but know that you are not alone . There are many of us out here – loving you, going through life just like you, here for you.

In moments when you feel conflicted, it’s okay to practice self-preservation. At times you’ll be caught between feeling abandoned and lonely but wanting everyone to leave you alone at the same time. I’ve been there. You can choose to indulge in the peace and solitude, or you can surround yourself with people who will lift you up and love you where you are. It’s okay for you to decide.

Unfortunately, you’ll find that not everyone can be there the way you need them to be.

Some relationships will fade, others will vanish completely. However, you’ll find that some of your relationships will prove to become closer, more faithful, stronger, and more supportive than you ever imagined. You’ll even build new relationships with parents who are grieving, just like you.

In moments when you want to keep your body busy in order to keep your mind busy, do it. In moments when you want to lay in bed all day and wallow, do it. Be kind and gentle with yourself. Just remember to check on yourself so that you know you’re creating balance in your grief journey.

Nothing can truly prepare you for what you feel after you lose a child, but from all that I have learned, I think one of the most important lessons is that it is okay to not be okay.

You don’t have to be okay. You’ll make progress as time moves forward, but you’ll still have hard days and debilitating moments. It’s okay to feel betrayed and angry and everything else that you’re feeling now. It’s okay to feel everything you feel weeks, months, and years from now. And you know what else? It’s okay to talk about it. It’s good to talk about it. Everyone processes grief differently – and the same goes for parents working through the loss of their child. Personally, I’ve found that writing about my babies helps. There are many other things that can be used to help a grieving mom work through her loss – painting, gardening, volunteer work, or other hobbies, to name a few. It can take a while to arrive at a place of being ready to do these things. That’s okay, too.

Blessings and Love, Another Strong Mom

About Kayla Leibner

Take your time. Take care of yourself – body, mind, and soul.

Mothering Each Day

Thu, 30 Apr 2020 08:04:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

The birds are singing and the sun is shining. When I turn the calendar to May, it brings sadness. I say to myself, “Here we go again.” This month, we honor mothers and for those of us who have been on this loss journey it is difficult. This May, my son would be two and I think of the things he would be doing: running with his brothers, picking flowers in the lawn, playing with trucks in our driveway and jumping in mud puddles.

Mother’s Day is a painful time. It has taken me time to realize what I can and can’t handle. Learning boundaries and realizing what is best for myself has brought some peace. I usually sit at the cemetery and cry, while watching the grass sway in the wind overlooking our town. I need that peace and comfort.

Being present there among the sadness is what connects me to him and our loss journey. The beauty is the sun is shining and that brings hope.

We also take a drive to nowhere particular on Mother’s Day. Sometimes it is the river and at other times it’s just a long drive through winding roads. My husband and I usually are quiet, both of us pondering our son and thinking how it would be different if our son were here. It seems like yesterday we were experiencing loss and now two and half years later it seems not that long ago, but still feels far away.

Being a mom is more than mothering my own children. I mother my students in caring for them at school. With the school year ending quickly this year, I haven’t been able to say goodbye like I normally do. This too is a loss.

In this season of uncertainty and the new normal, has stirred my grief up again. The unexpected, the changes that have occurred and now facing a new normal…all of those things I experienced when we lost our son.

I wish I had words to say that would bring peace and comfort to my heart and your heart. Those of us who have been on this journey of loss and pain know that sometimes no words can be spoken. It is knowing you are not alone, that there are others that are walking beside you whether near or far through kind deeds or by sharing encouragement.

Recently, I have been working in our garden. The garden keeps expanding each year. I started the garden as a way to carry on my grandfather’s tradition. For the past fifteen years in March, I get the tools, put them in great-grandma’s golf-cart and drive up to the garden area. I think back to my grandparent’s chain link fence with the tomatoes and peppers growing tall.

As I plant the garden each year in March, I think of my son who would be two. I think of how he would reach a new milestone in his growth.

May we find the sunshine to shine on us on our toughest days. May we see the growth around us: trees, flowers and plants. May we realize that on this Mother’s Day our hearts will never outgrow the love for our children. Wishing you a gentle and heart-felt Mother’s Day.

Recently I was at a function and a woman smiled at me. I smiled back. She looked familiar to me but I wasn’t sure. A smile bridges those gaps. She walked over and said, you’d don’t know me but I lost my son at 16 weeks recently and a mutual friend of ours gave me your blog link. I read your blog, and I appreciated your writing. I started to well up for tears. Two and half years ago I couldn’t have imagined that writing would help others on their journey or presented the opportunities for myself. To use a gift to help others is rewarding.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/robynsnestofhope/

Choosing Sunshine This Mother’s Day

Thu, 30 Apr 2020 06:35:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

Hello there, Beautiful Momma,

I write this to you as I’m sitting in the warm sunshine, blue skies, and bright green grass. Flowers are starting to bloom, and the leaves are starting to bud.

It’s that time of the year again; Spring. A season that brings many showers of rain, but also leaves us so grateful for those days filled with sunshine.

With this season comes Mothers Day, a time when you are more than grateful for your own mother, but a day that leaves you grief stricken in a puddle of tears from the child you lost.

A day that you wish you could skip right over…as if there wasn’t even such a holiday. Many times, people forget to acknowledge you on this day or they “don’t know what to say”, so they don’t say anything at all. We want people to remember our babies, to know that they left a lasting impression on their hearts, and that truly, we are mothers…even if our children are not here with us.

The anxiety and sadness that this day can bring can be overwhelming for us in the days…even weeks leading up to it.

What if we tried another approach to this upcoming day? What if instead of being sad and filling our hearts with anxiety, we looked for the sunshine?

The sunshine that hides behind thick clouds, or that comes out after a thunderstorm, warming the earth. I’m not saying it will be as easy as planting those bright pink petunias, in fact it may feel a little thorny…like those rose bushes you are trimming up. I can almost promise you though, it’s going to make you feel better knowing this day is for you also.

I know your heart is hurting, I know your eyes fill with tears many days, and I know that being a bereaved momma can feel a lot like a hot blistered sunburn.

You matter and your baby matters…more than the stars in the sky on a warm spring night. More than the chirps of peeper frogs marking the beginning of spring. I may not know you and you may not know me, but I already know, without a doubt, that your broken heart matters. It matters to me, which is why I want to reach out and walk beside you through this Mothers Day.

Let’s do this together, imagine we are having coffee together on a sunny, breezy morning on the porch just as you would with a friend. Okay, so maybe you just thought to yourself; I don’t even like coffee! Imagine yourself with your favorite morning drink! Just as two best friends can help each other, we can help each other to get through this day.

We have to remember that even if nobody in our circle of family or friends acknowledges us on this day, we are still mothers. Forget about social media today, take a vacation from it!

Let’s celebrate our little ones we’ve lost! Write him or her a letter, pour out your love for him/her on those empty pages waiting to be written on. Plant a tree or flower just for your baby.

Is there something you wanted to get for your little one while they were still with you in your womb? I encourage you to get it, whatever it may be. Treat yourself to something you like; whether it be that ice cream you’ve been keeping yourself from or that super sweet calorie packed iced coffee you only have once in a while. Today is your day Momma!

The sun is made up of all of the colors mixed together, but appears white to our eyes. The sun is also 93 million miles away from earth. When we’ve lost a baby, the world can seem so black and white…so bleak and incomplete. The days, weeks, or years, from which we’ve lost our littles, can feel so far away from us, so far back in the past.

Be a ray of sunshine this Mother’s Day. Let your light shine, not only for you, but for your baby also.

Let this day be a day of remembrance and let the memories you have warm your heart and pour over you like a breath of fresh air. Just as a rainbow is composed of all of the colors after a fresh spring rain, so is the sunshine.

This Mothers Day; let’s search for the colorful memories of our babies. The first time you heard your baby’s heartbeat, your first ultrasound picture, the first outfit you bought, that moment you held them in your arms.

There will no doubt be days filled with rain, but there will also be many days filled with sunshine. Let the warmth pour over you this Mother’s Day… because you are a mom to a precious angel.

I’m writing this for you, to the mom who is anxiously peeking at her calendar… to give you a glimmer of hope on a hard day, to help you know that you are not alone.

Happy Mother’s Day from one mom to another!

Being Childless On Mother’s Day

Thu, 30 Apr 2020 06:09:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

My first Mother’s Day without Asher was only 3 months after he died. That day was soul-crushing, to say the least. I was a mother but the child who gave me that title, wasn’t here to celebrate with me.

Throughout the day, I tried to avoid social media, but when deep in grief sometimes mindless scrolling is a great way to pass the hours. Facebook and Instagram were flooded with photos of mothers with their children, proudly displaying the handmade gifts they received. Each one of them was another knife in my heart.

I will NEVER get anything like that with my firstborn child….ever.

He will never make me a painted garden of his handprints.

He will never make me a macaroni necklace.

He will never wake me up with breakfast in bed made by him and his Daddy.

He will never do any of those things.

Seeing the different variations of each of them flaunted (at least it felt that way to me at the time) in front of me on social media ruined me.

The day was spent trying to pretend it wasn’t Mother’s Day, blindly staring at the TV, or full on sobbing at the cruelness that is this life.

Three years after losing Asher, my arms are now full with his twin little sisters. However, the day still hurts. It always will. One of my children will always be missing and nothing will ever change that fact. While I am now able to celebrate my title as a “mother” with living children, the day makes the Asher-sized hole in my heart, that is always there, glaringly obvious.

Over the years, I’ve learned that including Asher, as best I can, makes the day a little easier. Photos are taken with his weighted bear. A copy of his handprint is placed right next to his sisters’ on the crafts we create. His name is included on the cards to the grandparents. Including him in these small ways allows me to celebrate the day with all three of my children.

My advice to you as we approach Mother’s Day, whether your arms are empty or full, is to be gentle to yourself.

Give yourself grace.

If you need your partner to hide your phone so you aren’t tempted to torture yourself with a social media scroll, do it.

If you need time to sit and cry over the fact that your child is missing, you go right ahead and do just that.

If you need to pretend the day doesn’t exist, that is completely fine.

If you need to include your child in crafts to show that you are a mother of a child who isn’t here, do it.

Every day is a hard day when you are living without your child. There are certain days that seem to amplify the pain that is always present, Mother’s Day is one of those days. Do whatever you can to make it a little easier on your broken mama heart.

April 2020 Gifts: In Memory Of…

Wed, 29 Apr 2020 06:25:00 GMT

Each month, families and friends have the opportunity to donate to Share “In Memory Of” the baby or babies they have lost. This month we honor and remember the names listed below.

In Memory Of:

Emily Claire Bambenek

I would like to donate each month in honor of my daughter born still on June 21, 2019. Share is such a vital part of my grief journey.

By: Callie Bambenek

Mandy Lee Bender

Stay strong, gone and never ever forgotten!

By: Cathy & Ed Bender

Grace Cynthia Brown

We love you, Grace, on your second birthday! ~Tristan, Erin, Allison, and Natalie

By: Erin Dressler

Andrew D’Auria

By: Raymond D’Auria

Mason Harris

By: Jim & Lisa Hannon

The Kiefer Babies

By: Kenneth Budt

Christopher Lammert

By: Catherine Lammert

Addison Gilmour Neemz

By: Morgan Horowitz

Addison Nimoy

There are no words to adequately describe the sorrow we feel for you and the loss of Addison. Please know that you are in our hearts and prayers, we are sending you all of our love and support. With love, Your CSUN EMTALA family (Sirisha, Yuki, Jae, Kevin, Svetlana, Joanna, and Danielle)

By: EMTALA CSUN

By: Brandon Kitching

Our sincere thoughts are with the Nimoy family on the loss of their daughter.

By: Steve Kitching

In loving memory of Addison Nimoy.-David & Vanessa

By: David Klein

Joshua Mirkay Redington

20 years have gone by in a flash, but our memory of you is infinite. Trusting that you are in the company of loved ones

By: Nicholas Mirkay

Hunter Charles Webb

By: Harry & Michelle Webb

Tess Welker

By: Brian Welker

Jeffrey Zerr

By: Karen & Jack Zerr

Thank You…

State Employees’ Community Campaign

State Street Foundation

Michelle Banta

Patti Budnik

Rhoderick Burgess

Debra Cochran

Nikki Cordosi

Becki and David Feldmann

Mark and Betty Fuller

Mark Gelsthorpe

Shelly Glew

Amber Kraus

Jerome Lawrenz

Sarah Lawrenz

Michael Margherio

Jeff Mason

Codi Nuernberger

Tammy Olson

Susan Petzel

Chris Roberdeau

Megan & Jason Rowekamp

Carolyn Schainker

Martha & Victor Silva

Emily Spengler

Penny & Jim Stambaugh

Cindy & Jason Swain

Susan Vollmer

Dan & Lauren Williams

Love you from the whole Kitching Family ��

A Bereaved Mom is a Real Mom

Sun, 26 Apr 2020 13:53:00 GMT

By: Paige Sanderson

Breakfast in bed, a card signed “Love, Mike and Holden,” and a picture of flowers created by Holden’s perfect little handprints. That’s what I was hoping my first Mother’s Day would be like. After all, it’s what I’ve been waiting for my whole life. A mom’s first Mother’s Day is supposed to be filled with smiles, laughter, and love. My first Mother’s Day is going to look quite different than that, and I’m dreading it.

I’m actually dreading the whole month of May. It’s a whole month reminder of what was ripped away from me in a split second.

May is my first Mother’s Day since my only son, Holden, was born. Holden was born still on November 19, 2019 two days after his due date. Losing him has shattered my heart into a million pieces that I know will never be put back together again the way they once were. My Mommom, Betty, passed away 11 days after Holden, and May 7 ^th is her birthday. She was the sweetest person, and I feel like I haven’t even started to grieve her passing yet because I’m still just trying to grasp the fact that Holden is gone. Holden would be turning 6 months old on May 19 ^th . It’s just too much. Can it be June yet?

This year on Mother’s Day, I plan on not getting out of bed, but I do want one gift. As my gift, I want to be acknowledged as a mom. I feel like people forget that I’m a mom, even some of my closest friends. I suffered a miscarriage since losing Holden and someone said to me, “Your dream of becoming a mom will happen soon.” I know those words weren’t meant to inflict pain, but they made me feel like someone had just knocked the wind out of me. My dream of becoming a mom? I am a mom! I wanted to scream those words from the highest mountains, so everyone could hear.

How could people not realize that I’m a mom? Have they not seen or heard about my perfect son?

The truth is, I struggled with calling myself a “mom” at first. In my head, I referred to myself as a “fake mom.” I was angry at myself that my only child was born not alive. I felt like I had failed him. I looked around at “real moms,” and they were doing things like dressing their babies, taking walks with their babies, feeding their babies. I was doing none of that, and it killed me. Other new moms were constantly talking about their babies and sharing pictures of them. Not many people wanted to talk about my baby with me, and even less people wanted to see pictures of him. I felt like I didn’t fit the “mom” picture, and therefore, couldn’t call myself a mom.

I have done a lot of thinking, self-reflecting and reading since then, and I do know (with confidence) that I am not a “fake mom.” I am a mom. A real mom.

I gave birth to a beautiful angel named Holden, and he made me a mom. I was lucky enough to bond with him through the entire pregnancy, from feeling his super strong kicks, to learning what foods he did and did not like. He made it super known. I was able to learn that he enjoyed sleeping while I was on my feet teaching all day, and he enjoyed waking up and moving when I was getting comfortable in bed watching the Big Bang Theory. I was lucky enough to be able to spend some time with him in the hospital after the c-section, also.

Finally realizing that I am a real mom has been so helpful to my grieving process. I want everyone to acknowledge bereaved parents as parents. They are still moms and dads. They have the same love for their children that parents with living children have. Learning how to go through life without Holden is the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do, and I never even imagined a pain this excruciating, but being acknowledged as a mom would be so amazing and uplifting.

It would mean that people acknowledge that my son existed. I carried him in my body for 40 weeks, but I will carry him in my heart forever. Holden is my son, and I am his mom. His real one.

I want to end by saying Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there! Whether your babies are here with you or in Heaven looking down on you, I hope that you have a day free of stress and heartache. I pray that you let yourself do whatever you need to do on this day. I will personally be laying in bed all day reflecting on my journey as a mom to an angel in Heaven.

About Paige Sanderson
Paige Sanderson is a fiancée, an educator, and a mother. Her son, Holden, was born still on November 19, 2019. She suffered a miscarriage before and after losing Holden, but she continues to be hopeful about continuing to grow her family. Her fiancée, Mike, moved from Florida to Maryland with her, and that is where they currently reside. Paige enjoys writing about Holden, reading, spending time with family and friends, and walks with her dog, Koda. She hopes that sharing her story can help others who are also trying to navigate through life after experiencing a traumatic loss.

The Lonely Journeys of Infertility and Quarantine

Thu, 16 Apr 2020 21:44:00 GMT

By: Stephanie Dunlap

Infertility at any time can be a long, lonely journey.

Being under quarantine can be a long, lonely journey.

For many of us, at the beginning of the quarantine, there was a lot of unknown. Unknown about what all of this will look like, what our days will be like, how our lives will change from this.

It was mid-March and I was frustrated with my journey of infertility. After 2.5 years of trying, 5 IUIs, 1 round of IVF and no successes, we had been put on hold for a month to start another round of IVF, because my facility was at capacity the month prior. I tried not to stress about it and to enjoy the break from the physical and emotional challenges that infertility brings.

I called my doctor, ready to get started on our next round of IVF. I was so excited. It was finally our turn! Instead, she told me that our clinic was closed for an unknown amount of time and to check in with them later. More waiting. More heartbreak. I have diminished ovarian reserve and my egg quality and quantity only gets worse with time. I don’t have time to wait.

Social media has been one of the ways that I’ve been able to feel a little more connected to others throughout this time. I love getting to see what my friends and family are doing. It makes everything feel a little more normal. But, there has been times I have debated staying off of everything right now. There have been many jokes about how many babies will be born in 9 months. I’ve seen several people say how lucky those without kids are right now. It’s also hard not to be jealous when I see parents getting to do all kinds of activities with their kids as they homeschool them. And seeing all of those adorable Easter egg hunts… Those are tough pills to swallow.

I don’t expect people to understand how hard infertility is. That wouldn’t be fair. I don’t expect people to not share their pictures or stories of their kids. That also wouldn’t be fair. Sometimes I just have to hide people on Facebook temporarily to protect myself. It’s my problem, not theirs.

One of the biggest things that I have learned throughout this virus is that we are all struggling, for many different reasons. It’s hard on everyone. I’m trying to focus on being more mindful of the things that I say, how I can support others and to not play the victim. We all have a story. We all have struggles.

