Posts
A Final Goodbye
13 years ago
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Giveaway Winners....
I used Random.org to generate two winners and the rose clips will go to the 3rd and 17th comments on yesterday's post. So that is Tina and Jen!
I would post the proof from Random.org but I couldn't figure out how to capture the image. How do you do that?! I gave up.
I wish I could buy and send one to everyone of you who shared your memories of your babies. It was really nice to read through the things that we remember as beautiful and special. Thank you to everyone who left a comment.
My friend Sonia, who makes those pretty flowers as pins or clips, said she has just finished making several new ones. I think she said she has a blue, taupe, pink, red, and brown ones ready. She's going to take a photograph tonight so I can let you choose which one you'd like.
Email me at westcoast3m@yahoo.ca so that I know where to share the photos with you. Once you've made your choices I'll just need your mailing addresses and I will get them to you ASAP. If you're both in the US it will be faster for me to drive over and mail them from your side of the border. Merry, merry.
I would post the proof from Random.org but I couldn't figure out how to capture the image. How do you do that?! I gave up.
I wish I could buy and send one to everyone of you who shared your memories of your babies. It was really nice to read through the things that we remember as beautiful and special. Thank you to everyone who left a comment.
My friend Sonia, who makes those pretty flowers as pins or clips, said she has just finished making several new ones. I think she said she has a blue, taupe, pink, red, and brown ones ready. She's going to take a photograph tonight so I can let you choose which one you'd like.
Email me at westcoast3m@yahoo.ca so that I know where to share the photos with you. Once you've made your choices I'll just need your mailing addresses and I will get them to you ASAP. If you're both in the US it will be faster for me to drive over and mail them from your side of the border. Merry, merry.
Sunday, 4 December 2011
25 Days of Giveaways
Welcome to day 5 of 25 days of Giveaways, the wonderfully inspired idea of Tina at Living Without Sophie and Ellie. I am happy to participate again this year. I haven't been blogging or reading blogs very much in the last year and I miss it. It was all the bereaved mums online who got me through those terrible early months after our George died and on through that first year. Just once my husband was laid off and I had to get busy with freelance work, well, there isn't much time left. He's been working since last fall but we're still trying to get back on track. Some day!
The first year I participated in this giveaway I was absolutely broken by grief. The last thing I wanted to do was celebrate anything when our lives had been turned upside down. It was nice to reach out to other women who understood and to comfort each other in a season that reminded us of what we'd lost. Now, two years later, not a day goes by that I don't remember our son and long to have him with us but the grief, while still there, is less raw. We all remember him and know there is a place empty where there should be a brother. I'm happy that my older children remember George and speak his name and I am beyond grateful there is a new little person in our midst - the most loved and doted on rainbow baby sister in the world. Nothing compares to the love from siblings who know what it is to lose their sibling.
Leave a comment and I will close the contest at 12 midnight December 5th Pacific Standard Time because I'm a West Coast gal. I'll then use random.org to pick two winners from among the comments. I'm putting this post up a bit early - December 4th here where I am - because I know on the other side of the world it is already December 5th or nearly December 5th. I don't want to leave anyone out!
Often we focus on our sorrow and grief journey. So for something a bit different I thought I'd ask if everyone to share something beautiful that you remember about your baby or pregnancy. I'll go first:
George was our fifth child and fourth son; he was the first child for whom we knew gender. The week before he was died during my labour (full-term stillbirth), we got the video camera out and had the other children talking to him in my belly. Everyone was so excited to meet the baby - they didn't know it would be another boy as we kept that a surprise - and they patted my tummy and told him how much they loved him. It is bittersweet to watch now but it makes me think how loved this little soul was. He was loved and wanted and surrounded by the laughter and hopeful anticipation of his siblings. And then he went gently and surrounded by love. He was big and beautiful and looked just like his brothers and sisters. While I wish he was here with us, that gives me some comfort.
Wishing everyone the peace that surpasses all understanding for this Christmas, Hannukah, and holiday season.
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Two Years
I cannot believe it has been two years since our baby George's heart stopped beating shortly before he was born into this world. Our beautiful, much loved boy.
Our rainbow baby, a girl, was born in early March. One bittersweet thing is that a friend of mine from where we used to live had emailed me last summer to ask if I was pregnant. I was - but I wasn't telling anyone because my husband had been laid off (without severance pay - a nightmare). I confirmed I was pregnant about four days before he was laid off and I decided not to tell him we were going to have a baby until he had found work. I kept it a secret for almost the whole summer. So when this friend asked, I sidestepped her question. She said she had a dream the previous night that George came to her and told her I was having a baby and that it was a girl.
Part of me is envious that he came to her in a dream....I long to see him again. I had a dream of him shortly after he died that was so vivid and so peaceful. I was holding him and he was nursing and he looked up at me with lovely deep blue eyes, just like those of all his siblings. Oh, how I want to see and hold my boy again.
I worried and wondered the whole pregnancy whether our rainbow baby would arrive safely and the irony is that she did but I nearly died a few hours after she was born. My uterus threw in the towel really. The doctors called it a "lazy" uterus after six births, not contracting as it should. I prefer to think it was overtired. It was frightening how quickly I lost over half my blood volume. I kept telling the nurse I felt tired and weak - not the normal post-birth rush of energy. My uterus it turns out was filling up with blood so essentially my body hid the fact I was bleeding out.
Three blood transfusions and a whole lot of rest later and I'm feeling nearly human again - and ever so grateful for our healthy beautiful little girl Margaret. Her birth is healing for all of us - as our third son says over and over, "It's so much more fun to have a living baby than a dead baby, Mum."
We're going to celebrate George's too-short life on his birthday of May 19th. We're going to have cake for the cake-eaters and pie for the pie-eaters. We are a family divided when it comes to special desserts so we'll have both for George. And I'm going to get bubbles for the children to blow to the sky.
Oh, how I wish our son was here with us. A sturdy little toddler like his older siblings were. Talking and laughing, ready to enjoy his birthday dessert. So many people moan about the terrible twos and I've never understood that because I love the toddler stage; I understand how they get frustrated when they can't do or say what they want to and aren't yet capable of doing or saying. No, for me, the only terrible two in my life is marking the second year since our fifth child died.
Forever loved and forever missed sweet boy.
Our rainbow baby, a girl, was born in early March. One bittersweet thing is that a friend of mine from where we used to live had emailed me last summer to ask if I was pregnant. I was - but I wasn't telling anyone because my husband had been laid off (without severance pay - a nightmare). I confirmed I was pregnant about four days before he was laid off and I decided not to tell him we were going to have a baby until he had found work. I kept it a secret for almost the whole summer. So when this friend asked, I sidestepped her question. She said she had a dream the previous night that George came to her and told her I was having a baby and that it was a girl.
Part of me is envious that he came to her in a dream....I long to see him again. I had a dream of him shortly after he died that was so vivid and so peaceful. I was holding him and he was nursing and he looked up at me with lovely deep blue eyes, just like those of all his siblings. Oh, how I want to see and hold my boy again.
I worried and wondered the whole pregnancy whether our rainbow baby would arrive safely and the irony is that she did but I nearly died a few hours after she was born. My uterus threw in the towel really. The doctors called it a "lazy" uterus after six births, not contracting as it should. I prefer to think it was overtired. It was frightening how quickly I lost over half my blood volume. I kept telling the nurse I felt tired and weak - not the normal post-birth rush of energy. My uterus it turns out was filling up with blood so essentially my body hid the fact I was bleeding out.