I’ve also learned that suffering in silence is one of the worst things for me. The more I talk about it, the more I realize that I’m not alone. Since I’ve started talking about it, I’ve had a lot of people reach out to me and tell me the fertility struggles that they have had and it becomes a sisterhood, where we can support each other through this.

The hard part about being open about everything is that people give a lot of unsolicited advice. Have you tried x, y, z? You just need to relax, go on a trip and get drunk. At least your loss was early on. People’s intentions are good. I do believe that. And I appreciate that, also. I find it to be helpful if people ask me if I want suggestions. Sometimes I do. Other times it’s just painful. But more than anything, I just want to hear things like: I’m sorry you are going through this. It must be really hard. Is there any way that I can support you? And just letting me know that you care, letting me cry without trying to fix me and letting me know that you’re thinking about me during this process.

Everyone is going through hard times right now. I’m doing my best to be a little more compassionate, listen a little more and lift others up. And for myself, I’m learning how to be still and accept things for what they are.

One piece of unsolicited advice that has been given to me over and over is to slow down and relax. It will happen! And who knows! Maybe they’re right…

Stephanie Dunlap

I am One in 8.

Mon, 13 Apr 2020 21:54:00 GMT

By: Chasity Marquette

One in 8. That is just a statistic not unlike any other you see for diseases and conditions affecting Americans today. Until it isn’t. You never think it’s going to be you. I always knew I struggled with female issues (PCOS, Endometriosis, and painful cycles) that only worsened after my less than satisfactory experience with an IUD. I swore off all contraceptives and bought endless amounts of ovulation and pregnancy tests. After years of no luck, it was time we met with someone concerning infertility. After one unsuccessful IUI, I was done wasting time and ready to start the IVF process. Lots of monitoring, meds, and tests later, we ended up with 3 good embryos (I was a little worried with that number) and decided to do a fresh transfer of our two three-day embryos. Unfortunately, that ended in disappointment. We waited until our next cycle and did a frozen transfer of our last embryo. I felt a little better about this one being the embryo was older and graded better. We had always hoped for a little girl as both my husband and I both had sons.

Finally, on day four after our transfer we got our BFP (big fat positive)! We were thrilled. We did the genetic testing at 9 weeks and found out we were blessed with a girl, better yet, it showed no need for concern. At 16 weeks we went in for a routine appointment only to be met with a look on my doctor’s face I will never forget. Words you never want to hear. We had been through so much; I couldn’t be hearing him right. I remember quickly asking “do you see her?” The look in his eyes. I knew this is what constitutes a bad day in the life of an OBGYN. As I started to panic and cry, I was wheeled down to get the “formal” diagnostic ultrasound confirming the worst. I remember thinking what is “formal” about being told your baby died? After much discussion and my relentless begging to have her right away, I was told I had to prep my body before that was an option. I had the Lumin placed and sent home with a strong dose of Xanax. As I would later find out, she would have passed on Easter (April 1st, 2018).

On April 11th we showed up to the worst appointment of my life, bearing a beautiful name, and ink pad. I had asked my doctor to please get some prints of her hands and feet only to be told he wasn’t able to do that. The last thing I remember is proudly telling the OR staff “her name is Aspyn Olive.”

I woke up to feeling like my water was breaking over and over. Through mumbled words I told my husband I think somethings wrong. As he lifted the sheet, I could almost feel the fear that hit him. In a less than composed manner he said we needed a nurse ASAP. From then on all I remember is bits and pieces as I was wheeled back into the OR and had a balloon placed. However, my doctor was unsure how well it would work as he realized when he went back in that I was bleeding from everywhere. Being I was at the surgery center, I was rushed to the Hospital across town by ambulance. This was when it became critical. I made it to the ICU, by that time I was white as a sheet (so I was told) and the coldest I’ve ever been. My family had all been called and were told of the seriousness of my condition. Thanks to my amazing doctors, and knowing what to test for, I was diagnosed with a rare clotting disorder called Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation (DIC). My family was being told the scary and uncertainty of my diagnosis in the terms, “we’re not sure she will make it, but we will know by morning,” and “she is circling the drain.” The few times I woke up I remember the room being so full of doctors and nurses swarming around me. All I could do was ask if I was going to die and was given the reply “I can’t promise anything, but it’s my job to try my best.” These doctors held my hand through the whole ordeal, and listened to my endless demands of no more central lines, needles, or meds. I’m the first to admit I’m one of “those” patients. After a few days in the ICU, many blood transfusions, beeping, flashing, a body full of bruises, and blue slushies, I got the ok to go home. Thankfully my physical self was on the road to recovering, unfortunately dealing with the loss was yet to come. No matter how much pain and trauma our bodies endure, there is no pain like the loss of a baby. Going home to a closet with clothes that will never be worn, toys that will never be played with, milestones that will never be met, arms that will always feel empty. Another statistic. Until it has been experienced, no words or statistics can explain the pain and heartache of loss.

Infertility affects 1 in 8 couples, while 34,000 a year experience a maternal near miss, and 1 in 4 pregnancies end in a loss. These are just statistics. I am those statistics. As a way of healing and honoring our sweet Aspyn Olive, I have decided to offer unique keepsakes for families, as well as professional photo retouching for families who experience miscarriage, and stillbirth. I know how much each and everything you have to remember your baby by is so important. Rather than birthday photos, their first time sitting up, a lot of us only have an ultrasound, a handful of photos, or footprints. I enjoy turning them into art for you to share!

About Chasity Marquette

The Olive Branch was started slowly but surely as I had the undeniable need to give back as so many organizations, support groups, and fellow loss parents had given to me. I started by offering retouching in my loss groups, and when I had time, watercolor embryos and ultrasounds. After much interest I have decided to offer these things outside of my groups. Please take a look at my work, like and share for those families wanting or needing something special!

www.facebook.com/theolivebranchmemories

Books To Comfort Your Heart: A Quarantine Reading List

Mon, 13 Apr 2020 21:09:00 GMT

Losing a baby can be a lonely, isolating experience, and unless one has known someone who had such a loss, it is easy to feel as if no one understands what you are experiencing. For those who are grieving the death of their baby, the right books can help you process the loss. Different types of books will provide for different needs. Some books deal with the medical aspect of loss, others are meant to help grieving children, men, etc., and others are intensely personal stories. All of these can remind a grieving parent, sibling or grandparent that it is possible to survive such a great loss and that they are not as alone as they might feel. Books dealing with grief can also comfort you and help identify coping strategies.

Share keeps an extensive resource list covering a wide-range of topics as well as an online catalog where many of these materials can be purchased. You may find yourself with some time on your hands during this unusual season, so we’ve compiled this list of books to comfort your heart.

If you have questions about these books or our online catalog, call the Share office at 800-821-6819 or email us at info@nationalshare.org.

Bereaved Parents:

A Silent Sorrow: Pregnancy Loss Guidance and Support for You and Your Family by Ingrid Kohn and Perry Lynn-Moffit

Empty Cradle, Broken Heart by Deborah Davis

Healing Your Grieving Heart After Miscarriage: 100 Practical Ideas for Parents and Families by Alan Wolfelt

Healing Your Grieving Heart After Stillbirth: 100 Practical Ideas for Parents and Families by Alan Wolfelt

Miscarriage: A Book For Parents by Joy and Marv Johnson

Fathers:

A Guide for Fathers by Tim Nelson

When Men Grieve by Elizabeth Levang

Grandparents:

A Grandparent’s Sorrow by Pat Schweibert

Couples:

For Better or Worse: A Handbook for Couples Whose Child Has Died by Maribeth Wilder Doerr

Healing Together by Marcie Lester and Sandra Lovell

Children:

Ethan’s Butterflies by Christine Jonas-Simpson

Someone Came Before You by Pat Schwiebert by Cathy Blanford

Something Happened by Cathy Blanford

Thumpy’s Story (book) by Nancy Dodge

Sharing With Thumpy (journal) by Nancy Dodge

We Were Going to Have a Baby But We Had an Angel Instead by Pat Schwiebert

Journals:

A Momma’s Heart: Comfort for Loss Moms by Bethany Conkel

Grief Journal for Parents

Memory Books:

Hugged With Our Hearts: A Memory Book

We Hold You In Our Hearts: A Memory Book

Finding Hope:

Angelic Presence by Cathi Lammert and Sue Friedeck

Hope for Today, Promises for Tomorrow by Teske Grake

You are the Mother of All Mothers by Angela Miller

Don’t Try To Stitch Up My Broken Heart

Sun, 12 Apr 2020 06:56:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

Dear Family/Friends/Coworkers,

Please be kind to me. Please be gentle and patient with my delicate feelings right now.

Keep in mind that it has not been too long since I lost my son, and I am still allowed to hurt. Try to remember that my heart has been broken by the loss of a very small and precious baby, a baby that I struggled to conceive from a womb that has held four other irreplaceable little ones.

Infertility and loss is not easy, and it’s not a topic to throw around, like people casually talking about the weather with a stranger.

A loss is not replaceable, a barren womb cannot be filled with your empty platitudes, and a broken heart cannot be stitched back together with well intended, but meaningless suggestions.

Slow down, think before you speak, and consider my unique situation in a world filled with expecting mommas and pregnant bellies all around us. With so many pregnancies around me, people say “It must be in the water here.” Hold that thought and please don’t tell me “not to drink the water,” as I have just lost my pregnancy. Be patient with me, try to understand the pain I feel when you tell me someone has had their baby, and hold back on the details, my friend. The pain I have experienced is still very raw right now.

Pause before you playfully ask if I am pregnant because I couldn’t remember what I was going to say or do in a specific situation. No, I don’t have “pregnancy brain,” but instead I’m going through a very tough time, and my mind is constantly thinking about what I have lost and where to go from here. I am trying to remain positive, yet balance my work with my personal hardship right now. Asking if I am pregnant is a very hard stab, when I only lost my son a month ago, and I am supposed to be 25 weeks along at this time. This isn’t the right time for a playful pregnancy joke.

To the ones who are pregnant, I know you are excited, and you have every reason to be.

I’m happy for you, and you give me hope that, maybe one day, I too can carry a healthy baby to term. I’m still reeling in the loss of my growing baby bump, and I still miss my pregnancy symptoms that kept my thoughts of miscarriage locked up safely. If you’re a soon to be mama, I ask you to please hold back your complaints from me; that you are tired of your ankles being swollen, you are tired of being pregnant, or that you are not ready for the coming sleepless nights. Try to consider the blessing you are carrying around, and the moment you will see your beautiful baby for the first time. One in four women have cried many tears in hopes they would be able to experience just that. Women all over have laid in the same hospital bed that you hold your precious, lively baby with laughter and smiles, but instead they’ve clung to their stillborn son or daughter with tears streaming down their cheeks.

To everyone, I promise it doesn’t have to be a struggle to find the right words to say to me. If we could all just pause, and think before we speak, there would be so many less wounds left on our hearts.

Some wounds are so fresh and every time we hear these searing words, it burns, leaving fresh tears streaming down our cheeks. Some words have faded into permanent scars. Although they will always be remembered, we have tried to let the words slip from our memories.

Consider asking me, “How are you doing” instead of asking me, “When are you trying again.” Silence on days when I am hurting is more meaningful than you’ll ever know. Letting me talk through my pain without trying to fix me with a simple, “I’m thinking of you” or “I’m praying for you” can help brighten a gloomy day.

Just as I am kind to you, please be kind to me in return. When you complain about pregnancy symptoms and offer suggestions that are not even reality, such as “I would give you my uterus,” or talk of how tired you might be because your baby doesn’t sleep, pause first.

Please try to contemplate how those words might wound me. Try to count your blessings because you are so blessed to have a baby growing in your womb, or a baby in your arms, instead of only a memory in your heart.

Please be kind, offer a hug, and acknowledge my loss.

“A little consideration, a little thought for others, makes all the difference.” ~ Eeyore

A Brief Life But One of Love

Thu, 09 Apr 2020 06:38:00 GMT

By: Anna Eastland

I recently attended a celebration of life for a baby boy who lived for one month. His name was Matthew. He had the genetic defect Trisomy 18, so it was actually a miracle he lived that long.

Before the funeral Mass, his mother, Maggie, got up and spoke in front of the church about her immense love for her son. She described their every favourite memory of him, from Matthew’s good appetite to his baptism by a priest friend of 24 years, his strong objection to bathing and his one walk in the sun in a stroller. Maggie mentioned the way this tiny, vulnerable child brought out the best in people, and inspired them to great generosity and kindness toward their family. She shared stories of his last day, the cuddles he had with his four older sisters, and the way he died peacefully in her arms, while she sang him lullabies.

Although Maggie briefly broke down, she continued to describe her gratitude for the gift of her son’s brief but full life—a life full of love and affection.

She told us it had strengthened her faith and her marriage to have him, and that she did not regret him. It was nothing short of heroic; I could not have spoken like this at my baby, Josephine’s funeral, five years ago. That day, as on this one, I was simply a silent fount of tears.

It was strange to attend a funeral in these times. Things with COVID-19 hadn’t escalated as much yet, but there were still far less people than I expected, and many sat far apart. A few even wore masks; I hadn’t seen that in a church yet. Now, there are no public Masses allowed, and the options for memorial services are very limited now.

This is a terrible hardship, because commemorating our loved ones lost is so important. But something I’ve learned, five years into the grieving process, is that doing so is not the work of a day, but of a lifetime.

There are various things our family does to honour Josephine. We bake a cake for her birthday, sing for her and plant fall bulbs. In the spring, it is Josephine who makes our garden burst into bloom. Her flowers gladden us each day. I write poetry and articles about love and loss, reach out to other babyloss mamas, and help them walk along the hard path to recovery, one better tread together. Every day, trying to be my best despite failures and mistakes, being grateful for the gift of life despite all its struggles, and trying to love others, I am striving to be a worthy mother to my little daughter in Heaven, trusting that she is helping lead me home.

So if you find yourself unable to honour your child with a large gathering right now, do not worry. You and your loved ones are united in grief and in love, even when you can’t be in the same room. Your baby has a special place in the temple of their hearts, and will be loved, honoured, and remembered not just for one special day, but forever.

Trust that your little one, now safe from all worry and distress, knows the inexpressible depth of your love, and is smiling down on you proudly each day.

About Anna Eastland

Anna Eastland is a Canadian author, blogger and mother of 8. Her first book, “Love Rebel: Reclaiming Motherhood,” is an anthology affirming the dignity and importance of motherhood. After losing her daughter Josephine in labour three years ago, she felt a passionate call to reach out and connect with other babyloss moms. One way she has expressed her own sorrow has been through poetry, and last year she published “unexpected blossoming: a journey of grief and hope,” to share her experience with others.

Blog: Just East Of Crazy Land – Adventures in Parenting

Twitter: @AnnaEastland

Books:

Love Rebel: Reclaiming Motherhood

unexpected blossoming: a journey of grief and hope

Artwork on the Refrigerator

Sun, 05 Apr 2020 06:10:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

This piece of paper covered in scribbles is something I’ve longed to have on my fridge for years. I use to go over to my friend’s homes and see their child’s daycare artwork hanging there and stare longingly at it. I ached to have art on my fridge from my child.

Each time that I injected myself with fertility medication, I hoped that a piece of scribbled paper on our fridge was in our near future.

Each time Aunt Flow arrived, that future was pushed further away.

As months continued without a positive pregnancy test, my bitterness and anger at our situation continued to grow. I hated the world. I hated anyone who I felt didn’t struggle to conceive a child.

The newly married couples who popped out a baby 9 months from their wedding day… hated them.

The couple who said they were going to start trying and were pregnant that first month… hated them.

The couple who WASN’T EVEN TRYING and was pregnant… hated them.

The woman who was 5 years older than me, yet didn’t struggle to conceive… hated her.

The pregnant woman walking at the grocery store… hated her.

The new mother struggling to function with her newborn baby at Target… hated her.

If you had a baby before me, I was bitter towards you.

Unfortunately, I needed all that indiscriminate anger to go somewhere, more specifically onto someone. That person ended up being my sister-in-law.

She did absolutely nothing wrong. She just happened to be someone who didn’t struggle to get pregnant and someone I was close to at the time. When she was pregnant, I talked to her a lot because we had just started trying. We bonded over the excitement of our children possibly being close in age.

After our niece was born, several months into our struggle to conceive, I pulled away sister-in-law. The texting stopped and I withdrew. I couldn’t look at photos of my niece without feeling broken inside. I wanted all of that in my life and it wasn’t happening for us. It broke my heart.

There was no rational reason as to why she became the focus of my infertility rage.

It wasn’t her fault we were struggling, but she was someone close to me that I could put that frustration on and I did. It was a huge regret of mine. I wanted to apologize to her on several occasions after we became pregnant with Asher, but always chickened out because I assumed she probably didn’t even notice my withdraw.

Then Asher died and they flew in to see us a few weeks later. During that visit, we had some time alone together and I confessed everything. I apologized for pulling away from her and for having her be the focus of all of my pain. It wasn’t right and I was so sorry for it. She confirmed she noticed the withdrawal but wasn’t sure why. I know I blindsided her a bit with the conversation, but I had to get it out. I had to let her know I was sorry for how I handled things. At the time it was the only way I was able to cope with my pain. She was amazing during that conversation and we both left it feeling closer than we had in years.

Struggling to conceive a very much wanted child, while it seems like the rest of the world is just popping out babies left and right, can take you down a dark road.

I struggled to keep up with the friendships I once had. I failed to be that good friend I always was and “check in” with them from time to time. I became consumed with my cycle, the medication, the various appointments, and calculating the due date for our baby if I got pregnant this month. Each month I wasn’t pregnant, pushed my timeline of having a child further away. I watched as friends conceived and birthed their second/third child while I still struggled to conceive my first.

I was miserable and broken and I took it out on those closest to me.

Each month that passed without a positive caused me to fall further and further into the darkness. I hated the person I was. I hated my anger.

It only resolved when I became pregnant with Asher. We finally had everything we had been working so hard for but it all came crashing down when Asher’s heart stopped beating inside me.

The loss of Asher took me back to that dark place. I hated the world again and everyone who got to bring home a baby. (However, over time, I was able to turn that darkness into light by working on making my son’s brief life known to the world.)

We were thrown right back into the world of infertility after Asher died and we ultimately went back to the fertility specialist eight months after he was born. After two months of treatment, we conceived Asher’s twin little sisters, the artists of the scribbles pictured above.

Infertility and child loss irrevocably changed me. They both brought me to my lowest points, emotionally. They made me hate the world and isolate myself from it.

Why me?

Why did I have to struggle to get pregnant?

Why did my child have to die?

Why are we back to struggling again?

I was angry at the world for the crappy hand I had been dealt and that’s okay. I’m allowed to be, because it sucks.

However, the lifelong pain and hurt caused by our struggle to conceive and the loss of Asher, has made me incredibly grateful for the two children who are here with us.

Those scribbles on my refrigerator are more than just random lines made by two toddlers. They are a visual representation of the journey it took for us to have our three children; the son we carry in our hearts and the twin daughters we carry in our arms. A roller coaster ride of the highest highs and the lowest lows; joy and pain, hate and love, death and life, grief and gratitude.

I seriously doubted if artwork like the above would ever be on our fridge after dealing with infertility and loss. However, that sliver of hope, which was buried beneath the anger, is what kept us pushing through the pain and made it a reality for us.

“Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.” – Suzanne Collins

Blown Glass

Wed, 01 Apr 2020 19:25:00 GMT

My journey began as sand.
Small grains that made up the very essence of my being.
Slowly and carefully the Artist worked, added, and toiled to create His work of art.
Overtime I became molten glass, untouchable…A force to be reckoned with.
A free spirit even the darkest of nights lusted to tame.
The sands of time were worked into an ever evolving bright clear luster.
The tiniest heartbeat began to blow air into this molten glass of me and I began to transform.
I grew, I changed.
Buffed out were the small pieces of life that would disrupt progress and I evolved.
The casting of glass to create the layers of my life were slowly worked, blown, changed.
I grew, I changed.
Pieces became narrow as my molten glass was drawn.
Flames were used to cut me just right into the perfect shape and into the kiln I continued to go.
I came out a Mama.
Blown just right, fragile, but strong.
Heartbeat. Gone.
No. More. Baby.
I. Shattered.
Shards of glass entered the atmosphere as I processed.
No longer sand.
No longer untouchable.
Still a Mama.
I am blown glass.

About Tiffany Benjamin

I have always wanted to be a mama since I knew what a mama was. Whenever people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say “a mama.” My dream finally came to life July 2017 when I got my blood test results back and my HCG levels indicated a positive pregnancy test!! My husband and I were elated! Being away from our families because both of us were serving in the Air Force wasn’t my plan for being a parent, but all the same we were happy! Quickly after, I was diagnosed with a 10 cm dermoid cyst and after a week of my ovarian torsion and my tube becoming necrotic I was rushed to surgery 11 weeks pregnant with my son. Seven weeks after my surgery (18wks pregnant) to remove one of my ovaries and tubes I was informed I had severe IUGR (Intrauterine Growth Restriction). At 26 weeks, I was told my son no longer had a heart beat and I delivered a beautifully silent 8oz 9in baby boy, Anthony-Judah (AJ) Sahr Benjamin, on 1/3/18 at 13:18. Trying to describe the whirlwind that was my life in 2017/2018 is impossible. My prayer is to relate and encourage other mamas going through the most unimaginable pain possible. Your heart leaving from the inside…but still leaving you alive.

March 2020 Gifts: In Memory Of…

Mon, 30 Mar 2020 16:50:00 GMT

Each month, families and friends have the opportunity to donate to Share “In Memory Of” the baby or babies they have lost. This month we honor and remember the names listed below.

In Memory Of:

Avery & Charlie

By: Rachel Rojano

Hunter Charles

By: Betsy Webb

Little Bean

By: Megan Hill

Owen Charles Bell

By: Jennie Bell

Joshua Ryan Bruenning

Happy 20th Birthday Joshua!

By: Jan & Bob Jerden

Baby Brynildsen

By: Miranda Cowan

Baby Budnik

For wherever it is needed

By: Rosann Umhoefer

Andrew D’Auria

By: Raymond D’Auria

Benjamin G. Gelsthorpe

By: Glenda Botwinski

Scarlett Willow Gramley

LeAnn & Austin, Our prayers and love go out to you for the heartache you have gone through bringing that sweet little angel into the world and then having to let her go. Our thoughts are with you all, Rick & Terese Michniok and Family

By: Rick and Terese Michniok

Nathaniel Hansen

By: Jennifer Blahetka

York Benjamin Hendrix

By: LISA HENDRIX

Miles Kraus

By:

Collin Wayne McGuire

By: Sondra McGuire

Ava Mary Mullins

By: Bridget Mullins

Will Matthew Nieman

In honor of our sweet baby boy.

By: Lori Nieman

Immanuel Anthony Nuernberger and Baby Nuernberger

By: Codi Nuernberger

Baby Q

By: Gabe Rubalcaba

Colden Reed

By: Molly Baab

Charley Rowekamp

By: Megan Rowekamp

Gregory Barrett Sill

By: Jim Sill

Baby Smith

By: Stephanie Acevedo

Jacob and Shawn Swain

By: Cindy & Jason Swain

In Honor of:

Share Staff

By: Brian & Julia Henry

Thank You…

Aetna Foundation

Patti Budnik

Rhoderick Burgess

Debra Cochran

Nikki Cordosi

Mark Denney

Kevin Dern

Carol and Terry Elmendorf

Melanie Field

Mark and Betty Fuller

Mark Gelsthorpe

Shelly Glew

Becky Hinkel

Katherine Jones

Amber Kraus

Pete Kuntz

Angela and Robert Laurence

Sarah Lawrenz

Cheryl and Al Moellenhoff

Tammy Olson

Susan Petzel

Connie Pirtle

Hilary Pond

Twyla Powell

Chris Roberdeau

Scott Rutledge

Penny and Jim Stambaugh

Donald and Melinda Stock

Ronald and Kathleen Venhaus

Dan & Lauren Williams

Jennifer Yen

We will always love you sweet boy❤❤

No One Really Understands What It Means To Be A Loss Mother

Sun, 29 Mar 2020 06:01:00 GMT

By: Ashley Bonebrake Fairchild

Now, don’t get me wrong, I feel incredibly blessed in my life. I have my health and the health of my husband and living daughter. I love them with the fierceness of a lioness and always will. I thank my lucky stars for them every single day. No matter how bad the day is, they always put things in perspective.

But if you know someone with generalized anxiety disorder, that is ‘kind of’ what it’s like to be in my head.

Tragically, we suffered the full-term stillbirth of our first daughter in January of 2018, two months before we were pregnant with our second, now 14 month old, daughter. Additionally, my mother died after a three and a half year struggle with ovarian cancer in February of 2015.

My sister and best friend, lives a state away from me, and she’s the best therapist money could buy. She listens. She understands my grief, and gives me space to share my grievances. But she has two kids of her own, a husband and career, so our phone time gets very thin and infrequent.

My postpartum anxiety (PPA, for those in the know) is certainly better than it was a month or two, or 6, postpartum with both girls. But I still get triggered on a nearly daily basis because we cannot control everything in our lives; those triggers may be there whether we like it or not.

Triggers for me, range from certain people, to places, and situations. And of course memories and thoughts are triggers, as well.

A good example of a trigger I had recently was the Frida Mom commercial that was banned from being aired on the evening of the Oscars in February 2020. If you made an effort to watch it, imagine that same situation, except no baby crying in the background. I sobbed when I watched the commercial on YouTube. It was so raw. So realistic. I couldn’t hold back tears. It was me and I felt seen, at least in part. I was crippled with anxiety for at least 20-30 minutes, wanting to know where my living daughter was, what she was doing, and was she safe?

I tend to cope with beta blockers, the prescribed way to handle anxiety when you don’t have anyone with whom to commiserate. Why?

Because society expects our demographic, mothers, to be happy, put together, taut, and pleasant when we feel anything but. Throw being a loss mother into the mix and the expectation is still there.

I once told some one what I go through on a daily basis would absolutely cripple most people. But I get up and ‘lean into’ my anxiety each day, and don’t talk about my struggles with anyone, because that is what is expected of me. I keep it bottled up and just pretend like nothing is wrong. Otherwise we are thought to be “crazy,” headcases, or just unable to be normal. Why does society have this pre-determined amount of time for which we are allowed to grieve? I have an acquaintance who watched her daughter be killed in an automobile accident. Her boss, many years after the accident, once asked her why she was still grieving and told her it was time to “get over it.” Why is this opinion even allowed to be shared aloud? She will grieve her daughter forever, because she will never stop loving her. End of story.

So, to the loss mother, I want to say, through my own tears, “I SEE YOU.” And you have an ally in me.

But to those who read this and come from a place of not understanding, I hope you now do. Give loss mothers some grace even when they aren’t putting on happy, smiling, friendly faces. Because we are trying as hard as we can to deal with our own minds in the best way we can. It may take YEARS. And that NEEDS to be okay. The best thing you can do is say, “I understand and am here for you if you need anything.” Do not push, lest you wish to become a trigger (the pushers always become triggers, trust me on this.) Giving grace means really trying to understand the loss mother and what she might be going through, giving her the space and time to function at work and be a good wife, and if so blessed, to parent living children. She’s dealing with enough stress on her own than to have to cater to the wants and needs of those outside her immediate care.

Be kind. Be gentle. Give grace.

But, loss mothers, please hear me: we are sisters in this lifelong struggle in the club no one wishes to belong. You are doing an AWESOME job. Make sure you realize your accomplishments with pride. Doing what you do, while grieving, is an incredible feat. Keep up the good work. Do what you need to do to feel whole again and don’t let the guilt or societal pressures weigh you down. You can do this. I have faith in you. Much love and peace, forever.

About Ashley Bonebrake Fairchild

Ashley became an advocate for pregnancy and infant loss and awareness following the January 2018 stillbirth of her first child, a daughter named Celeste Caroline, due to intrauterine growth restriction.

She is kept busy with her work for a large national property and casualty insurer, but her love of reading and writing stems from her English (and Psychology) double major in college.

Ashley currently resides in the Overland Park, KS area with her husband of 10 years and living daughter, Chloe Carol.

Embracing Our Realities Even in the Face of a Shared Grief

Sat, 21 Mar 2020 07:07:00 GMT

By: Tosin Popoola

Introduction

Among the Yoruba people of Nigeria, pregnancy and perinatal loss are understood and interpreted from the concept of ‘pot and water.’ From the Yoruba worldview, a pregnant woman is like a pot and the pregnancy she is carrying is the water. From this perspective, when Yoruba people want to communicate that a pregnancy resulted into stillbirth, they say ‘omi lo danu, akengbe o fo’, literally translated as ‘only the water has spilled, the pot is still intact.’ There is emphasis on the intactness of the pot because the ultimate tragedy is not the ‘water spillage’ (stillbirth), but that of a broken pot (maternal mortality). The Yoruba cultural interpretation of pregnancy loss mirrors the reality of maternal and child mortality in Nigeria. A woman in Nigeria has 1 in 22 lifetime risk of dying during pregnancy, childbirth or postpartum and this means that up to 58,000 women die from pregnancy-related causes every year (WHO, 2019). As a resulted of the reality of maternal mortality, mothers of stillborn babies are considered to be fortunate to be alive and the central idea of ‘only the water has spilled, the pot is still intact’ analogy is geared towards reminding the mother of the stillborn baby and her family that they still have something to be thankful for despite the loss of a child. In a culture that places so much value on children, this approach to bereavement does not mean a denial of the loss of the child, but rather, an acknowledgement of the choice that their reality presents them. This narrative of stillbirth has many ramifications for the experience of stillbirth, the support that is available and how women themselves want to be supported.

In 2017, I spent six months in Nigeria, a country located in the western part of Africa talking to 20 women who have lost termed third trimester pregnancies to stillbirth. I reflect on my experience of talking with these women about their experience of stillbirth

Process over product

Among the Yoruba people of Nigeria, motherhood is highly revered, and many women look forward to it. This is because motherhood not only confirms special status and respect, it is also a form of empowerment that protects women from the stigma of childlessness and the instability that comes with it. As an illustration, numerous Yoruba proverbs describe motherhood in the following way: iya ni wura iyebiye ti a ko le fi owo ra (a mother is a like a precious gold that no amount of money can buy); orisa bi iya ko si, iya la ba ma a bo (a mother is a god that should always be worshipped). The accolades that have been engrained in the concept of motherhood reflects what women go through to become mothers, but also mothers’ role in the socialisation of children. Yoruba culture strongly believes that a child that grows to become a responsible member of the society reflects the role played by the child’s mother. The unique role that mothers play in children’s socialisation means that pregnancy is not a private experience for the mother, rather, it is a collective experience. When the baby bump becomes visible, people (both close friends and strangers) show their interest in the pregnancy by saying “e ku idura”, literally translated as “greetings for the struggle your body is going through.” From this perspective, it is not hard to imagine that any Yoruba woman whose pregnancy ends in stillbirth would want to be acknowledged for her shot at motherhood despite the outcome. Mothers acknowledged that they appreciated conversations that centre around the pregnancy itself, how the labour started, how they learnt about the death, and plans for subsequent pregnancies, rather than conversations about the child that died. This means that any support that elevates the personhood of the stillborn baby over the motherhood aspirations of the mother will be a culturally unsafe care for a Yoruba woman.

If stillbirth affects the mind, how will memorabilia help?

“Ogbe okan ni” (it is an intractable wound on the mind)

The mothers likened stillbirth to an intractable wound on the mind and because of this, they frowned at any attempt to represent or symbolize their loss with any physical object. The mothers claimed that it is “ maternal instinct to think what if my baby was alive, he or she would have been like this or that.” As a result, all the mothers turned down the mementoes meant to memorialize their loss, asking why they should keep an object when “children who are of the same age group as their own stillborn babies” mentally triggers their memory on a continuous basis. Mothers also worry that keeping mementoes, which is clearly a deviation from cultural norms will expose their grief to labels associated with medical and cultural pathologies, a scenario that they even dread more because of the stigma associated with mental derangement. One of the women acknowledged that “ it is impossible to forget but keeping something as remembrance is not part of Yoruba culture. When you do that, the wound in your heart will not heal ”. This means that before handing a mother memento, it is important to ascertain whether it facilitates conversations with others about her loss and whether it impedes or facilitates a mother’s grief.

Conclusion

It is important for those providing support for mothers of stillborn babies that just like all stillbirths cannot be medically or scientifically explained, not all guidelines can safely account for how a mother can best be supported after stillbirth. This means that a guideline that recommends calling a stillborn baby by ‘name’ as best practice may not be culturally safe for mothers whose cultural practice is to wait certain days after birth before naming a child.

References

World Health Organisation (2019). Maternal health in Nigeria:generating information for action. Retrieved from h ttps://www.who.int/reproductivehealth/maternal-health-nigeria/en/

About Tosin Popoola

Tosin Popoola is a Nursing Lecturer at the Victoria University of Wellington’s School of Nursing, Midwifery and Health in New Zealand. He is a registered nurse and midwife and has a PhD in Nursing.
Email: Tosin.Popoola@vuw.ac.nz

Grieving Now and Grieving Then

Sun, 15 Mar 2020 17:51:00 GMT

By: Brooke Taylor Duckworth

I studied Victorian literature in graduate school, and alongside the novels I read, I learned a great deal about culture in Victorian England. Nineteenth-century Britain was fascinating to me—particularly in all of its contrast with our contemporary society. The strictly gendered spheres for men and women, the uncomfortable clothing, the formal social structure, the likelihood of a woman dying in childbirth—it all seemed so impossibly long ago, as I read about it surrounded by the comfort of modern conveniences (and wearing pants rather than a crinoline petticoats).

When my daughter died, though, I suddenly felt a kinship for those women who had seemed so far removed from me in history. Because in the nineteenth century, many children didn’t live to grow up.

In a world before vaccinations, before germ theory, before ultrasounds, before doctors practiced the simple act of washing their hands before caring for a patient, every pregnancy was precarious and for every 1,000 infants born between 1875 and 1905, between 150 and 200 of them died. That number—10-20% of babies!—is staggering.

Before I lost my own baby, I think that I imagined the commonality of infant death would somehow lower the despair that people felt about the loss of their child. If it was occurring so often, surely it would have to hurt less?

Now having experienced this grief firsthand, I am quite certain that it does not work this way.

The American author, Mark Twain, lost his beloved daughter, Susy, in 1896, when she was twenty-four years old. It was not their first lost—Susie’s older brother Langdon died when he was just 19 months old. But one does not become immune to loss having experienced it before, and he felt shock as well as grief. Twain wrote in a letter to a close friend after her death, “I did know that Susy was part of us; I did not know that she could go away; I did not know that she could go away, and take our lives with her, yet leave our dull bodies behind.”

What the Victorians did manage, perhaps much better than we do today, was to acknowledge and incorporate such loss. While a black veil is rather impractical for everyday wear, I can appreciate the impulse to put a barrier between oneself and the world.

After Eliza died, I longed for an outward and visible sign to wear out in public—a black mark of some sort, like the arm band men often wore, so that people would know that I was grieving and would hopefully treat me gently.

While I’ve little need for the Victorian tradition of a black boarder on stationery, I might have benefited from a subject line grief-indication in my e-mail: “Sender is in mourning.” Or maybe an auto-reply function until I could deal with my inbox: “I am currently out of my mind with grief, as well as out of the office. I will be responding to e-mail when I can bring myself to care about your petty issues again; possibly, never.”

Living in the twenty-first century, a healthy young woman with access to quality healthcare and excellent doctors, I knew there was a chance that something could still go wrong, but I had no reason to believe it would happen to me. I assumed that once I got to third trimester, I safely assume that my pregnancy would result in a baby I would bring home with me. Twain writes about taking for granted his daughter in much the same way, not realizing she’d be gone so soon:

“To me she was but treasure in the bank; the amount known, the need to look at it daily, handle it, weigh it, count it, realize it, not necessary; and now that I would do it, it is too late; they tell me it is not there, has vanished away in a night, the bank is broken, my fortune is gone, I am a pauper. How am I to comprehend this? How am I to have it? Why am I robbed, and who is benefited?”

That feeling of being robbed matches my own experience so vividly. It felt as though my baby had been stolen away by death, a shocking theft that I could have never expected. It was senseless and cruel that I lost something that everyone else got to take for granted. She was ours ; I had counted on her. And now we were robbed of the experience of being her parents.

With Eliza’s death, I joined a legion of parents from the nineteenth century (as well as generations previous and later) who grieved the loss of their child—unexpected and bewildering, heartrending and devastating, no matter how common such a loss might have been.

Unlike nineteenth century parents, however, I was grieving my daughter in a society that expected my grief to be hidden, muted, and private.

I had once thought that the Victorian emphasis on death—photographs, elaborate wakes held in the home, jewelry made from the lost loved one’s hair—was over-the-top and kind of morbid. Now I craved physical connections to my daughter and socially mandated rules for marking my loss. I was glad to have photographic evidence of her; I wanted to touch her clothes, to feel connected to her, to carry something of hers with me at all times. Shouldn’t there also be a clear set of rituals? I would have liked to cover my mirrors with black fabric and wear a black uniform for a year. I felt like my inner devastation deserved to manifest itself outwardly. How could people expect me to just return to my old life, picking up the pieces and going on as though nothing had ever happened?