Three blood transfusions and a whole lot of rest later and I'm feeling nearly human again - and ever so grateful for our healthy beautiful little girl Margaret. Her birth is healing for all of us - as our third son says over and over, "It's so much more fun to have a living baby than a dead baby, Mum."
We're going to celebrate George's too-short life on his birthday of May 19th. We're going to have cake for the cake-eaters and pie for the pie-eaters. We are a family divided when it comes to special desserts so we'll have both for George. And I'm going to get bubbles for the children to blow to the sky.
Oh, how I wish our son was here with us. A sturdy little toddler like his older siblings were. Talking and laughing, ready to enjoy his birthday dessert. So many people moan about the terrible twos and I've never understood that because I love the toddler stage; I understand how they get frustrated when they can't do or say what they want to and aren't yet capable of doing or saying. No, for me, the only terrible two in my life is marking the second year since our fifth child died.
Forever loved and forever missed sweet boy.
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Bereaved sibling anxiety
When we told the children we were expecting again they were thrilled. My husband held up the ultrasound picture and asked if they knew what it meant and the older two boys immediately started to cheer. It was lovely. The younger two, when the penny dropped, jumped up and down.
Probably the most touching comment was from our oldest boy, who is in grade five. He said, "Oh, this is GREAT! I've prayed for a new baby every single day since George died. Finally!!"
Then, after the initial moments of happiness, they all got quiet. We were putting the younger two to bed when they started to ask us if this baby would die like their little brother George. Heartbreaking. The older two asked before they, too, turned in for the night.
As much as I want to reassure my children that this baby won't die, I no longer feel guaranteed that a healthy pregnancy will result in a living baby. I refuse to lie to them; I can't guarantee this baby will live and I don't want to promise something that I don't know is a certainty. Losing our son during labour - when I thought was homefree and bringing that baby home - has changed everything. Not just for me.
I've tried to reassure them that the stats are in our favour; the four of them were born just fine and what happened with George was random. I had one mother suggest I tell them that if they pray all will be well, but to me that would be wrong. What if they prayed and something did happen to this baby? I know women who have had back-to-back losses. I would hate to have my children think that either they didn't pray hard or well enough - or - that they were ignored. Personally I don't think God takes babies, I think things happen. I don't know why. I have a lot of questions. But I know how hard this grief journey has been for each of them and I simply cannot make a blanket promise that all will be well. It would be devastating for them if that proved not to be true.
This week a friend here where we live gave birth to a baby. A few of her older children are classmates of my older children and we're friends. I told the children before school, "Oh, by the way, Mrs. S. had a baby boy last night."
My children - all four of them - stopped and looked at me quietly. Then my third son asked what they were all thinking, "Did the baby live?"
It breaks my heart that our children know babies die. That a healthy mum and pregnancy don't guarantee a healthy baby. When I cried over this with a few mothers later they reassured me that the compassion my children have for bereavement shows through their words and actions. But it's sad to think of future bereaved parents, even if they are consoled by my surviving children.
And the little question articulater, our Mini-man in grade one, summed up all of our anxiety over this upcoming delivery so poignantly later. He snuggled up to me and rubbed my big belly and then said, "Oh, Mum. I hope this baby lives, too. Having a dead baby isn't very much fun."
Probably the most touching comment was from our oldest boy, who is in grade five. He said, "Oh, this is GREAT! I've prayed for a new baby every single day since George died. Finally!!"
Then, after the initial moments of happiness, they all got quiet. We were putting the younger two to bed when they started to ask us if this baby would die like their little brother George. Heartbreaking. The older two asked before they, too, turned in for the night.
As much as I want to reassure my children that this baby won't die, I no longer feel guaranteed that a healthy pregnancy will result in a living baby. I refuse to lie to them; I can't guarantee this baby will live and I don't want to promise something that I don't know is a certainty. Losing our son during labour - when I thought was homefree and bringing that baby home - has changed everything. Not just for me.
I've tried to reassure them that the stats are in our favour; the four of them were born just fine and what happened with George was random. I had one mother suggest I tell them that if they pray all will be well, but to me that would be wrong. What if they prayed and something did happen to this baby? I know women who have had back-to-back losses. I would hate to have my children think that either they didn't pray hard or well enough - or - that they were ignored. Personally I don't think God takes babies, I think things happen. I don't know why. I have a lot of questions. But I know how hard this grief journey has been for each of them and I simply cannot make a blanket promise that all will be well. It would be devastating for them if that proved not to be true.
This week a friend here where we live gave birth to a baby. A few of her older children are classmates of my older children and we're friends. I told the children before school, "Oh, by the way, Mrs. S. had a baby boy last night."
My children - all four of them - stopped and looked at me quietly. Then my third son asked what they were all thinking, "Did the baby live?"
It breaks my heart that our children know babies die. That a healthy mum and pregnancy don't guarantee a healthy baby. When I cried over this with a few mothers later they reassured me that the compassion my children have for bereavement shows through their words and actions. But it's sad to think of future bereaved parents, even if they are consoled by my surviving children.
And the little question articulater, our Mini-man in grade one, summed up all of our anxiety over this upcoming delivery so poignantly later. He snuggled up to me and rubbed my big belly and then said, "Oh, Mum. I hope this baby lives, too. Having a dead baby isn't very much fun."
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Wishing
I haven't blogged in ages. Ages.
In early July my husband was unexpectedly laid off - and his employers were particularly sneaky in making it a "temporary" layoff so there was no severance. It was a real blow after the year we've had. Baby dies, I'm not working much, when I work I get shorted by the friend's husband I did work for (basically worked for free for about three months).... My husband's work had first declared they wouldn't pay for overtime (but he still had to work it), then reduced his work week to four days a week and then three....he was only back to full time a short while when he was laid off.
It sent me sideways.
Worst of all was that just days before he was laid off I suspected I was pregnant. I was, but didn't tell my husband until he had a job offer he accepted in August. It was just too stressful and I didn't want to add to his stress.
Fall has been busy and happily I've had more and more freelance writing work for a corporate client that is ideal - reliable and nice to work with. Still we've had more stresses and at times I feel tired of the constant one step forward, two steps back.
The pregnancy for our rainbow baby is going well - but it's small comfort because George's pregnancy went well right up until the moment during my labour that his cord got compressed and he died in minutes. I know so many other wonderful women who have lost their rainbow babies and my sister's friend lost her second child to a cord accident before Christmas....it is heartbreaking to be aware of how common infant loss is in our generation. I sometimes feel like the voice of gloom and doom among other mothers who still really believe that a positive pregnancy test results in a living, breathing baby to bring home to outlive them. It's especially hard when people are convinced that babies only die "for a reason" and I get to pop that bubble with statistics.
Baby is due St. Patrick's Day, which made me weep when I did the dates from my charts (and then had them confirmed by the ultrasound). Given that both our families are of Irish background that seems a very special due date. Plus, since our baby was George Patrick it seems even that much more auspicious.
So one day at a time. I'm sure some people don't understand but everything is different after baby loss. Everything.
I find myself wishing I could change the events of 2009 and 2010. Wishing I didn't feel I have my eyes wide open and clear vision to the reality others doubt. And most of all wishing for all of us a kinder and gentler 2011.
In early July my husband was unexpectedly laid off - and his employers were particularly sneaky in making it a "temporary" layoff so there was no severance. It was a real blow after the year we've had. Baby dies, I'm not working much, when I work I get shorted by the friend's husband I did work for (basically worked for free for about three months).... My husband's work had first declared they wouldn't pay for overtime (but he still had to work it), then reduced his work week to four days a week and then three....he was only back to full time a short while when he was laid off.