Without social norms to direct my grieving process, I felt as though I had to carve my own way.

I sought out support groups to find other bereaved parents experiencing the same feelings. I selected personalized jewelry to commemorate Eliza and make me feel close to her. We created our own, private rituals and symbolism with candlelight, sunsets, baby ducks, and pink magnolia blossoms.

The loss of a child is certainly less common than it was in the nineteenth century, and we should all be grateful for that.

But as death becomes more unexpected, grief becomes lonelier.

I think parents in the 1800s were just as heartbroken as we are today, but I hope they were able to find solace in knowing they were not alone. Today, many of us seek the same connection and mutual understanding (often on the internet) because it does feel that we are fewer and farther apart. Our traditions have shifted, but the heartbreak of grieving a child’s death remains a universal truth.

Our society today makes little space for people who are in mourning, and I think that’s why it’s so important to share our experiences and risk that vulnerability.

Every time we tell our child’s story, or speak their name, or share their photo, whether online or in person, we are perhaps shining a light in the darkness for someone else, paving a path forward where grief is not unspeakable and love becomes the way to navigate through loss.

About Brooke Taylor Duckworth

Brooke is the mom to four girls. Her first daughter, Eliza, was stillborn in December of 2010, and she and her husband are raising Eliza’s three little sisters. She is also a wife, a professor, a writer, and a microwaver of dinner. She lives in the St. Louis area and blogs at bythebrooke.blogspot.com .

A Celebration of Life

Sun, 08 Mar 2020 17:38:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

Colorful flowers float down the river as we say our goodbyes to my Grandpa Dave at his farm. It’s a cold day in November, family and friends have gathered together to celebrate the life he lived. A few short months before he died, he told me where he wanted his ashes spread and now the soldiers line up to do the 21 gun salute for his service. They hand Grandma the perfect folded up flag, and we proceed to spread his ashes across his favorite place on the farm. It is a solemn place where he would sit and watch his favorite birds, which were woodpeckers.

We celebrated the life he lived, the time we had with him, and the memories we cherished and would hold close. He wanted this, he didn’t want us sad and crying, and he requested we celebrate his life instead. We had food, desserts, wrote down our favorite times we had with him, and listened to his friends as they sat around in a circle and played harmonicas. Yes, it was still sad and we missed him more than anything, but we were able to smile and laugh as we came together and reminisced.

Death is so difficult, even when we know we only have a few short months left with a person due to sickness or health reasons.

It becomes even more challenging when its sudden, and we can’t seem to come to terms with why.

We have so many questions and so very few answers. We are in shock, denial, and may even feel numb to the fact they are gone. Grandpa was diagnosed with Non Hodgkins Lymphoma, and we knew he didn’t have a lot of time left. We spent most weekends with him always preparing ourselves that this could be the last time we would see him.

We had no idea that a few short years later, my grandma, who seemed to be in excellent shape, would suddenly pass away from an aortic dissection of her heart. We weren’t able to prepare for this sudden passing of a loved one, and we were left in shock. We knew what she wanted though: a celebration just as we had celebrated Grandpa’s life. Grandma loved big gatherings and didn’t know a stranger!

Five years from when Grandpa passed, friends and family gathered together again at the farm. We spread Grandma’s ashes in the same place we had spread Grandpas and had a small service for her by the tree we had planted for Great Papa after he had passed. Our family made food and desserts, and we again laughed over memories and times we had shared with her.

She would have loved to have been there! It almost felt as if she was there floating around as normal talking to every single person.

I lost my baby boy after 16 weeks of pregnancy, and I knew I wanted to do something for him.

Although he was taken way too soon, we held him in our arms and made our own memories with him in that short time we had. We have precious memories while I carried him for sixteen weeks. We had multiple ultrasounds because this was a high risk pregnancy. We were able to see his heartbeat and watch him move around while the ultrasound technologist tried to get us good pictures… when he would stay still!! Since we did IVF, we have a picture of him when he was just a small embryo, before we knew if I would become pregnant.

In two weeks, we will gather together with friends and family and celebrate baby Hunter’s short life.

We still have memories we can talk and laugh about. Pregnancy symptoms, finding out he was a boy at only thirteen weeks, and that he was already 8 ½ inches long at delivery! I can still share these precious moments with others. We are going to have chili, cake, and have a balloon release just for our sweet baby.

Everyone has unique traditions for when someone they love passes. There is no right or wrong ceremony, and we all deal with death in our own way. We grieve differently and we want to do what our loved one would have wanted.

We can continue to carry on these traditions for our babies also, no matter how far along we might have been or how old our babies are.

Remember and cherish all the memories you had with him or her during the time you had with them, whether in the womb or not.

January and February 2020 Gifts: In Memory Of…

Tue, 03 Mar 2020 15:43:00 GMT

Each month, families and friends have the opportunity to donate to Share “In Memory Of” the baby or babies they have lost. This month we honor and remember the names listed below.

In Memory Of:

Anna

My daughter who died before I got to meet her – I love her and know she is resting in the arms of Jesus until we officially get to meet one day!

By: Cassie Rohrbach

Baby Robin

By: Susan & Leonard Craft

Cameron James

By: Chris Roberdeau

Caroline Grace

By: Greta Frazier

Children me and my sister families lost

By: Anthony R Chavez

Memories for Morgan

By: Bob Reany

Travis

By: Nancy Anton

Yerusalem Ruth

By: Pauline Herlihy

Aliya James Alaoui

Our thoughts and prayers are with the 3 of you at this difficult time – your friends in MO – Brian, Larry, Linda, Mike, Michele and Tiffany

By: Michele Dimmick

Andrew D’Auria

By: Raymond D’Auria

Cal Cleveland

By: Angela & Kyle Cleveland

Jess C. Cooper IV

By: Shawn Dennis

Claire Lynn DeBoor

By: Nicole DeBoor

Anastasia Mary Duffy

By: Lauren Schuessler

By: Jon Schleuss

Caleb Leible

By: Stacey & Bob Leible

Jack Vincent Lombardo

By: David R Dixon

Emmett Robert Kraus

By: Amber Kraus

Christina Minich

In memory of Tina

By: Rebecca Reisinger

Baby Nelson

Brigitte and Jay, All our love and support are with you at your heart-breaking loss. Love, Aunt Judy & Uncle Bill

By: Judith Prather

Marley Caroline Neville

By: Teresa & David Andre

Matthew Rauch

By: Nancy & Bill Rauch

Paige Schuessler

By: Jamie Kuehl

By: Lauren Schuessler

Lulu Schultz, Richard McShane & Gianna Petraitis

By: Susan Schultz

Andrew James Stege

We love you, Mo Ma and Pa Pa

By: Patricia & Keith Pallardy

Madelyn Thomas

By: Jamie Stucky

Jacob Thompson

I love you Daddy!!!

By: Scott Thompson

Clayton Welsch

By: Sheldon & Marilyn Wettack

Jeffrey Zerr

By: Karen & Jack Zerr

In Honor of:

Rachel Meyer

By: Kathleen Keough

Thank You…

Rudy Beck

Michael Bowlan

Patti Budnik

Thuy Cannon

Christina Carpenter

Debra Cochran

Nikki Cordosi

Barb Donahue

Terrence Elmendorf

Barbara Fresenburg

Mark & Betty Fuller

Mark Gelsthorpe

Shelly Glew

Vicki & Mike Kiefer

Amber Kraus

James Lamberg

Sarah Lawrenz

Cathie Maddy

Christy & Eric Mareshie

Virginia Martin

Sally Ann McCrea

Bonnie Nockerts

Tammy Olson

Susan Petzel

Twyla Powell

David J. Reinhart

Chris Roberdeau

Chris Roedel

Megan & Jason Rowekamp

Katie Sadewasser

Emily Sill

Martha & Victor Silva

Penny & Jim Stambaugh

Olenna Tysiak-Bone

Dan & Lauren Williams

Wonderful Giving

Flip Give

Let’s Stop Saying “At Least”

Sun, 01 Mar 2020 17:37:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

When someone you love dies, it seems to be fairly customary to express your sympathies followed by some platitude to attempt to lessen the griever’s pain. This is where the “at-least” statements come into play.

A few of my favorites after my son died were:

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Followed by –

God needed another angel.
Everything happens for a reason.
At least you didn’t really know him yet.
At least you know you can get pregnant.
This was all a part of God’s plan.

I’m guilty of making similar platitudes myself. My friend’s grandmother died; “at least she isn’t suffering anymore”, “She lived a long life”, “At least she is reunited with her husband”.

Prior to losing Asher, I didn’t know any better.

Up until that point, I had only experienced the death of my grandparents. Their deaths followed the natural order of things, grandparents are supposed to pass when they reach a ripe old age after living a good life. To me, those platitudes seemed applicable because they were true. My grandparents lived long lives and it was their time to go. Obviously, I still miss them, but I don’t think of them every day like I do my son. Their deaths didn’t annihilate the future I had planned for my family. Their passings were expected to happen in my future.

Since losing Asher, I’ve learned that there is no need for these tired expressions after someone loses a loved one for both the unexpected and the expected losses.

Death is hard, but inevitable.

The unexpected losses in life have a way of shaking people to their core. They try to make sense of the senseless.

One way of doing that is by sharing these “at least” and cliché statements. Babies can’t just die before they have lived. There has to be a reason for it! When they express their sympathies for your loss, they have to rationalize it for themselves, so an overused sentiment is thrown in there to ease their fear and anxiety, not yours.

The expected losses are no less painful for those close to the deceased. They knew it was coming. They were prepared for it, but they are still devastated by it. They still lost someone they love. There is no need to offer anything but acknowledgement of their pain. Even if the “at least” statement is true, verbalizing it to the griever doesn’t help them.

Society’s ritual of trying to ease the griever’s pain has the tendency to only exacerbate it.

The comments tend to gloss over the immense loss that person is feeling. They end up making the receiver of them feel like they shouldn’t be as sad as they are, like their pain shouldn’t be THAT bad because “at least” x, y, and z are happening.

It is a custom that needs to change. We need to get better at feeling empathy, instead of expressing sympathy. When we become more empathetic people, we can understand how these cliché phrases could make the receiver feel. Once we do that, we can stop offering sympathies and start offering acknowledgement which is all the griever wants.

Work In Process: Healing After the Loss of My Baby

Mon, 24 Feb 2020 19:15:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

The phrase, “Work in Progress,” has been one that I have heard frequently quoted. Work in process I like better, since healing is a process that progresses.

When I think of where I am today, I am a healing work in process. I don’t think I will be whole again.

However, I can work on those broken parts of grief. A visual comes to mind of a vase that is broken. We may try to put the pieces back together, but the water will seep through the cracks, even though it’s been repaired. As we heal, we will have cracks that emotions will continue to flow through. The vase might seem whole again, but there are visible signs it’s been broken. For myself, crying and circles under my eyes are some of the visible signs of my cracked vessel. The hidden signs of brokenness are self-imposed guilt, anger, sadness.

Reading books that offer encouragement or podcasts that share uplifting stories have been helpful in my healing process. One day while I was at the park walking, I looked in the Little Free Library book box. As I was looking for a new book to read, there was one entitled Beautiful Hope. I felt it was a sign to read since our son’s name is Hope. In the book, there were stories of hope from a variety of people who shared their life experiences. It was a short book that I read over the weekend that brought comfort.

We named our son Hope because in our moment of brokenness, we needed hope.

In my home, I have a space where I write and create. There is a sign on my wall my friend, Gale, lettered. Gale is a talented lettering artist, and I have always admired her quotes on her maps. The one on my wall says, “You Don’t Have to Have it Figure Out to Move Forward.” It has been little steps moment by moment, minute by minute and day by day on my journey.

As grieving parents, we don’t have to have it figured out to start the healing process. We take little steps on this healing process.

I realized I don’t have to figure it out, I don’t have to blame myself and I can lean into the memories of Hope and look for hope in tomorrow. May we strive to see the glimmer of hope through the sunshine, the kindness of others and through taking a step one at a time.

About Robyn Busekrus

Robyn Busekrus is a mom, wife, educator, and writer who makes her home in Washington, MO. Losing her third son Hope in the second trimester of pregnancy, was an unexpected part of her life’s journey.
Robyn’s blog www.robynsnestofhope.com chronicles the journey of loss and hope. Appreciating the little things in life, while holding onto faith each day is the message she wants to share with others. Her interests include reading, home decorating, vintage markets, and community service.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/robynsnestofhope/

Identity Shift

Thu, 20 Feb 2020 08:37:00 GMT

By: Rebecca Stockwell

My loss came, as many do, out of the blue. I went for a routine ultrasound and found out my son had multiple anomalies. I’m a nurse, and when I lost my son I was working in step down ICU. I took about a week off after my loss and then returned to a normal schedule.

I thought I was coping okay until seven months later when I realized I wasn’t caring for patients at the standard I had set as good care. And by realized, I mean, a patient actually asked me why I didn’t care about making her comfortable. It was a pretty devastating wake-up call. After the initial defensiveness and the anger at myself (I thought I was failing, when in fact I was grieving) I decided to find a job, still in nursing, that wasn’t working directly with patients.

Changing jobs can also cause grief and in a way, I lost part of my identity.

I worked in an office job for four years. During that time, I read some really good personal development books, like Rising Strong by Brene Brown. I learned to care for my body and nourish my soul. But it all took time, and while I was learning to care for myself it wasn’t possible for me to give good care to patients. Stepping away from direct patient care was the right decision for me.

When I decided to go back to taking care of patients, I wasn’t sure I could do it. I wasn’t sure I could witness the pain of others.

I wasn’t sure I could hold space for that in my life. But I noticed something: not only could I hold space for it, I was a better nurse because of it. It was hard in a different way, I had to make space in my life to decompress after work, I had to make space for feeling more deeply and still be able to get on with my life. I had to learn other people’s pain is not mine to hold.

I had to figure out a way to step out of it and sometimes it’s as simple as telling myself “this is not my pain to hold.”

And sometimes it’s calling a friend to off load some of the heaviness, sometimes it’s praying for the patient and family. Each situation is different.

I’m so grateful for the gift of more compassion, more empathy and I have my son to thank for it. It’s still a weird world to live in, it’s a place in between. I would do almost anything to have my son here with me but I’m also so grateful for the gifts I received as a result of losing him.

About Rebecca Stockwell

Stockwell lives in Vermont with her husband and two daughters.

Be Kind To Yourself

Thu, 13 Feb 2020 17:28:00 GMT

By: Keisha Wells

“Be kind to yourself.” This was one of the first words of encouragement I received from a fellow angel mom.

The first time I had ever been given this guidance. Her words were both comforting and abstract. How could I give any thought to caring for myself when facing such a crushing reality? The loss of my sons didn’t allow much kindness to exist in my world then. But her supportive words and the fact she had traveled the same path I was now facing in neonatal loss—that she too had buried her twins—left me feeling hopeful that I could somehow be kind to or even care about myself in facing such a cruel loss.

Thinking back on it now, I recall reading her words on my laptop, as I was desperately seeking to connect with anyone who could relate or help me understand the deep chasm of loss in my life as a new angel mom. Then, I was on a fervent pursuit to make sense of my sons’ absence from our lives. To make sense of the chaos left behind in loss.

I needed to be proactive in reading about loss and identifying with other moms who hurt like I hurt.

In 2007, there weren’t as many resources for angel moms compared to our community now, but I was blessed to bond with a few women. We emailed each other, sharing our stories, as well as hurts and hopes in motherhood. We gave reports on our good days, the bad days, and those in between. The notion of being kind to self when grieving became a common theme in our communications. We were learning to increase self-compassion and self-love. We were learning how to stand in our hurt and self-soothe with each step moving forward.

At some of my scariest and most challenging times, I have found solace in those four simple, but meaningful words. In my early days of grieving, being kind to myself meant working to silence the loud and unkind inner voices that would attack at random. The voices that said I was to blame for my loss. That said, “I should have…if I had only….”

This learned skill of self-compassion and self-care has served me well as I have learned to say no to people, places, and things I don’t have the mental, spiritual, or physical energy to entertain on this journey. It has helped me learn to boldly say yes to things that fortify me and ask for the support I need.

It has given me permission to acknowledge and define my motherhood and help others do the same.

What initially seemed to be odd advice, has now become an affirmation. I now fully understand the intent of her words. Be kind to yourself because in the absence of your babies there will be many opportunities for darkness to overtake you, for the world to not see you. These are the same words I offer and use in encouraging fellow angel moms, now new to our tribe. Thriving after the death of a child is a path no parent knows how to navigate from step to step. It’s uncharted and unchosen. And because of the strength needed to endure, because of the many ways we are not seen and validated in motherhood, it’s vital to be our best advocate and affirm ourselves. To be considerate and nurturing to self. Now, my daily reflection is: “How will I be intentional in being kind to myself today? What actions will I take to nurture myself in loss?”

On your journey, I hope you will be determined to be kind to yourself too.

About Keisha Wells

Keisha Wells is a mom to twin angels, Kyle and Kendrick, and author of the soon to be released book, From Three Heartbeats to One: A Gentle Companion Offering Hope in Grieving Pregnancy and Infant Loss . Keisha is also a licensed professional counselor and owner of Transformation Counseling Services in Georgia. Her practice focuses on grief counseling and perinatal mental health services for women and moms. Keisha is an avid reader and writer, contributing to articles in ESSENCE Magazine, The New York Times, Bustle, and Elite Daily. Connect with Keisha at www.keishawells.com and on Instagram at www.instagram.com/kwellslpc.

Where I Am Today

Thu, 06 Feb 2020 19:22:00 GMT

By: Kayla Leibner

My life story begins thirty-one years ago, but my life-changing story began just two and a half years ago in August of 2017…

From diagnosis to death, we had five days to digest the circumstances threatening the life of our unborn daughter, Melody. Our world was shattered into a million pieces when she died. Nine months later, any progress we’d made in our grieving process was completely obliterated when we lost our baby, Jamie, through a traumatic and horrifying miscarriage when I was eleven weeks pregnant. Needless to say, our family had been through hell and back… twice.

So who am I now, and how did I get here?

That’s one loaded question, and there is no simple answer. There are many things that have contributed to the progress and healing I’ve experienced in my life as a bereaved parent. I’ve faced painful and unexpected triggers, worked through emotional setbacks, and have grown in ways I couldn’t have possibly imagined. Among the many contributing factors, there are a few things that have been and are especially significant in my journey to this point.

Faith.

The first and most important thing that stayed with me and remained constant throughout my life before, during, and after my losses is God. I grew up with a conservative Christian background and have always believed that “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13, NKJV). However, after our losses I was so angry at God. I refused to pray. I tried to understand how a loving and just God could allow this kind of pain and injustice to happen to me – to my babies. That question caused my feelings of anger to grow. I went to church to “set an example” for my living children, but they saw me – sitting empty and broken in the pew.

The first step to regaining the hope I had in my pre-loss life was admitting my anger and giving it up.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I also knew that God did not do this terrible thing to me and that He would use it to mold me into what He needed me to be. Since that turning point, God has been working in me to build me up, restore my faith in His goodness, and to give me the desire and ability to help others who are on this journey, too. I am a stronger, more faithful, and more sincere Christian than I ever was before my losses. I owe that all to God. He carried me through the darkest of times and loved me despite my ugly resentment towards Him. He restored my faith and repaired my broken heart. I am not the same person I was before losing my babies, but because I believe in a God that is bigger than my pain I also believe that someday I’ll see them again.

My Tribe.

They say you’re only as good as the people you surround yourself with. If that’s the case, then I’m golden. I quickly realized who was really there for me when we lost Melody. People I’d considered the best of friends for years quickly vanished or fizzled out.

Once, while I was feeling lonely and forgotten by those who had been absent in my desperate time of need, someone special reminded me that a circle doesn’t have to be big to be a circle.

My inner circle, or my tribe, is made up of the most important and influential people in my life. They know my innermost hopes and dreams, but they will also choose to sit with me in the darkness. I know I can call out to them at any time and they’ll be there. For me, these people are my husband, my mom, and my best friend. I can always count on them to be exactly what I need in a moment, even if I don’t know what I need. Their love and support have enabled me to become the best mom, wife, sister, and friend that I can be. After the deaths of my babies I lost many connections and relationships that I had considered precious, and in that I learned an important lesson about the true value of my inner circle, my tribe.

Self-Love.

This one is a little different, but equally influential in the process of getting where I am today. Before, I spoke of God and how He consistently loved me even though I had become distant in my relationship with Him. More than that, He insistently pursued my heart despite my anger and disgust for what He had allowed to happen to my family. Once I realized that God wept with me in my grief, that He carried me when I couldn’t go on, I saw how much He had been loving me while I resisted Him. When I finally did admit and let go of my consuming anger, I not only allowed God to really love me in my weakest moments, but I also began to love myself. I had held myself accountable for the deaths of my children for months and had grown to loathe the sight of myself in the mirror.

When I realized I wasn’t responsible for what happened, my eyes were opened to a whole new opportunity for healing.

Being able to “let” God love me enabled me to also love myself so that I gave myself permission to begin the healing process. This was a significant turning point in my life.

My journey is ever changing and growing.

It’s one that I realize will come with many challenges and setbacks, but also opportunities to grow and help others. Who I am today will always remember who I was and where I came from. I’ll remember the euphoric feelings of my mountaintop highs, and I’ll remember rising from the ashes after I’d hit rock bottom. Each moment – good or bad, big or small, beautiful or tragic – made me who I am now.

About Kayla Leibner

Loss, Love and the Will to Keep Fighting

Tue, 04 Feb 2020 19:43:00 GMT

By: Nikki Grayson

We say it all the time, “I love you” or “I love that.” I wonder how many times a day we express it, let alone in a week. “Love” is such a strong word. We love our husbands, our family, our professions, and sometimes even a piece of cake.

I have never known the magnitude of the word love until I saw that faint line on my first pregnancy test.

I instantly had an over abundance of love for our baby. I didn’t care if we had a boy or a girl, it didn’t matter. I had a baby growing inside of me. I was already dreaming of how I would surprise everyone, watch my belly grow, feel the baby’s first kicks, the day they would be born, and my imagination even went as far as how they would be as a teenager! Everywhere I went, I knew my baby was right there with me.

But for some of us, we got that awful news that we never thought would happen to “me.” The “I’m sorry, but I think you’re having a miscarriage” news and then you’re sent on your way home to “see what happens.” You know your baby is gone, but you cling to hope that maybe the doctor is wrong. It’s an awful feeling, and I lost so much in that one moment, not only my baby, but all of the dreams I had from the time I got the positive test. You may not have known him or her, but you love your baby. Losing a baby prematurely is such a difficult loss, one that many others do not understand.

I was now part of the “1 in 4 women,” that statistically I found after looking for information after my loss, the statistics I never thought I’d be grouped into.

I lost my first baby at 7 weeks after I went into the emergency room for bleeding. I was heartbroken, the thought of a miscarriage never crossed my mind. I’d only known one person who had a miscarriage. I was devastated and felt so alone.

I went on to have two more early miscarriages, and my hope of ever holding my own child diminished greatly. My doctor told me it was probably just “bad luck,” others would say “you can adopt,” but those types of comments were so hurtful. We don’t tell people who’ve lost a husband, “you can just remarry” or someone with a terminal cancer diagnosis, “it’s just bad luck.”

We are moms who have lost our babies, and we can grieve however we need to.

I saw a specialist, but all the tests came back normal. A year later I became pregnant with fertility medications. At seven and a half weeks, I ended up in the emergency room with an ectopic pregnancy diagnosis. This baby finally had a heartbeat I was able to hear. Lying in bed after my emergency surgery, I fell apart.

Why couldn’t I have a baby?
Was anyone else going through this?
I couldn’t find comfort in anyone or anything, but I knew I was not giving up yet.

A few months and one less fallopian tube later, we began looking into IVF. I felt excitement again and a small sliver of hope. Almost a year later. we began the process. We retrieved 13 eggs, but ended up with just three embryos. We transferred two of them, froze the third embryo, and waited for the pregnancy test day.

I already loved those little embryos, and I was so hopeful. Unfortunately, the test came back negative.

I felt defeated and hopeless, but a couple of months later, I was ready to fight infertility and recurrent pregnancy loss again. We went in for the transfer of our last embryo. Five days later, I took my own test and saw a faint positive. I was shocked, I cried, I told everyone, I was elated, but I was scared every day I would lose this little baby. Every ultrasound showed our little boy growing as he should. We had so much hope he was the one!

I bought my own doppler and listened to his heartbeat every day. At 16 weeks and 5 days, I couldn’t find his heartbeat where I always found it. The ultrasound with my doctor that day confirmed my worst fear, and I learned my labor would have to be induced.

I delivered my sweet baby boy, Hunter, on January 7th at 1:22 pm. He was absolutely perfect in every way. The love I felt for our baby as I held him was indescribable.

We love our babies, no matter when we lose them. Be confident in this fact when you tell your story to others. The first definition of love on Google is “an intense feeling of deep affection.” Babies fill parents with feelings of unconditional love.

As moms of miscarried little ones, we will always have loss etched in our hearts.

Give yourself time, and as cheesy as it may sound, please follow your heart. Keep fighting for what you want and don’t give up. The pain after a loss feels like it takes your breath away, and the journey sometimes feels like you’re treading through mud. You may feel desolate and be disheartened.

We have to take heart and rest assured there is always a glimmer of hope. With all the setbacks, losses, or what the doctors report, time passes no matter what, so use that time to heal and learn how to press on. Share your story, own it. We may not have a baby to hold in our arms, but we are moms, and we have experienced a tremendous heartbreak. Keep fighting for your miracle, take it one day at a time, and find ways to treasure your babies.

Three Years

Thu, 30 Jan 2020 17:10:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

3 Years

This month marks three years since our son died.

Three years since I said “hello” and “goodbye” to my child on the same day.

Three years since I’ve seen his face.

Three years since I’ve held his hand.

Three years since my heart shattered into a million pieces.

Three years since a giant chasm cut my life into two parts; “before” and “after.”

Immediately after Asher’s death and subsequent birth, I was a shell of a person. I would sit on the sofa all day waiting for it to be an appropriate time to pack it in and go to bed. I would wake the next day and repeat the process. I felt guilty every time I smiled or laughed at something. My child just died, how could anything make me happy?! I refused to allow myself go back to the things I did before loss. Returning home and binging Revenge on Netflix, like I was doing before he died, felt wrong. In my mind, it would’ve felt like none of it happened, like Asher was never really here in the first place. I needed life to be different as proof of his short existence.

I couldn’t go back to that “before” life because I wasn’t that person anymore.

As time passed, pieces of my former self started to come back. Others are forever lost; the biggest one being my naivety. New pieces have been added to replace the ones that are missing. I’ve become a much more empathetic and emotional person since losing Asher. In time, I was able to return to the things I did before he died. I finished Revenge, which actually made me feel more connected to Asher since it was something I did with him while he was here with us. It was “our” thing. I would curl up on the sofa and watch a few episodes each night after work while he danced around in my belly. Eventually, I learned that it’s okay to smile and laugh. It’s okay to feel joy again. Joy doesn’t negate the sadness I feel over the absence of my child.

In three years, I’ve become a different version of myself. I’m the “after” me.

I have gone from a grief stricken zombie with empty arms in an eerily quiet home to a bereaved mother with overflowing arms in a noisy house. We went back to fertility treatments, conceived twins via those treatments, white-knuckled it through a high-risk, high-anxiety pregnancy after loss, and welcomed twin daughters a year and a half after losing our firstborn child.

So much has changed in the last three years, myself included, but two things have remained the same; my love for Asher and the longing for his presence.

The overwhelming sense of loss I felt after saying my forever goodbye to my son three years ago is still there. It will always be because he will always be missing. However, I’ve learned that there is room for both joy and sadness; grief and gratitude; hope and anger, two conflicting emotions can exist simultaneously. Asher is not sadness. Asher is happiness (which is what his name actually means). His death is sadness. I can be sad for his absence, but happy for his brief existence.

The “after” me feels sadness at even my happiest moments because I am forced to live in the “after.” I am forced to live without my child. However, that sadness doesn’t mean I don’t feel happiness over the beautiful things in my life. It doesn’t mean that I am not grateful to have two living children. It means I am just missing the one who isn’t here.

Three years of living in the “after” and I’ve learned it’s more than just sadness. It’s joy too.

Journaling Is For Everyone

Tue, 21 Jan 2020 18:51:00 GMT

By: Crystal Webster

Everyone knows they should journal. We’ve heard it a hundred times. Having a tough time processing your feelings? Journal. Have to make a big decision at work? Journal. Can’t decide what to have for lunch? Journal.

It seems like the answer to everything is writing it down. But journaling is hard. A blank piece of paper is intimidating and overwhelming.

I once heard someone say that they buy the most expensive and beautiful notebook they can find because they believe it elevates their words to a point of being worthy of being written on that page.

When I get a nice, fancy lined notebook I feel like I need to wait until a special occasion to use it – wait until I have just the right thing to put in there (kinda like that bottle of wine that sits in my cabinet for the celebration that never comes).

I have a graveyard of barely touched, beautifully lined notebooks.

After my Madelyn died, I realized I wanted to journal, I needed to journal – and do all the other things I as supposed to do – but I just couldn’t, I didn’t have the brain capacity or wherewithal to think in complete sentences.

So, I started improvising. I started writing in incomplete thoughts – it was the best I could do. I made lists. I bullet pointed key feelings. I doodled when the words wouldn’t come…

There’s something almost magical about getting your thoughts from your head, to your heart, to your hand, and out on the paper…no matter what form those thoughts take (words, shapes, shades, doodles…) My ‘journal’ almost looked like kindergarten refrigerator art – but it was a start.

I found, the more I did it the ‘better’ I got. Not better in the sense that it was prettier or was more logical – better in that it came more easily for me to express myself. But it was still a little overwhelming starting with nothing – with just an empty page.

So, I decided to look back through all the notes, and bullet points, and doodles and see if there was a common theme. See if there was anything I kept going back to over and over again… Turns out there was. I kept mentioning things I was grateful for, things that brought me comfort, and things I did right.

I took that information and started asking myself, each night before I went to bed, to write down the three things I was grateful for and the three things I did right that day. They didn’t need to be earth shattering – or even special for that matter – they just needed to be written down.

Months went by with my new nightly ritual and I found that I enjoyed it. I even looked forward to adding to my journal. I started making lists of things that made me smile, places I wanted to visit someday, books I liked to read. Then I started tracking how much water I was drinking every day, if I was eating healthy meals, and how I was spending my ‘me time.’ My little notebook of dots and doodles had completely morphed into its own being.

Since then, I’ve turned that funny looking little notebook into a way of life…and it has changed my life.

I’ve even designed a pretty version of my notebook so I could share it with others who wanted to start journaling but didn’t know how or where to start. (Oh, and writing (incomplete sentences and all) in that ugly little notebook I started all those years ago got me to the point where my first book will be published this May – so you really don’t know where these things will take you.)

Starting is almost always the hardest part, whether that’s journaling, drawing, cooking, or running (it really doesn’t matter what it is).

Whatever it is that you’re contemplating doing I encourage you to just start – and to remind you that ‘done is better than perfect’. So just start, get going, and see where it will takes you!!!

About Crystal Webster

Crystal Webster is Madelyn Elizabeth’s mother and Founder and Chief Solace Officer of Sharing Solace.

Madelyn died just 8 short hours after birth while still in her mother’s arms. As Crystal grieved the loss of her only child she began to feel isolated and ill-equipped to handle her emotional journey. Vowing to honor her daughter’s brief life and support others from feeling as lost and lonely as she did – Sharing Solace was founded.

Sharing Solace’s patented concept brings together those grieving any type of loss by intersecting physical keepsake gifts INTENDED to be ‘paid forward’ to others with the online community and resources often neglected. View our mission here .

More information can be found on our website SharingSolace.com and through Instagram and Facebook. And don’t forget your copy of our Mini Gratitude Journal + Mood Tracker here .

Remember. You’re not alone.

I prefer the other end of that spectrum. I would find the fun-est, funniest, and often cheapest notebook for my journaling – it was more important to me to get my thoughts out on paper then formatting them eloquently – or spelling anything correctly.

Grief Counseling: a Guide on Your Healing Journey

Thu, 09 Jan 2020 17:40:00 GMT

By: Kelly Karavousanos

We are forever changed by loss. After a death, we think differently, act differently, even love differently than we did before.

From the moment our loved one passes on, we will never be the same person we felt comfort in knowing. Although many of us understand this, we still struggle to wrap our heads, and our hearts, around it. It is one of many facets of grief that we resist the most. We don’t want to be different. We want things to always be how they were before. Like the times we were planning for the arrival of a new baby, or decorating for the holidays, or, simply, sharing our favorite meal. And, this resistance to the painful, overwhelming emotions of grief, can be paralyzing.

For some, seeing a grief counselor can help them get “unstuck” in a compassionate, caring environment.

An environment where people can be heard, validated, and supported. I have heard many give their reasons for why they think a grief counselor wouldn’t help. Everything from, “They can’t bring my loved one back.” (This is true!) Or, “Everyone experiences loss, I should be able to handle this on my own.” (This is both true and false.) Yes – everyone will suffer loss in their lifetime, but being able to cope with the intense emotions of grief is a different experience for each of us.

Grief counselors can be helpful in many ways. They may start by discussing basic education on the process of grief. This is not something we are taught in school and is not typically something that is discussed socially. How we grieve depends on a variety of things including the circumstances of and how the death occurred, previous death experiences, and religious and cultural beliefs and rituals. Some are looking for that checklist that will help them feel reassured that they are grieving “normally” or they are wanting to find a way to bypass the pain of grief.

Counseling helps by providing the space for the bereaved to express any emotion they are feeling and help them make sense of them.

In the book Being There for Someone in Grief, author Marianna Cacciatore gives a simple acronym, SALT, to learn by heart the four basic principles of support. Counseling provides space for these important principles. SALT stands for:

SEE them

ALLOW them

LISTEN to them

TRUST them

Seeing them means being in the presence of the bereaved’s pain without trying to do something about it or take it away–allowing the bereaved to do what they need to do to comfort their pain. If they need to go to the cemetery every day or talk, then allow them the space to do so. Listen. Listen to the same story, listen when you want to speak, just listen. Trust that only they know their path and you are but a companion alongside their journey.

The one true constant about grief is that there is not one “right” way to grieve.

A grief counselor can help by normalizing emotions and behaviors that the bereaved may experience. What happens after a loss can have us feeling like a fish out of water and questioning our every act and emotion. For many, grief is a natural process; however, there are some clear signs when a professional is needed. If you find you are isolating yourself from others, unable to complete your normal daily activities, having sudden changes in behavior, or thoughts of hurting yourself please reach out for help. It is difficult to be vulnerable with someone but that may be the best place for healing to begin.

About Kelly Karavousanos Kelly is a Licensed Professional Counselor working for Family Life Counseling in O’Fallon, MO. She is Certified in Thanatology through the Association of Death Education and Counseling. Kelly has been offering life transitions and grief support services for the last 15 years as well as conducting educational and grief support groups. She is a frequent educator to community groups on topics dealing with grief and loss. She attended Lindenwood University for her Masters in Counseling and has attended Grief Counseling Trainings with Alan Wolfelt, PhD at the Center for Loss and Life Transitions in Fort Collins, Colorado. She grew up in St. Charles and is raising her two children there as well.

Carrie entered counseling after she had experienced the stillbirth of her daughter, Kaylee. Carrie was married and had three other children under the ages of 8. Carrie said she wanted help and felt she had nowhere else to turn; it had been 8 months since Kaylee’s death, and she felt everyone was either tired of her being sad or expected her to get on with life. Even her best friend had told her that she needed to focus on her children and get herself together. She felt utterly alone. She knew her family loved her and wanted her to be ok but she could not figure out why she could not do what they expected. She could not “move on.”

The Piano

Tue, 07 Jan 2020 17:56:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

Growing up, my next door neighbors were an elderly couple who were a bit like surrogate grandparents to my brother and me. They would take us out to breakfast on snow days from school and have us over to play cards all the time. In their home, they had a piano that fascinated me. I had always wanted to learn how to play it. During one of our visits, I was taught how to play “The First Noel.” That song stuck with me and whenever I would see a piano I would play it. I had mentioned on multiple occasions to my husband, that at some point in our lives, I would love to have a piano in our home and learn how to play it. It was always a fleeting idea, one of those “eventually,” “if only,” kind of ideas.

After Asher was born still, we returned home from the hospital to a home that felt so very lonely. We both found that we couldn’t return to our “normal” lives. We couldn’t bring ourselves to watch our usual television shows. I couldn’t go back to my normal hobby of crocheting and my husband couldn’t go back to his of playing video games. It felt like if we went back to our “normal” lives, it would be like Asher never happened, like he was never even born.

We needed a change because we were changed.

While I was on my maternity leave (without my baby), I needed a project to fill my days and my usual time fillers were no longer acceptable as they were too “normal.” I became focused on finishing the office in our home. I painted the room and completely redecorated it. I had grand ideas of putting in a reading nook. I was ready to go out and buy the bookshelves when my husband cautioned me against it. He asked that I wait until the new floors were installed before I went out to get anything else for the room.