It sent me sideways.
Worst of all was that just days before he was laid off I suspected I was pregnant. I was, but didn't tell my husband until he had a job offer he accepted in August. It was just too stressful and I didn't want to add to his stress.
Fall has been busy and happily I've had more and more freelance writing work for a corporate client that is ideal - reliable and nice to work with. Still we've had more stresses and at times I feel tired of the constant one step forward, two steps back.
The pregnancy for our rainbow baby is going well - but it's small comfort because George's pregnancy went well right up until the moment during my labour that his cord got compressed and he died in minutes. I know so many other wonderful women who have lost their rainbow babies and my sister's friend lost her second child to a cord accident before Christmas....it is heartbreaking to be aware of how common infant loss is in our generation. I sometimes feel like the voice of gloom and doom among other mothers who still really believe that a positive pregnancy test results in a living, breathing baby to bring home to outlive them. It's especially hard when people are convinced that babies only die "for a reason" and I get to pop that bubble with statistics.
Baby is due St. Patrick's Day, which made me weep when I did the dates from my charts (and then had them confirmed by the ultrasound). Given that both our families are of Irish background that seems a very special due date. Plus, since our baby was George Patrick it seems even that much more auspicious.
So one day at a time. I'm sure some people don't understand but everything is different after baby loss. Everything.
I find myself wishing I could change the events of 2009 and 2010. Wishing I didn't feel I have my eyes wide open and clear vision to the reality others doubt. And most of all wishing for all of us a kinder and gentler 2011.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Child's play and dead dollies
A few weeks ago playing dolls with my three-year-old took a dark and sad turn.
Her baby died.
She had been given a newborn baby doll by a lady we knew where we used to live and immediately loved this little hard plastic dollie. For days she carted it around and it was definitely her new favourite. We were playing at mothering when suddenly I noticed her baby was on a shelf.
"Why's your baby up there?" I asked her.
"Oh. She died," she responded somberly, staring sadly at me with her big blue eyes. I felt panicked and upset by her news and my first instinct was to deny her this dead baby doll. I desperately wanted to change this reality and make it happy, restoring the scene to happy play with living baby dolls. And then I thought, wait a minute. This is her reality. And so I responded to her the way I appreciate people responding to news of my dead baby.
"I'm so sorry," I said, trying not to cry because it's just too dreadful that my baby girl is playing bereaved mum.
"Thank you," she said graciously. "It's very sad. She died. She's never coming back."
"I'm so sad to hear that," I replied. "Is there anything I can do?"
And we talked our way through death and coping with babyloss. It gives me goosebumps to remember it. It weighed heavily on my mind and I was very uncertain if I'd handled things the best way. I'm so worried that my grief will overpower my children and warp them in some way. Are they fixated on babies dying because of my sorrow and how I'm coping? Certainly I've had people say that we should just be happy and ensure the children think it's wonderful their baby is safe in heaven, criticizing us for acknowledging that our baby's death is awful and "continuing" to be sad (because of course being sad for as long as a whole year is just so completely crazy to so many people - who I surmise have never themselves faced loss of a loved one).
Our small local infant loss group happened to have a guest speaker the next week whose expertise is children and grief or trauma. I missed the first part of her talk because I had to be at a function with our primary grade son but my husband was there and took great notes. I arrived in time for the informal question and answer and my first question for her and our group was about my daughter's dead baby doll.
The speaker listened to what had transpired and I cannot articulate my relief when the first thing she said was, "I can't tell you how healthy it is for your daughter to express this in play." She went on to explain how preschoolers will try to understand life events through play and that the way I responded was absolutely and totally loving and healthy.
She said that had I denied that her baby died or tried to change the storyline and make the baby live again that it would have negated our daughter's grief and sent mixed messages about coping with infant loss. I responded to her the way I would actually respond to a bereaved mother in real life, which is teaching my wee girl how to deal with her grief and the sorrow of other people.
I asked her if we should resurrect this baby doll because it makes me sad that this favourite toy is still lying on a shelf. She advised us to let our daughter decide what happens. She said she wouldn't be surprised if one day the baby doll is back in play but as a different baby - perhaps a new outfit allowing for the doll to be another baby in our daughter's mind.
For now that baby doll is still, as I write this, dead. Like my daughter's baby brother. It's a harsh reality to cope with really.
:: ::
The speaker had some interesting information on children and grief that I'm happy to share with other bereaved parents if you are interested. What we found most interesting is that we should expect our children to re-experience their grief at each new stage of development as their understanding of their baby brother's death changes as they grow.
Her baby died.
She had been given a newborn baby doll by a lady we knew where we used to live and immediately loved this little hard plastic dollie. For days she carted it around and it was definitely her new favourite. We were playing at mothering when suddenly I noticed her baby was on a shelf.
"Why's your baby up there?" I asked her.
"Oh. She died," she responded somberly, staring sadly at me with her big blue eyes. I felt panicked and upset by her news and my first instinct was to deny her this dead baby doll. I desperately wanted to change this reality and make it happy, restoring the scene to happy play with living baby dolls. And then I thought, wait a minute. This is her reality. And so I responded to her the way I appreciate people responding to news of my dead baby.
"I'm so sorry," I said, trying not to cry because it's just too dreadful that my baby girl is playing bereaved mum.
"Thank you," she said graciously. "It's very sad. She died. She's never coming back."
"I'm so sad to hear that," I replied. "Is there anything I can do?"
And we talked our way through death and coping with babyloss. It gives me goosebumps to remember it. It weighed heavily on my mind and I was very uncertain if I'd handled things the best way. I'm so worried that my grief will overpower my children and warp them in some way. Are they fixated on babies dying because of my sorrow and how I'm coping? Certainly I've had people say that we should just be happy and ensure the children think it's wonderful their baby is safe in heaven, criticizing us for acknowledging that our baby's death is awful and "continuing" to be sad (because of course being sad for as long as a whole year is just so completely crazy to so many people - who I surmise have never themselves faced loss of a loved one).
Our small local infant loss group happened to have a guest speaker the next week whose expertise is children and grief or trauma. I missed the first part of her talk because I had to be at a function with our primary grade son but my husband was there and took great notes. I arrived in time for the informal question and answer and my first question for her and our group was about my daughter's dead baby doll.
The speaker listened to what had transpired and I cannot articulate my relief when the first thing she said was, "I can't tell you how healthy it is for your daughter to express this in play." She went on to explain how preschoolers will try to understand life events through play and that the way I responded was absolutely and totally loving and healthy.
She said that had I denied that her baby died or tried to change the storyline and make the baby live again that it would have negated our daughter's grief and sent mixed messages about coping with infant loss. I responded to her the way I would actually respond to a bereaved mother in real life, which is teaching my wee girl how to deal with her grief and the sorrow of other people.
I asked her if we should resurrect this baby doll because it makes me sad that this favourite toy is still lying on a shelf. She advised us to let our daughter decide what happens. She said she wouldn't be surprised if one day the baby doll is back in play but as a different baby - perhaps a new outfit allowing for the doll to be another baby in our daughter's mind.
For now that baby doll is still, as I write this, dead. Like my daughter's baby brother. It's a harsh reality to cope with really.
:: ::
The speaker had some interesting information on children and grief that I'm happy to share with other bereaved parents if you are interested. What we found most interesting is that we should expect our children to re-experience their grief at each new stage of development as their understanding of their baby brother's death changes as they grow.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Patches in Lotus Land
A bereaved mother named Ter started a project sending Patches, a tiny little stuffed bear, from one babylost mother to another to patch up our hearts as we share our experiences as grieving mothers. We just hosted Patches the other week and he arrived to us on Canada's West Coast via Winnipeg, Manitoba. It was serendipity that Patches was with us to enjoy the mountains, trees, and sunshine just days after we marked the one year anniversary of our youngest child's stillbirth last May. He heard all about how on that special day we went with our older children to a small airport nestled in the valley and watched small aircraft and helicopters flying in and out while we ate a birthday lunch on an outdoor patio. The little restaurant is known for amazing pie and we sang happy birthday to the sky for George, drowned out at the very end (to the delight of his older siblings) by an RCMP helicopter taking off.
Patches got to see where George's ashes are kept at our house in the dining room cabinet (on top of the memory box from the hospital in the plastic container), and heard how we finally found an urn for our baby's remains. It's bothered me that we couldn't find something we liked but after that al fresco lunch on our son's angel day we went to see the studio of a local potter. We've commissioned a little blue urn that will have memorial information inscribed on natural clay inset into the pot. This artisan is not currently throwing pots but will be again in late July and so the urn should be ready by August. We paid a deposit for a wonderful one-of-a-kind piece that in the end not only supports a wonderful local artist but will cost far less what something from the funeral industry would have. Until August our baby's ashes are still in the plastic container from the crematorium.Patches got to see the many beautiful remembrances we received from family and friends, many of whom are babylost mothers I've never met in real life but who remembered our beautiful boy with us. It was beautiful to feel supported through this sad milestone on our grief journey. Thank you to all who emailed and offered support. Here is Patches with a lovely little verse three of my new friends (we moved to this community a year ago, just after our baby's death), one of whom lost one of her triplets after they were born two years ago:
We were getting ready for Family Fun Night at the children's school so Patches got to help us quickly make cakes for the cake walk. We were looking for something fun but different - an interesting decorative cake that would stand out. I was Googling with my younger two, not really inspired by what we were seeing, and then found the perfect cake. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one we'd make. It immediately reminded me of the image on the blog of a very special babylost mum who has been a kind and supportive friend to me for many months and who made the time to call me several times around the date of our baby's death:
We had to modify the recipe a bit from the Better Homes and Gardens recipe (most notably using crushed cornflakes instead of cocoa puffs and chocolate icing instead of chocolate kiss eyes). Without too much time or effort we had one cake and four smaller cupcakes ready and were pleased with our handiwork. We brought those cute little monkey cakes to the cake walk and they made everyone smile to see them and it made me smile to think of Nimoli's beautiful boy. Aaajaa Akul.
And before we packaged Patches for his journey south to Jenna Belle's mummy Franchesca and Jenna Belle's new baby brother in the United States, he got to read our special book. We were going to have a baby but we had an angel instead is a lovely book that was gifted to us right after George's death and the children often read. We keep it in the dining room with our baby's memory book, ready for anyone to read at any time:
Safe journey, Patches. You left us just before the rain came back to beautiful British Columbia.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Grief gender discrimination
We had a bittersweet celebration for George's Angel Day. The older siblings were truly happy to have a birthday party for their baby brother and sang their little hearts out at dessert. We took them out for lunch at a little restaurant at a small airport. We watched small planes land and take off against the backdrop of majestic West Coast mountains. It was sunny and warm and the sky was blue and endless. They laughed and wondered what George would have been like had he lived and I cried a bit at their wondering and my own.
On our drive to the lunch my husband shared with me something that has driven me crazy ever since. He had booked the 19th of May, George's day, off work months ago. As the date drew near the woman at their office who tracks holiday time decided to interrogate him as to why he would take a Wednesday off.
Like it's any concern of hers. But. She's a busybody.
I was surprised that my husband actually gave her a reason. He works in the arts, not some other corporate realm where cordial niceties are the norm. They are pretty, erm, frank with one another and he's a quiet soul with a will of steel (not shy, just a man of few words). I'd have bet he'd have just stared at her with his blue eyes and said frustratingly, "Because I did."
But he didn't. He shared with her that it was the anniversary of our youngest son's death. She had actually joined their company after our baby died in 2009, but she knew about it because she started work the week of George's funeral and the rest of the office and even some of the LA people came to our infant's service.
This woman, in some what I can only guess is misplaced feminist rhetoric gone horribly wrong, announced to my husband - and I can't remember her exact wording - that he didn't need to take the day off. Because he didn't carry our baby he can't possibly be as sad as I am.
I was livid. Incensed. I know she works in a male-dominated sector of this industry and I know she regularly asserts herself. I'm sure she meant to maybe uphold the grief of the woman and yes I carried our baby and my experience is physical as well as emotional. But. Really? To negate his right to grieve the death of our baby? That is just wrong. So, so, so woefully ignorant.
I can't imagine if when I next encounter this woman that I'll be able to hold my tongue. I want to email her or drive in there now and set her straight.
It really upsets me that this coworker could say to my husband that our child's death does not affect him as deeply as it does me. She cannot possibly believe that it is okay to attempt to quantify grief or judge a mother's grief more important or greater than a father's.
It makes me angry that people feel entitled to act as some sort of grief police. Set limits. Tell us what is acceptable and what is not. How to grieve and when. Or pass verdict about whose grief is more important or deserved or appropriately handled. I guess what really pains me is that she said this out loud to my husband, who I know grieves deeply. He's been hurt so badly by what's happened that I hate to think of him hurting more.
We both lost our baby boy. Grief is grief and pain is pain. A parent is a parent, regardless of gender.
On our drive to the lunch my husband shared with me something that has driven me crazy ever since. He had booked the 19th of May, George's day, off work months ago. As the date drew near the woman at their office who tracks holiday time decided to interrogate him as to why he would take a Wednesday off.
Like it's any concern of hers. But. She's a busybody.
I was surprised that my husband actually gave her a reason. He works in the arts, not some other corporate realm where cordial niceties are the norm. They are pretty, erm, frank with one another and he's a quiet soul with a will of steel (not shy, just a man of few words). I'd have bet he'd have just stared at her with his blue eyes and said frustratingly, "Because I did."
But he didn't. He shared with her that it was the anniversary of our youngest son's death. She had actually joined their company after our baby died in 2009, but she knew about it because she started work the week of George's funeral and the rest of the office and even some of the LA people came to our infant's service.
This woman, in some what I can only guess is misplaced feminist rhetoric gone horribly wrong, announced to my husband - and I can't remember her exact wording - that he didn't need to take the day off. Because he didn't carry our baby he can't possibly be as sad as I am.
I was livid. Incensed. I know she works in a male-dominated sector of this industry and I know she regularly asserts herself. I'm sure she meant to maybe uphold the grief of the woman and yes I carried our baby and my experience is physical as well as emotional. But. Really? To negate his right to grieve the death of our baby? That is just wrong. So, so, so woefully ignorant.
I can't imagine if when I next encounter this woman that I'll be able to hold my tongue. I want to email her or drive in there now and set her straight.
It really upsets me that this coworker could say to my husband that our child's death does not affect him as deeply as it does me. She cannot possibly believe that it is okay to attempt to quantify grief or judge a mother's grief more important or greater than a father's.