The day the floors were to be installed, the doorbell rang. Instead of the floor installer, it was a delivery. I saw a man walking in with a small wooden bench and I thought it was an end table.

But then I saw it, a piano, being wheeled off the truck.

A piano purchased for me by my husband and our families.

A piano to fit perfectly in the newly designed office.

A piano to give me a new hobby because I couldn’t go back to my “before” life.

A piano that I had always dreamed of owning, but never actually expected to.

After that day, I had a new hobby, teaching myself how to play the piano. I sat there and worked my way through my “teach yourself piano” book and gradually branched out to finding other songs I’ve always wanted to play.

It is my “Asher” hobby. It is because of him that I have it. Sure, one could think it is because he DIED that I have this piano, but I prefer to think that it is because he LIVED that we have it.

The piano, in some small way, is proof of his life. It is a change to our life because of Asher’s existence in this world.

Learning how to play the piano helped me cope with the pain of losing Asher. It kept me busy and focused all the while still thinking of my boy. Recently, I haven’t been able to play as often as I would like, but when I do, I always think of him. During the moments that I am really missing him, I will sit down to play (and sing) a song for my sweet Asher Ray.

After losing a child, it’s hard to find things that will bring you joy. Truthfully the thought of experiencing any happiness after the death of your child makes you feel guilty. However, I encourage you to find something that does exactly that while also making you feel close to your child. It will do wonders for your broken heart.

A piano that existed in my home because my son did too, if only briefly.

Moving When You’re Stuck

Tue, 07 Jan 2020 17:48:00 GMT

By: Brooke Taylor Duckworth

The winter my daughter Eliza was stillborn was long, cold, and snowy. We drove to the hospital on a crisp, cold night, expecting that everything would be fine. The next day, we left empty handed and broken hearted, and the world was blanketed in whiteness, glaringly bright.

Grief felt like an illness. I was achy and chilled. I could hardly imagine having the strength to leave my couch.

For the first couple of weeks, I barely moved. But eventually my husband returned to work and we had dogs who needed to be walked. And so on a freezing January morning a few weeks after losing my first child, I stuffed my feet into snow boots and ventured outside with two dog leashes in my gloved hands.

I felt shaky and vulnerable. I didn’t want to be outside moving. I wanted to be at home, snuggling my baby girl, waiting for the weather to warm up enough to bundle her into a carrier or stroller and take her out for a walk. My shoulders slouched and my feet barely shuffled along. The cold air felt like it was slicing into my lungs. I wore sunglasses both for the glare of light off the snow and to hide my teary eyes. Walking my dogs used to be an everyday occurrence and now it required monumental effort.

Somehow, I made it around the block. And somehow, that walk was a step toward carrying my grief and moving forward, rather than remaining stuck in my pain.

Forcing myself to move, to stretch weary muscles and push myself in a literal forward motion was a tiny step toward healing—a step I took very reluctantly, but one that began a journey toward honoring my daughter’s memory by learning how to go on without her.

I should back up and say that I am not athletic. I’ve never played team sports, I don’t enjoy running. But I found that getting myself outside—at a park or in our neighborhood—helped me move through my grief and find a way to carry it without slumping under the weight of my sadness.

I dreaded the change of seasons because it meant the world was moving on without my girl. But the sunshine and warmer temperatures also got me outside more and, possibly because I had lost so much, I was suddenly more keenly aware of the beauty, fragility, and resilience of nature, even in my city neighborhood. I noticed what I had overlooked before—the beautiful and the mundane.

Nature is indifferent to our suffering. Flowers will go on blooming, the sun will go on shining. It is frustrating to see the world continue to spin when our own little world has completely shattered.

I wanted everything to stop. And yet, I also wanted time to speed up. I wanted to get to the point where I could function without dissolving into tears every few minutes. I found that if I was walking, I usually could keep from crying.

Summoning the energy to get myself out of doors was a struggle—and one I would have lost more frequently if it weren’t for the insistence of our dogs. But every time I got myself out there to take a walk, I found some measure of comfort. These were not walks for exercise—I followed the lead of my dogs who meandered and sniffed and stopped as much as they walked. But they forced fresh air into my lungs and sunshine onto my face as I trudged around the block.

The Japanese have a practice called “shinrin-yoku” or forest bathing. (Don’t worry—you don’t have to get naked.)

It is the practice of taking in nature through your senses, with the idea that being mindful in a forest—focusing on just the here and now rather than ruminating on the past or worrying about the future—can offer mental and physical health benefits. I was skeptical, but I discovered that my grief was bearable when I focused on what I was feeling in one singular moment rather than revisiting the nightmare of my loss or worrying about what I couldn’t control in the future. This was easier for me to do when I was outside and surrounded by nature (even when that nature included the street traffic and city bungalows of our neighborhood). I find even now that my breath naturally slows and deepens when I am among the trees, whether at a city park or a national forest.

Grief weighed so heavy on my chest that I felt as though I couldn’t take a deep breath for months. It was the summer after we lost Eliza when my grief felt for the first time light enough for me to really fill my lungs with air and take a true, deep breath that didn’t shudder with sobs. I don’t think it was an accident that I was in a forest. We had taken a trip to Vancouver and driven up to Whistler, Canada. We were going ziplining in the mountains, which was thrilling but heartbreaking because it was the sort of trip we wouldn’t have taken with a six month old baby.

I stood somewhere I never expected to be that summer—on a mountain in Canada—breathing in the cool air, gazing up at the enormous trees, peeking over the cliff’s edge at valleys so far down below it made me giddy.

The awe I felt in such a place is hard to describe. I felt both powerfully alive and very small, surrounded by the magnitude of nature. In that thin mountain air, I felt like I could take a deep breath again. Nature was indifferent to my suffering, but somehow this was freeing. For a moment, I could just be without feeling defined by my grief. Getting outside made me feel like I could keep going.

Even now, years since the loss of my daughter, I have moments when I feel stuck. Stuck in my grief, or simply weighed down by the everyday stressors of life and distant from the things that really matter. The simplest remedy I’ve found for this is to find a moment to be outside. My favorite place to walk is the park where we planted a tree in her memory, but no matter where I am, being outside somehow makes me feel close to Eliza. I feel my pulse beating and know it’s the heartbeat she heard inside me.

Being among trees makes me feel small, but also makes me feel connected to my daughter. I still carry grief with me, but when I’m outside I find it easier to take a deep breath and believe that she feels my love.

About Brooke Taylor Duckworth

December 2019 Gifts: In Memory Of…

Tue, 07 Jan 2020 17:33:00 GMT

Each month, families and friends have the opportunity to donate to Share “In Memory Of” the baby or babies they have lost. This month we honor and remember the names listed below.

In Memory Of:

All the Little Ones

By: Christine & Lee Rigg

All who have suffered this loss

By: Ronald and Ursula Hall

Baby A & Baby B

By: Brian Johnson

Baby Grace

Thinking of you at this time and keeping you in our thoughts and prayers.

By: Barbara & Robert Callanan

Francis and Zoe

We love you all. Hugs being sent your way, from J, S & A

By: Jen Underwood

Hope Elizabeth

By: Kathy Scruggs

Jackson and Sofie

By: Karen Greenfield

Joshua

Always remembered and forever in our hearts

By: Michelle Schuamcher

Kathleen Felicity “Kit”

By: Karen Greenfield

Lauren & Emma

By: Susan Smith

Michele Grace and baby Sibling

On Giving Tuesday and everyday. With love, the Cadys

By: Danielle Cady

Natalie Rose

By: Karen Greenfield

Our twin daughters Mira and Sadie

By: Amy and Kevin Brown

Ruby, Iris, and Olive

By: Karen Greenfield

Sprout

By: Alyssa DeSantis

Wesley and Matthew

By: Michael and Andrea Bielamowicz

Owen Michael Backer

Owen Michael Backer, our dear son and brother

By: Julie Backer

Emily Claire Bambenek

Thank you to Share for allowing me a safe and compassionate space to grieve the loss my daughter, Emily Claire Bambenek, born still on June 21, 2019. I’m forever grateful to both your resources and your Facebook support page.

By: Callie Bambenek

Jason Anthony Bartow

In loving memory of Angel, Jason Anthony

By: Deborah and Steve Banko

Benjamin Robert Battas

By: Marci Yount

Presley Janae Beach

We will always love and miss you.

By: Sharon Beach

Adalyn Rose Belter

Dear Addy, We love and miss you more than you know. Love, Mom, Dad, Brenden, Delaney, and Riley

By: Julie Belter

Isaiah Berges

By: Karen Greenfield

Griffin Louis Brase

By: Merlene & Ben Jeffries

Leah Michelle Bristol

By: Jennifer Hicks

Joshua Bruenning

By: Carol & Steve Jasper

By: Jan & Bob Jerden

Joseph William Carter

By: Deborah & William Carter

Alexander Castillo

By: Susan Woodard

Andrew Chamberlain

By: Marilyn & Donald Chamberlain

Rosemary Alice & Maggie Cronin

To my grand dollies Rosemary Alice & Maggie Cronin; you will always be in my heart.

By: Julie Sheridan

Andrew D’Auria

By: Raymond D’Auria

Ellen Elizabeth Dennigmann

By: Linda Thebeau

Rowan Louis Douglas

By: Sean & Rachel Douglas

Eliza Taylor Duckworth

Thinking of Eliza and how proud she is of her sisters, Caroline, Colette and Genevieve.

By: Dean and Peggy Baker

Anastasia Duffy

In memory of Nora’s beautiful sister. We love you and are praying for you all. The Brockmeiers

By: Kara Brockmeier

Love to the entire family, you are in our thoughts.

By: Donald DeNatale

With love and deep condolences,Bev and Mike

By: Beverly LaFata

This donation is in loving memory of Anastasia Duffy, aunt of Josephine Lafata. Your Heartprints tribe loves you, Nora!

By: Lauren Schuessler

In loving memory of my sweet and beautiful niece. Forever in my heart and prayers.

By: Karla Stauder

In memory of a wonderful young lady.

By: Mark Franken

Stasia Duffy and Josie LaFata

We will always keep Stasia and her beloved niece Josie in our hearts. With love and deepest sympathy, Your Stauder cousins

By: Samantha Palmer

Kathryn Ann Ewald

By: Missy & Jeff Ewald

Liam Aaron Finney

We love you, Liam! Grandpa & Grandma

By: Gary Weishaar

Lynsie Helen Fishman

By: Cynthia Layton

Noah Florian

By: Christopher Hoey

Jessica Fry

Thinking of our little angels celebrating with Jesus himself on His birthday. We love you great big whole bunch!

By: Rebecca Williams

Nathan Gamerman

By: Laura & David Pels

Sebastion Garcia

By: GP and RY Garcia

Aidan Robert Gard

By: Nadia and Robert Gard

Ben Gelsthorpe

By: Cynthia Gelsthorpe

Remi Isabella Goebel

By: Kim Goebel

By: Kecia Therion

Jack Andrew Granger II

By: Isma Granger

Obed Warren Groggett

By: Dee Ledger

Claire Conroy Guckes

By: Pamela Wilkerson

Andrew Daniel Hampes

By: Anita Hampes

Baby Hanner

Baby Hanner, what we wouldn’t give to have met and held you. As our first nephew, you will forever hold a special place in our hearts. Love, Uncle Jeff & Aunt Teresa

By: Teresa & Jeff Clauss

Audrey Lynn Harris

By: Heather Harris

Mason Harris

By: Jim & Lisa Hannon

Caroline Henry

By: Brian & Julia Henry

By: Mary Vancil

Ridge Chappel Hneleski & Sophia Nance Chappel Vein

Ridge & Sophia- We love and miss you everyday. Our Special babies in heaven and in our hearts, Love you forever.

By: Robert Hneleski

Nicholas Matthew Huggins

Love you and miss you every day, Nicholas Matthew!

By: Margie & Matt Huggins

James Emerson Bradley Ishii

Born Oct. 18, 2010, died Oct. 20, 2010. You live in our hearts and memories, Baby James! Love always, Mom and Dad

By: Hope Ishii

Rachel Jaar

Merry Christmas! I love you!

By: Sarah Mutchler

Lucas Nicolas Jenkerson

Love you forever

By: Mary Beth Jenkerson

Katie Kostecki Johnson

By: Gerri & Dan Kostecki

Madison Olivia Kaufman

By: Sharon Kaufman

Audrey Hope Keinrath

By: Connie Pirtle

Joy Koehl

Forever in our hearts, beautiful baby girl. Our little angel shining bright in heaven. We celebrate you always.

By: Jennifer Koehl

Madison Grace LaGreca

Forever in our Hearts

By: Jane LaGreca

Paxton Blayne Lamb

Paw Paw and Gammy love and miss you each and every day. Merry Christmas sweet boy.

By: Mandi Lamb

Christopher Lammert

By: Catherine Lammert

Mary Liddy & deceased Baby

By: Carol Buck

Harriet & DeLeia Luck

By: DeAnne Luck

Jack Steven Lueckert

By: Mike and Carol Cook

Carson & Garrett Mann

By: Sandra Whitener

Michael Marbach

Happy Heavenly Birthday Michael! We love you always! Love, Aunt Anne, Uncle Nick, Aiden & James

By: Anne Riek

Joseph Michael Margherio

By: Genevieve Margherio

By: Michael Margherio

Landon Dallas McCartney

By: Nicole Longenecker

Brianna Marie McGreal

We love and miss you our angel.

By: Michael McGreal

Logan Alexander Merkle

We love and miss you every day Little Buddy!

By: Stephanie M Smith

Emma and Leo Morrissey

Forever in Our Hearts.

By: Lisa Morrissey

Dennis Charles “DC” Mueller and Kohler Euson Mueller

Dear Sweet Babes,You are so loved by your family. We miss both of you and think of you constantly. We will all be reunited one day in Heaven.GaGa and PaPa Mark

By: Lisa Sievers

Colton Christopher Natsch

By: Jackie Natsch

Christmas and everyday, Always in our hearts. Love, Grammy & Pops

By: Joan Natsch

Jonah Naylor

By: Martin Culp

Marley Neville

By: Roy Burch

Happy Birthday my sweet angel. Always in our hearts

By: Alisa Osborne

Paige Newberry

By: Cheryl & Ronald Fauquher

Isabella Jean Heimann Nunes

By: Wendy Heimann

Theodore Noah Okeson

By: Victoria Okeson

Arch Olsen

We are so sorry for your loss. Pensions & Investments

By: Amy Resnick

Owen Christopher Paganini

By: Dixie Mansker

Michael Jr. & Angelique Price

By: Erika Becker Price

Luke “Nut” Prindle

By: Emily Burton

Amanda Nicole Rasmussen

By: Carma & Randy Rasmussen

Amy Noel Rathsam

By: Glee Huddlestun

By: Sharon & Larry Rathsam

Joshua Mirkay Redington

By: Melissa Redington

Forever on our minds and in our hearts.

By: Michael Redington

Victoria Clare Reed

By: Mariann and Richard Wedel

Charlie Rojano

Always in our hearts. We love you!

By: Christine Alexander

Charlotte Rosenburg

In memory of your angel. With love and support from your 9200 family.

By: Jennifer Brombolich

Steffen Roth

By: Diana & Ray Cheshire

Charley Rowekamp

By: Kathy & Bob Rowekamp

Olivia Jean Sampson

By: Karyn Sampson

William Schamel

By: Kirk & Maureen Richter

ODETTE SCHERBEL

By: RACHEL YOUNG

Rosemary Sheppard

By: Theresa Miller

By: Bill & Charmaine Sheppard

Chantal Luc Shirley

By: Francoise Shirley

Scott Shulman

By: Jeanne & Robert Shulman

Alyssa Kay Smith

We love and miss you so much our angle in the sky. Merry Christmas Love Mom & Dad

By: Amy Smith

Mindy & John Spencer

By: Mary Kay Spencer

Jonah Michael Tannehill

We miss and love you every day.

By: Johna Van Pelt

We will always remember you, Jonah. Everyone at Keough Chiropractic loves you <3

By: Felicity Keough

Emmanuel Tokarsky

Drew, Katie, Graham, Ezra, and Jonas: Remembering Emmanuel forever. Much love, Christa and boys

By: Christa R Fistler

Natalie Rose Watson

By: Barry Dougherty

Hunter Charles Webb

By: Harry & Michelle Webb

Naomi Welker

Dear Naomi We think of you daily and miss you. We know we can trust in the lord and will see you in heaven. You are in our hearts. Love, Uncle Peter and Aunt Grace

By: Peter Winningham

Tess Welker

By: Brian Welker

Baby Ewing

In memory of baby Ewing, child of Scott and Courtney Ewing, 2019.

By: Ben Ewing

In Honor of:

Sharon Rathsam

For all of your hardwork

By: Louise Roebke

Thank You…

The Dan Walkes and Tracy Koller Charitable Gift Fund

Deb Artman

Mark & Cindy Barada

Sam Brown

Patti Budnik

Rhoderick Burgess

John Capellupo

Debra Cochran

Nikki Cordosi

Sharon & Barry Covington

Rebecca Cronan

Haylee Crowley

Carol & Terry Elmendorf

Angie Farrell

Mark & Betty Fuller

Mark Gelsthorpe

Shelly Glew

Joan & Richard Heldorfer

Vicky and Dan Huesemann

Kevin Jackson

Katherine Johnson

Sarah Johnson

David & Josephine Kiefer

Jamesine Lamb, OSF

Sarah Lawrenz

Deborah Leaman

Frank and Ann Lehmann

Linda Leindecker

Lauren Long

Rosalie Maimone & Craig Medwick

Linda Meierhoff

Sandra Miller

Karen & Douglas Mumm

Alice Niger

Tammy Olson

Anna Parker

Twyla Powell

Jeanette Redman

Allison Riggs

Chris Roberdeau

Megan & Jason Rowekamp

Penny & Jim Stambaugh

Matt Stockmann

Shannon Stokes

Teresa Tate

Shannon & William Willhite

The Gift of Simply You

Mon, 16 Dec 2019 15:44:00 GMT

By: Kristin Hendricks

The hustle and bustle of the holiday season is upon us, and it is no new news that our culture and society tends to focus much attention on the gift-giving aspect of Christmas. The stress and pressure shopping for the perfect gifts accompanied by over-spending is, frankly, exhausting. There is an awkward presence, between the polarities of greed and generosity, which fills the air as we struggle to find our balance and peace in the true meaning of Christmas. Somehow, somewhere, at some time, we moved away from simplicity. We have forgotten that the greatest gifts of all lie within the very essence of whom we are.

The valuable gifts we each possess are easy to overlook. It is difficult for us to see our true selves and believe we have something worthwhile to offer.