It makes me angry that people feel entitled to act as some sort of grief police. Set limits. Tell us what is acceptable and what is not. How to grieve and when. Or pass verdict about whose grief is more important or deserved or appropriately handled. I guess what really pains me is that she said this out loud to my husband, who I know grieves deeply. He's been hurt so badly by what's happened that I hate to think of him hurting more.
We both lost our baby boy. Grief is grief and pain is pain. A parent is a parent, regardless of gender.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
George, gone from us one year today
It's so fitting that I woke up in the wee hours today, the anniversary of our baby's birth and death. His stillbirth.
This time last year I was up labouring in the wee hours, peacefully and happily working through the rushes of contractions. I baked Groaning Cake (recipe mentioned in The Birth House by Ami McKay), prepared lunches for the older boys for school, tidied the house, and did some last minute things on the computer and Facebook. I showered, watching my babe move within me, and telling him we'd meet soon and I was so glad.
I had no idea, of course, that when my midwife came early to labour with me and hang out (she could avoid bridge traffic if she came early) she wouldn't find a heartbeat. My rushes of contractions were still a bit irregular and ranging from 20 to 15 to 10 minutes apart. I knew they were strong though and I felt very dilated.
So when the midwife on call that day of the three midwives, all of whom I adore, got to our duplex where we used to live I was relaxed and resting while Philip took the older childre to school and the younger two to a friend's house. It was just after 8:00 a.m. The first thing she did after we talked was try to get a heartbeat. I wasn't worried at first - then I sensed her concern. She said it might be her doppler but she wasn't getting a heartbeat. Philip was back and we grabbed a few things and rushed the few blocks up to hospital.
I waddled up to the ward while Philip parked, fear pouring down over me as I prodded and poked my belly and my son no longer moved. On the labour and delivery ward my midwife was waiting with two nurses and the heartrate monitor. We could hear a whisper of something and normally they said it is just silent with a stillbirth.
I sobbed and prayed desperately, willing a miracle. We waited and waited for the obstetrician on call to arrive and the ultrasound cart. They arrived finally and nothing. No heartbeat. He was gone.
That moment of realization is impossible to adequately articulate. Shock doesn't touch on the feeling I had as the world crashed and imploded and yet my heart kept beating while his did not. I could not believe I would birth a dead baby. I didn't believe I'd have the strength to birth him still. To keep going.
Oddly, although I arrived at hospital already 8 cm dilated, when I got that horrible news my body stalled. I still had rushes of contractions, but I wasn't progressing. My body stayed frozen and gave my mind time to attempt to catch up. I should have delievered my son within the hour and yet it was hours later that I almost consciously decided, "I have to do this" and things started to progress. I had two of my midwives with me, A and G, and I will forever remember saying, "I can't. I can't. I can't do this." I didn't want to push him out and not hear him cry. G threw her body across mine and said quietly in my ear, "It will be hard. It will be the hardest thing you ever do, but you can do this for your son."
And I did. No miracle for us; our child was still and silent. Beautiful, plump, rosy - but dead.
My cousin Deborah, who is an OB-gyn in another province, has called me or emailed me regularly - sometimes every few days and other times every week - since George died. When we spoke recently she said she thought about that moment when I learned the news my baby had died and then getting through the birth with my husband. We talked a bit and she said, "Just think how you thought you'd never be able to cope. How impossible one hour felt. But you did it and you gave birth to him. You made it through the first night, then the first week. I bet you never thought you would make it a few weeks, let alone this long."
She is so right. It seemed impossible. It's been agony, excruciating to keep going when that moment stole so much I can't regain in this lifetime. But I have kept on keeping on, even when it seemed more than I could do. And now here I am, a full year later, still breathing and crying and remembering.
It's because of the love and support of family members like my cousin Deborah and my younger sister Lisa, who has likewise kept calling me every day without fail. There are many other family members, some third and even more distant cousins, who have been there constantly to love and listen. Friends, many from years past - including many friends from military bases or the civilian school where I grew up that I haven't seen in decades. Decades. But they've been there.
And then there are the other babylost mothers. The women to whom I'm related who have shared their own stories of loss. My grandmothers, only one of whom now living, who themselves were babylost mothers and kept the memories of their lost babies alive in our family lore. Grandma Murphy still speaks of her baby Dan, who died of pneumonia in hospital just days old; George's death was hard for her and she has cried with me on the phone, truly understanding. My Grandma Jones lost her baby daughter through negligent doctors (her arm came down the birth canal), my Great-Grandma Beal lost a son at 22 weeks to SIDS, and my Great-Grandma Murphy lost her toddler Mary when she choked on a banana. My Great-Auntie lost a son hours after birth and some of my father's cousins also lost babies. I know George will be remembered because we do remember them. Out loud.
And babylost mothers in blogland and now from our little infant loss group where we live now. You have kept me going through the darkest hours by sharing your stories of loss and coping with grief and listening to mine - and some of you also on Facebook where your own supportive comments have helped many of my friends know what to say. I love you all, holding you and your babies close in my heart.
:: ::
Just days before George's angel day today I was able to share a bit about him on national radio. My friend Iris is a producer and asked if I would share something I blogged about on a show about conversation for Definitely Not the Opera on CBC Radio. I drove in to downtown Vancouver to the CBC studios to record my segment, joined by the magic of telecommunications by Iris who is in Winnipeg. My bit is the very last one on the May 15, 2010 podcast, which you can link to here. George's name was broadcast from coast to coast, in all 10 provinces and all three territories a year after his short life. Gone but not forgotten. Thank you, Iris, for inviting me to say his name out loud across the country and share a bit of this journey.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Otherworld encounter
At the very end of April 2010 I was at a small gathering of women I knew where we lived until the end of June 2009. There was an older lady there, I'll call her Kay, who was a member at the parish I attended before we moved away and who was at our George's funeral in May 2009.
Kay came up to me quietly and said she had the strangest thing happen to her just weeks after our baby boy's funeral. She said she had a dream, an exceptionally vivid dream that a young woman came to her and said she was her sister and that Kay had to help her get things sorted out. Kay was puzzled because she has brothers, but not a sister.
Not too long after she saw her elderly mother and shared with her this strange dream. Her mother got very quiet and started to cry as she shared with Kay that she did, in fact, have a sister. Her mother had given birth to a full-term, stillborn baby girl when Kay was herself just a toddler.
Unlike me, Kay's mother was not allowed to see her baby or hold her. In fact, she wasn't even supposed to know the gender of her stillborn child. She begged a nurse who relented and told her that she'd had a daughter, but swore her to secrecy because if anyone found out the nurse had discussed this she'd be fired. Even though Kay's mother was Catholic and wanted a funeral the hospital's policy was that stillborn babies were disposed of by the hospital. She had no idea where her baby was put to rest. Kay's mother, like many women of her generation, never discussed her baby's existence so Kay grew up with no knowledge of her little sister.
Kay made it her mission last summer to find out where her sister's final resting place was. She applied for access to information and worked her way through old hospital records until she was finally able to call the cemetery. It turned out that the babies were buried in a mass grave, unmarked, and that the cemetery was in the process of trying to find the next of kin of these babies so they could be properly buried in identifiable graves.
Kay and her mother were able to attend a proper burial service last fall for this little baby girl after decades. All because of a dream, when the sister Kay didn't remember reached out to her to sort things out.
Kay came up to me quietly and said she had the strangest thing happen to her just weeks after our baby boy's funeral. She said she had a dream, an exceptionally vivid dream that a young woman came to her and said she was her sister and that Kay had to help her get things sorted out. Kay was puzzled because she has brothers, but not a sister.
Not too long after she saw her elderly mother and shared with her this strange dream. Her mother got very quiet and started to cry as she shared with Kay that she did, in fact, have a sister. Her mother had given birth to a full-term, stillborn baby girl when Kay was herself just a toddler.
Unlike me, Kay's mother was not allowed to see her baby or hold her. In fact, she wasn't even supposed to know the gender of her stillborn child. She begged a nurse who relented and told her that she'd had a daughter, but swore her to secrecy because if anyone found out the nurse had discussed this she'd be fired. Even though Kay's mother was Catholic and wanted a funeral the hospital's policy was that stillborn babies were disposed of by the hospital. She had no idea where her baby was put to rest. Kay's mother, like many women of her generation, never discussed her baby's existence so Kay grew up with no knowledge of her little sister.
Kay made it her mission last summer to find out where her sister's final resting place was. She applied for access to information and worked her way through old hospital records until she was finally able to call the cemetery. It turned out that the babies were buried in a mass grave, unmarked, and that the cemetery was in the process of trying to find the next of kin of these babies so they could be properly buried in identifiable graves.
Kay and her mother were able to attend a proper burial service last fall for this little baby girl after decades. All because of a dream, when the sister Kay didn't remember reached out to her to sort things out.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Gift from the heart
It's been a long while since I've blogged. I've been busy meeting deadlines for work and caring for our living four children - and still grieving the death of our George of course. I marked his tenth and eleventh months in disbelief and sorrow. How could my boy been gone from this earth longer than he was alive?
And today is Mother's Day. Bittersweet being a babylost mumma. Thinking non-stop about how this time last year I had no idea that when I held my new son in my arms he would be still. Torturing myself with what ifs that have no bearing on our current reality.
A few weeks ago a lovely friend from high school days surprised us with a package that arrived in the mail. In it I found a CD production of At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald (she purchased it here if anyone is interested). This dear friend, with whom I reconnected on Facebook after years without contact, has not shied away from me in my grief. She has emailed, talked with me on the phone, and send the most kind and thoughtful messages to me. She doesn't hurry me through my grief, but listens. A gem.
Kirstin is also a George MacDonald scholar and hired me to edit her PhD for St. Andrews University in Scotland. It's been wonderful work, reading her manuscript and learning so much about this amazing author who inspired both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. It is also lovely that my angel boy shares his first name - and Kirstin shared with me some writing George MacDonald published about his own bereavement over the loss of his son.
Here is part of what Kirstin wrote in her note to me:
"I had initially planned on sending At the Back of the North Wind as a book for George's birthdate (a double-birth, GMD would say), but then I remembered the audio version. Even though it is dramatized and thus abridged, I thought that in this form George's brothers and sister could enjoy it along with you in some of your many van trips."
We couldn't wait to listen to the story as we have listened to many audio books as we drive around. When we piled in and started this one, everyone was hushed and listening intently. What a beautiful story! Truly poignant and meaningful for a bereaved family. It's full of love, wonder, and hope. Thank you so much, Kirstin, for your thoughtful way to remember our George.
It was just what we needed to hear as we draw ever closer to George's angel day, the day of his double-birth as I now know George MacDonald would say. If you like faerie stories - and particularly if you also have an angel baby or babies - this is a wonderful story.
And today is Mother's Day. Bittersweet being a babylost mumma. Thinking non-stop about how this time last year I had no idea that when I held my new son in my arms he would be still. Torturing myself with what ifs that have no bearing on our current reality.
A few weeks ago a lovely friend from high school days surprised us with a package that arrived in the mail. In it I found a CD production of At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald (she purchased it here if anyone is interested). This dear friend, with whom I reconnected on Facebook after years without contact, has not shied away from me in my grief. She has emailed, talked with me on the phone, and send the most kind and thoughtful messages to me. She doesn't hurry me through my grief, but listens. A gem.
Kirstin is also a George MacDonald scholar and hired me to edit her PhD for St. Andrews University in Scotland. It's been wonderful work, reading her manuscript and learning so much about this amazing author who inspired both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. It is also lovely that my angel boy shares his first name - and Kirstin shared with me some writing George MacDonald published about his own bereavement over the loss of his son.
Here is part of what Kirstin wrote in her note to me:
"I had initially planned on sending At the Back of the North Wind as a book for George's birthdate (a double-birth, GMD would say), but then I remembered the audio version. Even though it is dramatized and thus abridged, I thought that in this form George's brothers and sister could enjoy it along with you in some of your many van trips."
We couldn't wait to listen to the story as we have listened to many audio books as we drive around. When we piled in and started this one, everyone was hushed and listening intently. What a beautiful story! Truly poignant and meaningful for a bereaved family. It's full of love, wonder, and hope. Thank you so much, Kirstin, for your thoughtful way to remember our George.
It was just what we needed to hear as we draw ever closer to George's angel day, the day of his double-birth as I now know George MacDonald would say. If you like faerie stories - and particularly if you also have an angel baby or babies - this is a wonderful story.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Babyloss mums: What resources helped you most????
I've been offline the last little bit because I've got a lot of work writing and editing for people at the moment. Juggle, juggle.
My reward, when I get through my deadlines, will be catching up on the blogs. But till then I think of so many of you so many times throughout my day. If thoughts were worth currency, we'd all be rich.
I'm going to the first meeting of a support group this week that is newly founded by a woman here in the city (we moved to this city at the end of June 2009). All summer I hoped to find some sort of local resource and didn't. A few weeks ago the staff at Family Services playgroup handed me a pamphlet announcing this bereaved mother's new group and I called immediately to RSVP. She lost her baby boy in May 2009 as well.
The day after I connected with Kim about her mother-to-mother support group I met a mother who was carrying a baby boy with Trisomy 18; our daughters were playing in the playground and we ended up talking (Me thinking, don't talk about the dead baby! Don't mention George to this very pregnant mother!) and it turns out she shared with me that her baby had a fatal diagnosis. And of course I talked with her about George. We cried together and talked a lot.
Providence for both of us we decided.
The first meeting is tomorrow night (Monday night). We will be a small group of newly bereaved mothers. There is another mother who is carrying a Trisomy 18 baby as well. So it would be really nice to hear from any of you mothers who have walked that path already.
Any advice, links, and resources you'd like to share with me via my blog would be so appreciated because I'll share with the women who are at the group tomorrow night and then they can meet some other bereaved mothers online and learn from your experiences about what's out there that might be meaningful to them.
I learned of one last week from a friend I made here who sadly just miscarried her second baby at about 13 weeks into her pregnancy. She found out about The Church of the Holy Innocents in downtown New York City. This Catholic church was founded in 1868 and is located near Times/Herald Square and the busy business district. It is known as the "Actors' Church." I remember seeing it when a girlfriend and I were in the Big Apple and it's amazing to me how special it is to me now.
Bereaved parents are invited to have their baby's (or babies) names inscribed in their Book of Life, which is kept in a special area in memory of the holy innocents. A candle is always lit in memory of babies who have died before or at birth and people pray there all day long. On the first Monday of every month the church's 12:15p.m. service is celebrated in honour of deceased babies and for the comfort of their families.
To read more about this church and its beautiful ministry to remember deceased babies and comfort their families, link here. You can opt to receive a Certificate of Life with your child's name on it by email. I heard from the priest within 12 hours and he sent me a very kind and compassionate email.
I'm so relieved to find out about this local support group, but sad at the same time. It seems wrong to be so happy to go meet other grieving mothers tomorrow night. But I am in a conflicted sort of way. I really am.