We each, do indeed, have unique and special gifts that no one else in this world can duplicate. There is only one You. And You are needed to take your place in the beautiful canvas of life called humanity. Our gifts do not need to be deemed grand or extravagant. They do not need to be on the front page of Fortune 500, appear on the New York Times best-seller list, or make headline news. What if your gift is packing groceries? Shoveling snow? Walking dogs? What about the gift of kindness…, the gift of being a good listener…, the gift of organization…, or even humor!? These are all precious gifts that we can extend to one another. They are not only deeply treasured and appreciated, but needed. Being You is enough. Sometimes more than enough!

Let me share a story….

I found myself in the depths of the most agony, grief, and heartache ever imagined. The first person to rush to my hospital bedside was a woman named Rose. She was a lovely, caring, and wise woman who supervised a large women’s group in which I participated. Although not a close and intimate friend, I found comfort in her guided presence. She was intent on giving me 2 pieces of advice that day.

The 1st … ‘There is no greater loss than the loss of a child.’ True.

The 2nd … ‘People will say stupid things.’ Also true.

These simple words from Rose were a gift in itself and enabled me to maintain a high level of strength, grace, and composure as I navigated the coming days.

When I found myself subjected to many failed attempts of sympathy and understanding, the voice of Rose would usher in. She taught me that most people were just trying to come to terms with such a traumatic situation and process their own shock and confusion as to why such a thing would happen. At the same time, these same people were also looking for a way to somehow relate to what I was going through by reflecting on their own experiences.

Earlier that same spring, just shortly before my due date, we hired an ordinary, down-to-earth, hardworking man to trim the hedges and bushes around our home. He wasn’t necessarily educated. He wasn’t necessarily polished or eloquent. And by the look of his rusty old pick-up truck, not necessarily ‘rich’. But he did a fantastic job trimming bushes at a fantastic price. Last he saw, I was a very pregnant expectant mother. Months passed and in the fall, he knocked on our front door. He was driving by and noticed our hedges could use a little sprucing up. He stopped unannounced to ask if we would like this work done. There was a shift in conversation as he quickly remembered we had been expecting a baby. Excitably, he exclaimed, “Hey! The last time I was here you were getting ready to have a baby! What did you have? A boy or a girl?!”

Ugghhhh – my heavy heart sank to the big black hole of grief. ‘Here we go again …’, I thought to myself. It was a common question I had uncomfortably answered many times by now. I took a deep breath and prepared to peel back the Band-Aid on a still fresh wound. I gently replied, “We had a baby girl. But she died.” His face dropped. He looked to the floor of the porch of where we stood. I could see that this simple man who was already short on words, quickly could find none. He was stunned. There was a rise of awkwardness as the air became tense. After a few moments, he said “Boy…, I’ve had some tough times as well. My back sure has been bothering me a lot lately … having all sorts of trouble…” and he reached to place his hand on his lower back while stretching and moaning.

Really?! You’re comparing your sore back to the death of my child?! But as quickly as I was offended, I heard a subtle whisper of the wise words shared by my dear friend Rose …” People will say stupid things “… and grace took over.

I told him that I wasn’t sure if it was in the budget to have any work done and that I would check with my husband and let him know. We said a blundering goodbye and I closed the door, still dismayed by what had just taken place. Moments later, I was walking through the house when something out the window caught my eye. It was him. Trimming bushes! The nerve!! Did he not hear that I would get back to him?! Not only had he inadequately acknowledged the painful loss of my baby girl, but had now taken it upon himself to do the work I had not approved!! I quickly scurried to the porch and loudly clarified that I had told him not to do any work that day! After my frantic attempt to stop him, he looked up and said, “oh … no … it’s ok … I’m just going to do it … there’s no charge…” I stood silent and in awe, deeply touched, and I understood.

He did not have the words to heal my broken heart. He did not have the capacity to truly understand my pain. But he gave all that he had, all that he could, through his skillful talent as a bush-trimmer and gave of himself in a pure expression of love and compassion. That gesture, above any other gesture that has been extended to me, meant more to me than anything else anyone has ever done. We have long since moved away from the area. I do not remember his name. He has no idea the impact that his simple offering made on me, and to this day, still cherish.

So as you worry, fret, and frantically search for the perfect gifts this holiday, do not underestimate the power you have by being Simply You.

You and Your gifts are of value. They are needed. ‘Tis the season to pause, reflect, and take inventory of the gifts that you have within. Acknowledge them. Honor them. Celebrate them. Wrap them up with love and give them back to the world.

Many years ago now, in May of 2001, I experienced a very traumatic, life-changing event. At full-term pregnancy, I delivered a stillborn baby girl.

This simple ordinary man, who had been gifted with the not-so-desirable art of trimming bushes, gave to me the greatest gift of all.

My Christmas Baby

Mon, 16 Dec 2019 08:19:00 GMT

By: Amanda Glazebrook

Our story starts the same way that so many do: my husband and I dreamed of having a baby. Technically, we had a baby at home, but she’d grown into a toddler, bright and clever and so beloved that it seemed impossible to resist the lure of having another, although we’d said we’d only have one child. While we hemmed and hawed, talked about the upheaval of a second baby, we also stopped trying to prevent a second pregnancy.

When I showed my husband the positive test, he said: “Already? We haven’t started a savings account.” His voice sounded worried, but he was smiling. Really smiling.

I did all the pregnancy things. I made a doctor’s appointment, for about 10 weeks into the pregnancy. I stopped drinking, got serious about taking prenatal vitamins, avoided sushi and cold cuts, and napped when our daughter napped. Our due date was around Christmas, and I imagined us bringing our newborn home to a big Christmas tree and twinkling lights. Our daughter would hang a “Big Sister” ornament on the tree, and we would hang four stockings on the mantle.

I would sing carols to the baby while the snow gathered outside, the two of us wrapped in a quilt.

In the first trimester, for me, the baby felt so ephemeral, like they were spun from my dreams. I looked forward to the second and third trimesters, when I would get to see them in an ultrasound, and feel them move, and learn something real and concrete about them: maybe they would suck their thumb on the ultrasound, or regularly kick me awake at 1 a.m., or favor the right side of my belly. But until then, they were most alive in my imagination.

One Monday morning, about 8 weeks into the pregnancy, I woke to find that I was bleeding. By that afternoon, I was having an ultrasound, my husband holding my hand, and we were hearing the doctor say that there was no evidence of the pregnancy left in my body. What she was telling me was that I didn’t need medical intervention, and that the miscarriage would likely complete naturally.

What I took away from the conversation was that there was no visual proof my baby ever existed.

I knew I had been pregnant. I had seen the lines on the pregnancy test. I had felt the fatigue and the nausea. I knew the baby had been real. But all of that was just me – not a shared experience with anyone else. I worried: What if no one believed me? We’d told very few people about the pregnancy. There were no fuzzy black-and-white photos of a little bean, no embarrassing public displays of vomiting. We had not bought a “Big Sister” ornament or a fourth stocking. It was just my word, and my dreams.

So I didn’t tell anyone about the baby: that they had been here, and that they were gone, and that I was heartbroken.

It seemed like so much work: First, I would have to establish that I was pregnant, but past-tense pregnant. And then I would have to say that the baby was gone. And then I would have to explain the sadness of having only three stockings on the mantle and sleeping through the night at Christmas. And also, after all of that:

For me. But my husband asked me if he could tell his best friend. He felt like keeping the miscarriage a secret made it seem shameful, but we’d done nothing wrong, and we deserved to let people support us. He wanted his friend to know the full story of our family. I agreed but vowed not to tell anyone myself. It was too raw.

And then, a few months later, I saw a friend share her own story of loss, very publicly, on social media, and she received an outpouring of support.

So, I told one of my girlfriends, over happy hour beers. We sat at the bar, and I sobbed into a cocktail napkin, and the bartender shot me sympathetic looks and quietly slid me a free drink. Neither woman judged me, for crying in public or for losing my baby. Then I told a few more friends.

And now, the people who are close to me know this part of my story – and people who aren’t close to me know it, too. Because after three years, and lots and lots of practice, I’ve grown comfortable sharing my story.

I didn’t get to choose the plot of this story. I wanted to hold that baby, the one that would be born just before Christmas and come home to a big tree and twinkling lights. That was the baby I longed for, and those were the dreams that I mourned after the miscarriage.

But I have learned that I do get to choose how I tell the story of my family. The story of my family is a story of love and loss and resilience, a story of bravery in the face of the things that make us scared or sad. That is the story I am trying to share, and the story that I am trying to believe.

Every Christmas now, we have four stockings on the mantel, and a pair of “Big Sister” and “Baby Brother” ornaments for the tree. There’s also a small round ornament made of cut glass, faceted like a diamond so it glitters in the light. My daughter knows it’s special, but she doesn’t know why. When kids are old enough, I’ll tell them the story of that ornament, and the Christmas baby I dreamed of. I’ll tell them the full story of our family.

Amanda Glazebrook is made of equal parts curiosity, ambition, and bourbon. She’s the founder of Ellie Memorial, a service dedicated to helping families create beautiful, customized memorials, remember an important date, and grow their support tribe. It’s the kind of support she wishes she’d found after her own miscarriage.

Amanda is a former magazine editor, an avid reader (favorite book: Life after Life , by Kate Atkinson), a very slow half-marathon runner, and an enthusiastic baker (favorite dessert: pie). She lives in the midwest with her lovely husband, two bright children, and two very troublesome cats.

What if they didn’t believe me? Or worse, what if I didn’t have the right to grieve a baby lost so early, a baby that had been mostly dreams?

It was easier to just stay quiet.

The Most Wonderful (and Grief-Filled) Time of the Year

Mon, 16 Dec 2019 05:24:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

I think it’s safe to say that the Christmas season is a favorite among a large number of people. Christmas music is playing the day after Halloween. Social media is flooded with decorated trees only a few days after that. Songs proclaim that it’s the “most wonderful time of the year”.

But for a bereaved parent, this time of year has the potential to be filled with grief.

Reminders of the ones who are always missing are everywhere; cue the photos with Santa, cue the perfectly coordinated family holiday cards, cue photos of the stockings all hung by the chimneys with care, cue the various ornaments to mark major life events over the years, cue all the holly jolly family time. All of it is a reminder of the things our children will never be able to physically experience with us.

That first Christmas without Asher was incredibly hard. Only a year prior, I was pregnant with him, envisioning his first Christmas with us.

Instead, my arms were empty and I was in the midst of fertility treatment, desperately trying to give Asher a living sibling only 9 months after giving birth to him.

My husband and I did our best to include Asher in the holiday festivities. His photo was taken with Santa and he appeared on our holiday card. His stocking hung on the mantle next to ours and the tree was covered with ornaments for him. On Christmas Eve, our typical “before church” family photo was taken with his bear to represent his place in our family.

It wasn’t how Christmas was supposed to be but including him in all the stereotypical holiday experiences helped us cope with his absence.

(Photo courtesy of Danielle Danver Photography…

https://www.danielledanverphotography.com/ )

The following year we were finally able to have the “baby’s first Christmas”, that we should’ve had the year before, with Asher’s twin sisters (who were conceived via the fertility treatment we did the Christmas before). We continued including Asher with all of our holiday traditions. When I took the girls to get their photo taken with Santa, I brought a photo of Asher to be in the picture too. Asher Bear was included in our family photo on our Christmas card. Our daughters’ stockings coordinated with Asher’s and hung next to his on the mantle. When I bought an ornament for my daughters, Asher got one too. Our traditional Christmas Eve “before church” photo shows a family of 5 with my husband holding Asher’s picture. He was included in everything we did as a family.

The devastating truth is that our babies will continually be physically missing.

The grief over that fact is always there, but the holidays have a way of amplifying their absence with the increased emphasis on spending time with family. Seeing photos of “complete” families, knowing that ours will never be, is gut-wrenching. The only way I could combat the intensified grief of missing my child, was by including him in everything holiday related. Over the past two years, we’ve firmly established family traditions that will always involve Asher. He may not physically be with us but Asher will always be a part of our family.

Including him in our celebration of the “most wonderful time of the year,” helps to make it a little less grief-filled.

November 2019 Gifts: In Memory Of…

Mon, 09 Dec 2019 17:52:00 GMT

Each month, families and friends have the opportunity to donate to Share “In Memory Of” the baby or babies they have lost. This month we honor and remember the names listed below.

In Memory Of:

Joshua Ryan Bruenning

By: Patt Zagotta

By: James Jerden

By: Jerry Jerden

By: Bunny Winkler

Travis Wesley Glennon

By: Amanda Swallow

By: Larry Cunningham

By: Robert and Barbara Hutichson

By: Gerald and Debra Wiegmann

In Memory of your precious baby boy.

By: Laurey and Jeff Crouch

By: Blake and Michelle Hutchcraft

Baby Luebbers

Always in our hearts and prayers

By: Thad Luebbers

Denim Kash Rogers

By: Loletia Causey

Jordyn Tyse-Dallas Sander

By: Jonathan Bair

By: Katherine Bluemel

By: Christine Brouk

By: Anna Gullick

By: Kimberly Manis

By: James Mueller

By: Michelle Riddle

By: Dennis Sander

By: Joseph Varrone

By: Jenni Woodland

Rosemary Sheppard

In loving memory of a special woman. Cindy and family, wishing you love, light, and many blessings, Love, Mom

By: Beverly Swain

Gregory Sill

Happy Birthday Gregory

By: Emily Sill

Tadhg Lee Stanton

By: Mia Bulifa Colorado Health Institute

Jamee Swartz

By: Diane Swartz

Baby Yaddof

By: Stephanie Bodden

Ezlyn Mae

In honor of your sweet daughter.

By: Holly-Marie Bolger

Thank You…

Patti Budnik

First Capitol Lions Club

Debra Cochran

Kevin Fisher

Jason Foust

Mark and Betty Fuller

Teresa & Patick Gavin

Mark Gelsthorpe

Stephanie Kurtzman

Erik Lawrenz

Jerome Lawrenz

Sarah Lawrenz

Twyla Powell

David J. Reinhart

Chris Roberdeau

Chris Roedel

Race Roster

Megan & Jason Rowekamp

Keegan Rush

Martha & Victor Silva

Penny & Jim Stambaugh

Mary Wigge

Dan & Lauren Williams

When You Don’t Feel Like Celebrating

Mon, 09 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMT

By: Lindsey Wimmer

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! Or so the songs tell us. The holiday season gives us opportunities to see friends and family, attend parties, exchange gifts of love, be thankful, celebrate our faith, or many other special activities.

Unless you’re grieving the death of your baby.

Then it can be a time to see friends and family who are pregnant or have new babies who would be the same age as your baby. Or decide if you want to attend a party and explain dozens of times that your pregnancy didn’t go as hoped. Or put on a happy face even though you’re feeling less than thankful. Or try to reconcile the faith messages with a faith you are struggling to trust. It can expose you to well-intentioned people who will try to offer comfort but offer an insensitive platitude instead or back away awkwardly like you might be contagious. It can be reminders of the experiences you hoped to share with a new baby.

Being surrounded by the joy and love of the holidays might seem to be a good thing for a grieving family. But it can also be extremely challenging.

If you are dreading the season, you probably aren’t alone. Above all, be kind to yourself. Grief takes a lot of work and when it peaks with these moments, it can be all-consuming. It’s ok to take time to treat yourself or be alone with your thoughts. Be honest with the people who are wanting to help you. If you don’t have the energy to attend a holiday party, tell the host that you appreciate being invited and thought of, but it’s more than you have the ability to do for now. If going to lunch with a dear friend would feel good, tell him/her what you’d like! I’ve learned that those around us really do understand and want to be helpful if we can tell them what we need.

Many families find it comforting to honor their baby with a special activity.

This might be volunteering at a shelter, making a donation in his/her name, or contributing a baby-type gift to organizations like Toys for Tots that can help another baby. Maybe you’d like to include your baby in your family traditions. It can be as simple as lighting a candle during the meal. If you’re creative, you can make crafts that have your baby’s name and can be used as holiday decorations. The important part is to make it meaningful to you. It can be something for the public to see, or something that only you know exists.

If you love someone who is grieving, it can be difficult to know how to help.

It is best to simply ask because every family is different. Many people don’t know what they need, so you can offer some suggestions of things you’re willing to do and see if one of them is a good fit. Maybe you can bring them a cup of coffee, help them wrap gifts, take the dog for a walk, or do some shopping for them. Invite them to events you normally would, but don’t be offended if they aren’t able to do it or need to leave early. Most families like to hear their baby’s name and know that their baby is being remembered, so don’t be afraid to mention them. You can also offer to help them honor their baby by giving them a gift that includes the baby’s name or initials, making a donation in their baby’s name, or going with them to volunteer at a community event. Be one of the people in their lives that isn’t afraid to sit with sadness if that is what is needed.

One of the hardest parts might be if sadness isn’t needed. Sometimes a good, hearty laugh is what everyone needs! And that is ok, too!! Give yourself permission to enjoy those moments without guilt or regret. One of my favorite quotes is: ‘Grief is another name for love.’ Loving someone involves ups and downs – and so does grieving someone.

The holidays are a major milestone in the grief journey. We only get to the other side by going through it. My holiday wish is that you can find small moments of peace, joy, gratitude, and love along the way.

Lindsey Wimmer RN, MSN, CPNP, CPLC, is the Executive Director of Star Legacy Foundation. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing from St. Catherine University in St. Paul, MN and a Master of Science degree in pediatric nursing from the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center. She is a pediatric nurse practitioner with 11 years in a primary care setting and 5 years in an emergency care setting. She most recently taught in the nursing department at St. Catherine University. Ms. Wimmer is certified in Perinatal Loss Care (CPLC) and frequently presents on perinatal loss prevention and bereavement care. Lindsey and her husband, Trent, are the parents of Garrett, their son who was stillborn at term in 2004, Grant, Bennett, and Austyn.

My Journey Through Pregnancy After Loss

Mon, 09 Dec 2019 07:09:00 GMT

When I found out I was pregnant for the first time, we were over the moon. My husband couldn’t keep his darn mouth shut he was so excited, so we spilled the beans pretty quickly. Family, friends, and coworkers were thrilled.

For the first 12 weeks, I felt like I was tip-toeing through life, trying to sneak under the radar of the miscarriage gods. Finally, we made it out of the terrifying first trimester. Phew. We were safe.

Until we weren’t. 4 ½ months in, I had a late miscarriage. We left our baby behind at the hospital, along with our hopes and dreams for him, and a piece of our hearts.

My grief surprised me. It hit, and it hit hard. I felt so empty, so purposeless all of the sudden. I had no idea how strong a mother’s love truly was for her children until I became one, until my sweet baby boy was gone.