My reward, when I get through my deadlines, will be catching up on the blogs. But till then I think of so many of you so many times throughout my day. If thoughts were worth currency, we'd all be rich.
I'm going to the first meeting of a support group this week that is newly founded by a woman here in the city (we moved to this city at the end of June 2009). All summer I hoped to find some sort of local resource and didn't. A few weeks ago the staff at Family Services playgroup handed me a pamphlet announcing this bereaved mother's new group and I called immediately to RSVP. She lost her baby boy in May 2009 as well.
The day after I connected with Kim about her mother-to-mother support group I met a mother who was carrying a baby boy with Trisomy 18; our daughters were playing in the playground and we ended up talking (Me thinking, don't talk about the dead baby! Don't mention George to this very pregnant mother!) and it turns out she shared with me that her baby had a fatal diagnosis. And of course I talked with her about George. We cried together and talked a lot.
Providence for both of us we decided.
The first meeting is tomorrow night (Monday night). We will be a small group of newly bereaved mothers. There is another mother who is carrying a Trisomy 18 baby as well. So it would be really nice to hear from any of you mothers who have walked that path already.
Any advice, links, and resources you'd like to share with me via my blog would be so appreciated because I'll share with the women who are at the group tomorrow night and then they can meet some other bereaved mothers online and learn from your experiences about what's out there that might be meaningful to them.
I learned of one last week from a friend I made here who sadly just miscarried her second baby at about 13 weeks into her pregnancy. She found out about The Church of the Holy Innocents in downtown New York City. This Catholic church was founded in 1868 and is located near Times/Herald Square and the busy business district. It is known as the "Actors' Church." I remember seeing it when a girlfriend and I were in the Big Apple and it's amazing to me how special it is to me now.
Bereaved parents are invited to have their baby's (or babies) names inscribed in their Book of Life, which is kept in a special area in memory of the holy innocents. A candle is always lit in memory of babies who have died before or at birth and people pray there all day long. On the first Monday of every month the church's 12:15p.m. service is celebrated in honour of deceased babies and for the comfort of their families.
To read more about this church and its beautiful ministry to remember deceased babies and comfort their families, link here. You can opt to receive a Certificate of Life with your child's name on it by email. I heard from the priest within 12 hours and he sent me a very kind and compassionate email.
I'm so relieved to find out about this local support group, but sad at the same time. It seems wrong to be so happy to go meet other grieving mothers tomorrow night. But I am in a conflicted sort of way. I really am.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Eight months babylost
Another month of missing our son. I'm still breathing. I've been busy with some writing deadlines and editing my friend's PhD and so I haven't been on the blogs much. I want to catch up and intend to in the next few days.
I dread these milestone months, the ticking over of the number 19 is the reminder of all the bragging rights and perks of motherhood stolen when George's heart stopped beating during labour and he was stillborn. With some defiance I posted on Facebook today that I was remembering him and didn't want to be told that in so doing I need to talk with some professional therapist to rid myself of grief. Typical of my addled brain and mathematical challenges I mistakenly said it's nine months without him.
I think the anger at my so-called friends - the ones from high school and university I was in regular and constant contact with up to when George died - but who seem to no longer have the time to call or email or even FB message me - well, the anger is building. I'm so hurt and angry. Part of me wanted to see if that FB message would bring them out of the woodwork because I'm too angry to challenge them directly on it. I'm waiting out of some sense of morbid curiousity to see if and when they'll contact me again.
At the same time, I'm so humbled and grateful to friends and family who have been there for me. My sister Lisa, my cousin Deborah, my dear friends Paula and Jenn and Kirstin and Andrea, have all been constant supports. So many others have as well and what has surprised me is that I haven't seen many of them in over 20 years - in some cases nearly (gulp) 30. And they're there despite geographic distance.
The friend for whom I'm editing sent me a wonderful note of support the other week in which she mentions Scottish author George MacDonald (who was an inspiration to both C.S. Lewis and Tolkien) and his grief over the death of his children. She said:
MacDonald wrote something called "Diary of An Old Soul" -- a poetic
meditation throughout one year -- after the death of two of his
children. He had only intended to share it with a few close friends,
but was talked into publishing it. Here is the stanza for the last day,
December 31:
Go, my beloved children, live your life.
Wounded, faint, bleeding, never yield the strife.
Stunned, fallen-awake, arise, and fight again.
Before you victory stands, with shining train
Of hopes not credible until they are.
Beyond morass and mountain swells the star
Of perfect love--the home of longing heart and brain.
It comforts me to read the words of other bereaved parents, whether from generations ago or the blogs of today.
I dread these milestone months, the ticking over of the number 19 is the reminder of all the bragging rights and perks of motherhood stolen when George's heart stopped beating during labour and he was stillborn. With some defiance I posted on Facebook today that I was remembering him and didn't want to be told that in so doing I need to talk with some professional therapist to rid myself of grief. Typical of my addled brain and mathematical challenges I mistakenly said it's nine months without him.
I think the anger at my so-called friends - the ones from high school and university I was in regular and constant contact with up to when George died - but who seem to no longer have the time to call or email or even FB message me - well, the anger is building. I'm so hurt and angry. Part of me wanted to see if that FB message would bring them out of the woodwork because I'm too angry to challenge them directly on it. I'm waiting out of some sense of morbid curiousity to see if and when they'll contact me again.
At the same time, I'm so humbled and grateful to friends and family who have been there for me. My sister Lisa, my cousin Deborah, my dear friends Paula and Jenn and Kirstin and Andrea, have all been constant supports. So many others have as well and what has surprised me is that I haven't seen many of them in over 20 years - in some cases nearly (gulp) 30. And they're there despite geographic distance.
The friend for whom I'm editing sent me a wonderful note of support the other week in which she mentions Scottish author George MacDonald (who was an inspiration to both C.S. Lewis and Tolkien) and his grief over the death of his children. She said:
MacDonald wrote something called "Diary of An Old Soul" -- a poetic
meditation throughout one year -- after the death of two of his
children. He had only intended to share it with a few close friends,
but was talked into publishing it. Here is the stanza for the last day,
December 31:
Go, my beloved children, live your life.
Wounded, faint, bleeding, never yield the strife.
Stunned, fallen-awake, arise, and fight again.
Before you victory stands, with shining train
Of hopes not credible until they are.
Beyond morass and mountain swells the star
Of perfect love--the home of longing heart and brain.
It comforts me to read the words of other bereaved parents, whether from generations ago or the blogs of today.
Thursday, 7 January 2010
Mammoth grief
We're nearly eight months into this grieving family life and still some days the depth of my sadness catches me unaware. The triggers for tears can be simple things like the food I craved while pregnant or passing each 19th of the month and remembering in scary vivid detail the events of our son's death during my labour.
Excruciating. Huge.
Some days I'm fine and hopeful and more peaceful. There's no rhyme or reason to it, which can be crazy-making in and of itself. Mostly I feel okay but on the verge of tears. There's a rawness to my psyche that is really hard because we've moved and I don't have many friends or a support system here yet. It's hard to meet people, even as an extreme extrovert, when I'm feeling fragile.
I'm incredibly hurt by the friends who have not been in touch, not even over the holidays, to see how I am. Or who sent only short chirpy merry, merry, joy, joy messages with no mention of our George. How can good friends not reason that Christmas would be particularly difficult after babyloss? And reading about other bereaved mothers losing subsequent babies and miscarrying or struggling to conceive makes my heart ache even more. Life seems so unfair and cruel when drug addicts can deliver live babies to suffer withdrawal and mothers wanting babies who do "all the right things" don't.