After months of counseling and support groups, journaling ad nauseam, having a memorial service for our sweet James, and reading books upon books on surviving miscarriage, I finally felt like I was ready to get pregnant again. I would always want and miss my first baby, but my husband and I were both ready to grow our family. I knew that being a martyr to sadness and intentionally becoming childless was no way to honor James. Not to mention that dreaded biological clock was still ticking away.

Five months after our loss, it happened. I was (mostly) excited when I saw the positive. And as weird as it sounds, I felt a tremendous sense of peace that James was excited to have a little brother or sister.

But when, a couple of days later, I decided to re-download the popular pregnancy app I’d used to track my pregnancy with James (and had promptly deleted after our loss), my joy quickly deflated. “Only 16 Days to Go! Baby is Almost Here!”

Just like that, I was painfully reminded of the baby who in fact was NOT here. And never would be. It made me nauseous. It made me sad. It made me doubt.

What was I thinking getting pregnant again before his due date had even passed? How could I have been so stupid? How heartless was I to think I deserved to be happy right now when my baby was still dead? My poor James must think we’re trying to replace him. I’m a stupid, awful, heartless mother. I don’t deserve a baby, ever.

What if I can’t love this baby enough?

What if I love it too much and the same thing happens again?

What if I constantly compare this baby to James?

What if it’s also a boy, will I treat him as if he’s the baby boy that I should have been giving birth to in 16 short days? Please, God, don’t let it be a boy.

Panic set in.

I remember how the last pregnancy ended, and how it could happen again. And I knew everybody around me would be thinking the same thing.

It still hurts to see diaper commercials and pregnant women in the store. How am I going to handle it when I have to shop for diapers and I AM that pregnant woman? Thank goodness my husband knows his way around Amazon Prime, because I still can’t make eye contact with the baby section at Target.

And what will I wear? None of my old maternity clothes will do. Those belonged to my pregnancy with James. We’ll also have to schedule a trip to the thrift store to get rid of his crib, changing table, and car seat. Those should have been for a different baby.

I’m both excited for and dreading every milestone. Yet every milestone will also be a reminder of what we didn’t get with James.

We didn’t get to feel him kick, we didn’t get to finish his nursery, and we didn’t get to bring him home. Every joyful moment with his little brother or sister will be a stark reminder of what all we lost.

I’m bitter that I will never get to enjoy a “normal” pregnancy full of hope and bliss. Instead, it will be full of worry, and the heavy weight of grief for a baby I so desperately loved but never got to meet.

Any time I catch myself smiling at the thought of the little bean growing inside me, I quickly scold myself for being happy, for trying to replace James, for not being appropriately terrified of all the bad ways this might end.

I fully realize that 90% of these thoughts are irrational, yet at the same time, they all completely make sense to me. Once you’ve suffered a loss, it’s impossible not to view your life through that lens.

I have no idea how I’m going to get through the next 7 months. But for starters, I think I’ll download a different app.

The post My Journey Through Pregnancy After Loss appeared first on Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support .

Baby Loss Photography: On Memory and Celebration

Mon, 18 Nov 2019 14:00:00 GMT

By: Anna Eastland

Why did we take pictures of those we love? So that at another time in the future we may be present to them again as we were in that moment. Photographs allow us to transcend time. We are able to re-present that moment, to make it present again. Because of our spiritual nature this is possible; we are both body and spirit, but our spirit is able to transcend the bounds of time and share in God’s timelessness.

This capacity is especially poignant when it involves those we love who have passed away. Love is stronger than death; we remain united to them, but we desire a way to keep the flames of love enkindled, and photographs are fuel for that fire.

When these pictures are photos of your child who has died, they are as precious as gold.

Some people think that to contemplate such photos is morbid and will make the bereaved parents sad, but they misunderstand; love is a two-edged sword, but looking at the loved ones only releases the sadness that is trapped within. It is a wound that heals, because it is, at the same time, a celebration of the one you love.

It is proof that they existed and that they mattered– no, it is proof that they still exist and still matter!

Moreover, these pictures help make your baby more real for their siblings who came before them or may come after. Their lost sibling is no mere idea or vague memory, but a person whose picture they have seen many times–always a part of the family.

In the case of stillbirth, taking these important photographs is a delicate and challenging matter. When you’ve just lost a child, and have only a few hours to snuggle your precious little bundle, it can be hard to have the presence of mind and emotional ability to calmly take the pictures you will later treasure. I was so fortunate that my friend Julia, who had lost her son Thomas at 29 weeks, advised me to take many pictures.

My irreplaceable little photo album of my baby Josephine would have been much thinner if not for her encouragement to capture as much as possible of our very short time together before her burial.

It’s good to know that some hospitals offer a volunteer photography service such as Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep specifically for such heart-breaking situations. Be sure to ask for them if you ever find yourself in the terrible position of having lost a newborn. From the depths of grief and shock, it may seem like taking pictures is frivolous or insufficient, but those photos are truly gems, especially when done with a gentle and artistic eye.

They will be part of your healing process, and part of the treasury of memories that help you celebrate the love you will always have for your little one gone too soon.

About Anna Eastland

Blog: Just East Of Crazy Land – Adventures in Parenting

Twitter: @AnnaEastland

Books:

Love Rebel: Reclaiming Motherhood

unexpected blossoming: a journey of grief and hope

Dear Loss Mom: A Letter to My Younger Self

Thu, 14 Nov 2019 14:00:00 GMT

By: Keisha Wells

Twelve years ago, I became a loss mom. I had no point of reference for the devastating blow of pregnancy and infant loss. I couldn’t process the arduous landscape ahead in navigating life without my precious sons, Kyle and Kendrick. My boys were born beautiful and perfect but 17 weeks too soon. At the time, I had no understanding of the stealthy thieves, premature birth and neonatal loss.

To go from a woman pregnant with twins in her second trimester to a mother of angels, I couldn’t comprehend how life had shifted so abruptly and permanently for me.

I recall the sadness and shame I felt leaving the hospital with empty, lead-like arms. Thinking back to that moment, the wheelchair ride to the car was a blur but I will never forget how I felt. How I prayed to not be seen for fear that everyone who saw me would know my story—that I was the woman who lost her twin sons. I was the woman who didn’t defy the odds. I often think back to that day and reflect on how I have endured so many seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years without them physically. I can measure it all. I remember the shock and confusion I felt in my early days of loss. The absolute heartbrokenness.

I know you don’t understand life now and why this happened to you.

The nagging, unanswered question of why you had to experience this out-of-order loss that no mother envisions or deserves will never have a suitable explanation. I wish I could provide comfort on this note and tell you that all your questions about your sons’ deaths will have a definitive reason. The reason why any mother suffers on this journey of motherhood will not be answered. You didn’t seek it but you have become a member of a large tribe of brave loss moms—bearing courage and sorrow in honoring their little ones. Some of these women will become your greatest allies. You cannot see it now but you will acknowledge your role in supporting your fellow loss moms and serving others. You may not receive the answers you seek but you will make meaning in loss by honoring your sons’ lives.

I know you wonder when or if you will feel good again.

But please know, you will. Believe it. You will smile again. You will feel loved and be loving. You will even feel great joy when you think of your sons and the precious time they spent with you. The time they spent together in your womb. The time you all will have in eternity. You will grow to learn and embrace the fact that life hurts but grief and loss will never defy love.

I know you feel painful emotions.

I also know they don’t define your character—the beautiful person you are, the woman you are evolving into. I know you feel forgotten, ashamed, empty, lost, and scared. I know you feel guilty and punished. I know you feel a pain you can’t speak. I also know you won’t ignore these feelings but strive to work through them. Yes, you will feel sad because your sons are not here. You can’t deny that but you will move forward in loss and, ultimately, feel better. The pain of life will not always be this jagged. You will see yourself properly. You will come to know that you are courageous, your voice has power, and others need to hear from you. You will feel hopeful, encouraged, and confident. You will lift your head high when you speak your sons’ names and treasure the gift they are to your family. You will feel a passion so deep in honoring all angel moms and their precious babies. You will feel lighter at times and not so burdened in loss. I promise you.

I know you will always long for your sons—you will always think of what was and what should have been.

You will recall happy milestones in your pregnancy mixed with the trauma of delivering and burying your sons. You will wish for everyday moments of messy bath time, finishing homework, or enjoying a cozy Sunday afternoon watching a movie. You will long to know the sound of their laughs and to see their sibling love grow. This longing will cause great sorrow for many years, but there will be days to come when you daydream without as many tears and as much heaviness. When you reflect on the beauty of their lives even in loss, you will receive and become light. You will learn how to mother them in loss. You will always speak their names in longing and love.

You don’t know it—and can’t imagine how—but you will survive.

You will thrive. You will use your pain, fears, and tears for a higher purpose. They will not be felt in vain because you will use your love for your sons to propel you forward. Forward in healing, forward in building community with other loss moms and families, and forward in hoping for a day where motherhood is acknowledged and celebrated for all moms.

About Keisha Wells

If I could speak to the younger me—the ambitious woman in the prime of her life who was eager to make a mark in the world, and ready to take on motherhood to only be plowed by feelings of failure and misery—I would like to share these gentle words with her now of what I know and have learned for sure, thus far, on my grief journey.

Sharing Your Truth

Mon, 11 Nov 2019 14:00:00 GMT

By: Amy Lied

“When are you going to have kids?”

“Do you have any other children?”

“(Sees I have twin daughters) Going to try for a boy next?”

These questions are extremely personal and, yet, asked on a regular basis, usually by complete strangers. I’ve heard them all and more throughout my journey to start a family.

The answers to these questions aren’t always simple. Depending on how I answer, I either leave the asker of the question or myself uncomfortable.

“When are you going to have kids?”
Lie: We are just enjoying our time as a married couple.
Truth: We’ve been trying and are not succeeding.

“Do you have any other children?”
Lie: No.
Truth: Yes, my older son was stillborn.

“(Sees I have twin daughters) Going to try for a boy next?”
Lie: awkward laugh with no actual response
Truth: I already have a son but he died.

Usually the honest answers leave the question-asker at a loss for words. They will utter condolences, offer some platitude that actually hurts more than helps, and then attempt to end the conversation.
In the past I have answered these questions both ways and through trial and error, I’ve found that I am the most comfortable answering them with my truth. If I make the person uncomfortable, then maybe they shouldn’t have asked such a personal question, if they didn’t want a personal response.

While they may feel uneasy, I walk away from the conversation happy to have shared my son/struggle and hopeful that I made someone more aware of the questions they ask.

Life after loss isn’t easy and it’s a very personal journey. Some are more private with their experience and don’t feel like sharing it with complete strangers. Others feel that knowing about their child is an honor and the random stranger at Target is not worthy of that privilege. Then there are some that feel guilty for not talking about their child, like they are denying their existence.

Each person is allowed to have their different feelings on the topic. The key is to do what makes YOU comfortable.

Do not worry about the other person’s reaction to your response. Answer the prying questions and share (or don’t share) about your loss in whatever way makes you happy.
Living without your child is challenging enough, there is no reason to add to your pain by walking away from a conversation with an unsettled feeling.

Talking About Grief and Loss is Uncomfortable.

Thu, 07 Nov 2019 14:00:00 GMT

By: Robyn Busekrus

Sometimes friends and family don’t have the words to bring comfort. When I think of grief, I think of sadness and pain. We all like to share the highlights in our lives. Social media shows the highlight reel of our experiences. Those experiences are important to share. However, life isn’t sunshine and rainbows always. There’s some rain, fog and stormy weather that is mixed in with the good parts in our lives.

When we lost our son, I started to journal. It was about three months after our loss that I started to put pen to paper. At first, it was for myself to write about the heartache, pain, sadness, and anger to help with the emotional side of loss. I started to ponder about writing a blog where it could help others on this journey of loss. The blog was to be a place where others could find encouragement and hope in the midst of grief.

Writing has opened doors to use that pain for good and to show others that they are not alone.

The blog has evolved over the past two years to also focus on the things in life that bring joy. I still focus on grief and loss at times, but I now incorporate the things I enjoy pursuing such as creating art.

As I write, I try to be mindful of others. Grief and loss are not topics most people want to read. I also want to be respectful to family and friends that are expecting. As my heartaches, I don’t want to take away from their joy. Family and friends shared in our joy when we were expecting. I treasured the support throughout our joyful moment and the support when our heartache occurred.

When discussing grief and loss, may we understand that sometimes people do not know what to say.

I have experienced wanting others to honor our loss and have had the expectation that others should know what to say and do.

May we realize that we have a tribe who has been on this journey. Our tribe is connected through our loss experiences. We may not know each other personally, but we think of those who have experienced loss and empathize deeply since we have experienced the grief and pain.

Think of the sunshine moments that bring joy. Know that in the stormy and murky parts of our grief, there is a tribe who knows where you have been.

May we be the sunshine to others in their joyful and sad moments. Sometimes there are no words to express, but we can always be a light no matter how dim or bright.

About Robyn Busekrus

Robyn Busekrus is a mom, wife, educator, and writer who makes her home in Washington, MO. Losing her third son Hope in the second trimester of pregnancy, was an unexpected part of her life’s journey.
Robyn’s blog www.robynsnestofhope.com chronicles the journey of loss and hope. Appreciating the little things in life, while holding onto faith each day is the message she wants to share with others. Her interests include reading, home decorating, vintage markets, and community service.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/robynsnestofhope/

It is important for us to honor our grief, but also seek ways to find joy despite our loss.

October 2019 Gifts: In Memory Of…

Mon, 04 Nov 2019 20:32:00 GMT

Each month, families and friends have the opportunity to donate to Share “In Memory Of” the baby or babies they have lost. This month we honor and remember the names listed below.

In Memory Of:

Raegan Olivia Azevedo

We love you Raegan! Love, Uncle Nick & Tio Roger

By: Nick Margarite

Benjamin Bilpush

By: William & Suzanne Payne

Michaela Marie Coombs

Michaela Marie Coombs 11-26-2002

By: Frances Besancenez

Andrew D’Auria

By: Raymond D’Auria

Chase Ryan Elmendorf

By: Carol and Terry Elmendorf

Owen Fabel

Katie, Joe, & Wyatt…there are no words to express our sorrow, but know that we love you and Owen now and forever.

By: Tina & Anthony Gutilla

Baby Fallon

By: Shai Vander

Ellie Fox

By: Caroline Emery

William Gilbert

By: Luke DeVries

Ella Flores Gold

Daniel and Sofia – Our deepest condolences on the passing of your precious daughter Ella Flores. Our hearts grieve with you at this most difficult time. Our thoughts and prayers go out to you and your families. Hugs and love, Susan and Craig Silver

By: Susan Silver

Goodpaster

By: Tammy Kremer

Paxton Blayne Lamb

You’re one of Heaven’s angels now, a perfect little star. And when you shine the world can see how beautiful you are.

By: Kathy Berry

Jack Steven Lueckert

By: Edith Lueckert

Jonah Naylor

By: Martin Culp

Alex Peel

By: Michael Blackert

Baby Q

Dear Baby Q, Although we never had the chance to meet you in person, we want to thank you for having such a great impact on our lives. Showing us how precious a life can be, we wanted to honor your existence with this donation to help others in need. It will remain a mystery of how great of a life you would have led, but when we look at your two amazingly beautiful, kind and caring sisters, we can’t help but wish your stay on this earth would have outlasted ours. Although sometimes emotionally painful, we want to continue to keep you in our memories and honor you through this annual donation. We love you, we are thankful for you and we will never forget you. Happy 5th Birthday, Baby Q! Love, Mom, Dad, Sofia, Penelope and Ollie (WOOF!)

By: Gabe Rubalcaba

Charley Rowekamp

By: Jim Hield

Lennon Rubin

In memory of Lennon Rubin. Your short life has touched more people than you will ever know.

By: Ashley Sweeney

Claire Catherine Schoonover

Love, Uncle Dale & Aunt Charlene

By: Charlene Werling

Rosemary Sheppard

By: Greg Banden

I’m so sorry for the loss of your mom. May you and your family have many blessings of comfort during this time of grief.

By: Alison Fogarty

Rest In Peace

By: Karen Kilkenny

Please accept this in memory of Rosemary Sheppard

By: Kevin Kilkenny

By: Catherine Lammert

By: Suzanne Puricelli

By: Bill & Charmaine Sheppard

Amanda, Jessica, Michael & Daniel Taraba

Our little angels are in our hearts always. God Bless you all.

By: Joan Brauer

Colin Daniel Williams

By: Dan & Lauren Williams

Grace

By: Jacqueline Bynum

Isaac

Grandma and Grandpa DIerkes love you Isaac Dierkes

By: Betty Dierkes

Little ones everywhere

By: Us and Kids Talen

Rosemary and Maggie

By: Hayley Mirek

In Honor Of:

50th Anniversary of Bob & Jan Jerden

Happy 50th Anniversary, Bob & Jan!

By: Mary Thien

The 50th Anniversay of Bob & Jan Jerden

Happy 50th Anniversary, Bob & Jan!

By: John Thien

Thank You…

Elise Abramson

Lynn Arenson

Bill and Andrea Barnett

Laura & Rodney Bickel

Anne and Mike Blind

Emily Boeckmann

Bob and Ann Bonnell

Patti Budnik

Mona Cafazza

Jennifer Canbek

Christina Carpenter

Nicholas Childress

Sarah Childress

Michele & Chad Cleveland

Debra Cochran

Connie Cockerel

Nikki Cordosi

Fatima Dadabhoy

Linda Daniels

Adah Dooley

Michelle Dossett

Terrence Elmendorf

Ashley Feco

Rene Feser

Kathleen Frey

Mark and Betty Fuller

Customink Fundraising

Mark Gelsthorpe

Torie Gettinger

Shelly Glew

Elizabeth Goad

Nancy Green-Doran

Cynthia Hoffecker

Glenda Holman

Richard & Lucia Huonker

Suzanne Husby

Mike Irey

Patricia Jenkins

Danielle Johnson

Jane Jones

Kim Jones

Rebekah Katzenberger

Rod and Lori Kennard

Cindy Kirschke

Valerie Kniffen

James Lamberg

Sarah Lawrenz

Marianne McVey

Chris Miller

Anne Nestor

Cathy Nestor

Twyla Powell

5J Ranch

Bob Reany

Nathan Render

Stephanie Riechers

Chris Roberdeau

Debbie Roberts

April Rodenborn

Megan & Jason Rowekamp

Keegan Rush

Douglas Sawicki

Anita Schneider

Dan Showmaker

Chris Smith

Penny Stambaugh

Molly Surman

Jerry Thomas

Terri Turner

Nik Tuzov

Melissa and Andy Vien

Becca Watkins

Tyler, Kim, & Kids White

We love you and are always thinking of you and your incredible parents ❤