Yesterday at a playgroup I take my preschool daughter to every week one of the staff members asked me how people can best help a bereaved family. One of the mothers who has a son at the preschool at that site just lost a baby at about 24 weeks gestation. I of course teared up at hearing this - I would have before losing George by the way - my sister and I both cry very easily (my sister cries during the Herbie movie when he's in the ring because his honking horn sounds mournful....I can cry at a For Better or For Worse cartoon). But now I don't just imagine such pain, I know what it's like. The staff member, who is the kindest of women, apologized if this had upset me and I hastily said no, no. It makes me sad, but I'm glad to share ways that people helped us if it can help another family. You can't make me more sad than I am. We talked a bit about some things and I got her email so that I could send her some more ideas and links to things like Morning Light Ministry and The Secret Garden.
It seems some weeks that babyloss is all around me, on TV or running into other babyloss parents IRL. And this week is one of them.
My husband and I watched 60 Minutes he had on the PVR the other night and there was a segment about The Secret Language of Elephants.
We were fascinated and enjoying watching the researcher and these giant creatures. And then there was a clip of the herd reacting when a newborn elephant calf dies. The mother and other female elephants try to get the little one to move repeatedly. When they fail, they mourn. They grieve and it is heart-wrenching to watch their sorrow. And the commentary says that the female elephants walked around the dead calf's body grieving for four days.
Both of us were choked up watching this segment, naturally, and it was in a weird way nice to connect in our grief as a couple all these months later.
It was interesting to me to see this pachyderm grief (pardon my pun of Mammoth grief in the heading but it sounded catchier) and to think about all the babyloss in this world.
Elephantine grief. With other women to share the burden of mourning whether you're an elephant or a human. Thank God.
Excruciating. Huge.
Some days I'm fine and hopeful and more peaceful. There's no rhyme or reason to it, which can be crazy-making in and of itself. Mostly I feel okay but on the verge of tears. There's a rawness to my psyche that is really hard because we've moved and I don't have many friends or a support system here yet. It's hard to meet people, even as an extreme extrovert, when I'm feeling fragile.
I'm incredibly hurt by the friends who have not been in touch, not even over the holidays, to see how I am. Or who sent only short chirpy merry, merry, joy, joy messages with no mention of our George. How can good friends not reason that Christmas would be particularly difficult after babyloss? And reading about other bereaved mothers losing subsequent babies and miscarrying or struggling to conceive makes my heart ache even more. Life seems so unfair and cruel when drug addicts can deliver live babies to suffer withdrawal and mothers wanting babies who do "all the right things" don't.
Yesterday at a playgroup I take my preschool daughter to every week one of the staff members asked me how people can best help a bereaved family. One of the mothers who has a son at the preschool at that site just lost a baby at about 24 weeks gestation. I of course teared up at hearing this - I would have before losing George by the way - my sister and I both cry very easily (my sister cries during the Herbie movie when he's in the ring because his honking horn sounds mournful....I can cry at a For Better or For Worse cartoon). But now I don't just imagine such pain, I know what it's like. The staff member, who is the kindest of women, apologized if this had upset me and I hastily said no, no. It makes me sad, but I'm glad to share ways that people helped us if it can help another family. You can't make me more sad than I am. We talked a bit about some things and I got her email so that I could send her some more ideas and links to things like Morning Light Ministry and The Secret Garden.
It seems some weeks that babyloss is all around me, on TV or running into other babyloss parents IRL. And this week is one of them.
My husband and I watched 60 Minutes he had on the PVR the other night and there was a segment about The Secret Language of Elephants.
We were fascinated and enjoying watching the researcher and these giant creatures. And then there was a clip of the herd reacting when a newborn elephant calf dies. The mother and other female elephants try to get the little one to move repeatedly. When they fail, they mourn. They grieve and it is heart-wrenching to watch their sorrow. And the commentary says that the female elephants walked around the dead calf's body grieving for four days.
Both of us were choked up watching this segment, naturally, and it was in a weird way nice to connect in our grief as a couple all these months later.
It was interesting to me to see this pachyderm grief (pardon my pun of Mammoth grief in the heading but it sounded catchier) and to think about all the babyloss in this world.
Elephantine grief. With other women to share the burden of mourning whether you're an elephant or a human. Thank God.
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Chance encounter with a bereaved father
The other day I took three of my children to play at a climbing structure in a fast food restaurant. It was pouring with rain and one of my boys was invited for a playdate. The others were bereft at their own lack of excitement and I thought, right, we'll go to this huge hamster-like tube play area and you can burn off energy while I have a cup of tea and work on editing my friend's PhD (because children screaming in an enclosed area is conducive to deep thought of course).
We weren't there long when a father sitting nearby noted that his daughter and mine were playing well. He said he had four children, though only two were living.
I was so surprised. I think I gaped or otherwise looked stunned.
He apologized and said that they'd had their son (up in the top of the children's hamster tube thingy) and then twins who had died shortly after their birth five years ago despite heroic efforts to save them. Then they'd had his daughter. I of course immediately said, no, don't apologize because I get this. And I told him about us losing George in May and how I can't stand to say that we have four children because we don't. We have five. Only one isn't living with us.
What was really amazing was that he went on to share more about his experience as a bereaved father with me. He said the first two years after his twin daughters died he couldn't really talk about his grief. He said that he watched his wife talk with other women and grieve openly and it would make him angry because he felt that she wasn't moving on. Then, he said, after one year his wife was coping better than he was and then he realized that she hadn't been wallowing or stagnating in grief. She had been grieving and processing their family's tragic loss.
He said that he had spent most of that first year trying to be strong for her. He didn't talk about his grief because he didn't want to upset her, not realizing till later that he couldn't make her more upset or sad than she was. He said it was starting to affect his work, his marriage, and then he realized that he had to be more open about the loss of his daughters.
It was such a comfort to hear, from a man, that men and women do grieve very differently. I needed to hear that. It was worth venturing near all that icky food to meet this other bereaved parent. Providential really.
We weren't there long when a father sitting nearby noted that his daughter and mine were playing well. He said he had four children, though only two were living.
I was so surprised. I think I gaped or otherwise looked stunned.
He apologized and said that they'd had their son (up in the top of the children's hamster tube thingy) and then twins who had died shortly after their birth five years ago despite heroic efforts to save them. Then they'd had his daughter. I of course immediately said, no, don't apologize because I get this. And I told him about us losing George in May and how I can't stand to say that we have four children because we don't. We have five. Only one isn't living with us.
What was really amazing was that he went on to share more about his experience as a bereaved father with me. He said the first two years after his twin daughters died he couldn't really talk about his grief. He said that he watched his wife talk with other women and grieve openly and it would make him angry because he felt that she wasn't moving on. Then, he said, after one year his wife was coping better than he was and then he realized that she hadn't been wallowing or stagnating in grief. She had been grieving and processing their family's tragic loss.
He said that he had spent most of that first year trying to be strong for her. He didn't talk about his grief because he didn't want to upset her, not realizing till later that he couldn't make her more upset or sad than she was. He said it was starting to affect his work, his marriage, and then he realized that he had to be more open about the loss of his daughters.
It was such a comfort to hear, from a man, that men and women do grieve very differently. I needed to hear that. It was worth venturing near all that icky food to meet this other bereaved parent. Providential really.
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