Share your thoughts...

Share's Annual Trivia Night- March 31st

2012-01-25T09:00:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year... trivia! Share's annual trivia night is a great time and supports our mission! Check out the flyer- click here.
When: March 31, 2012 @ 6pm
Where: Machinist's Hall, 12365 St. Charles Rock Rd, Bridgeton, MO
Cost: $160/table (limit of 8 people)
What: Trivia, beer, soda and popcorn
How: To register, call or email Melissa or Gary: (314) 374-1311 or ShareTrivia@gmail.com.

Dress up in your St. Louis Cardinals gear and head out to support Share and enjoy meaningless trivia!!

Jeffrey's Story

2012-01-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

Jeffrey's Story was written by Karen Zerr on her journey of grieving and healing.

My husband was in the Navy going through the Aviation Training Command to be a jet pilot, and we had moved to Kingsville, Texas in October 1968. We moved about every 6 months in those days. I was about 6 weeks pregnant with our third child; our other two children were 3 and 1. We settled into our rental home, and Jack continued with flight training. My pregnancy proceeded in a normal fashion until I went into premature labor on March 16, 1969. I couldn’t believe it! This wasn’t supposed to be happening. With my nursing background, I knew if the baby was born at 28 weeks he/she would not survive. It was a Sunday morning so I couldn’t just go see my doctor, and in my mind I decided labor was not happening. However, by that evening, even my mind was convinced I was in labor and I needed to go to the hospital. I worried about what to do with our two young children as we had no family living in the vicinity to help out. I did know the neighbors very casually, but would they be willing to take the children at 9:00 at night for who knows how long? They weren’t even Navy and had no children of their own, so would they understand? Fortunately, they were very willing to help for as long as necessary and we met our doctor at the ER. He examined me and determined that I was in active labor and there was no way to stop it. I was devastated!!! No, no, this couldn’t be happening – but it was. I was sobbing as they put me on the elevator to take me to surgery, and the next thing I knew I was being given a spinal anesthetic to prepare me for a C-section. I was awake when Jeffrey was born, and I heard him cry. It wasn’t a lusty cry, but he was alive and crying, which gave me a glimmer of hope. I never saw him because they rushed him off to the nursery. There was no NICU back then, but a pediatrician was there waiting. They put me to sleep to close me up.

I woke up in the recovery room and then was taken to a private room on the OB floor. I wanted to know about our baby, and I wanted to see him. Unfortunately, this was not possible. He couldn’t come to me because he was fighting for his life. I couldn’t go to him because in that hospital at that time, you had to lie flat for 24 hours after having a spinal anesthetic – no exceptions. Jeffrey only lived for 12 hours, and in that time frame, we were powerless to do anything but pray. The Catholic Navy Chaplain came to see us to get information for Jeffrey’s baptism, and he was very uncomfortable. He did not make me feel one bit better, and he never came back to see me. In his defense, he didn’t have a clue how to handle the situation.

So, there we were. We were left wondering, "How do we bury our precious baby boy?" We certainly didn’t want him buried in Kingsville. I fervently hoped that once Jack finished with flight training, I would never see Kingsville again. What was a young Navy family to do? By then, my parents were on their way driving from St. Charles, MO to help us out, so they couldn’t make funeral arrangements. Jack called his parents and they were more than willing to help us. Jeffrey’s tiny little body was put on a train all by himself and shipped back home to his waiting grandparents for burial.

I never saw Jeffrey. I never held him in my arms. We didn’t even think of taking pictures because that was considered bizarre back then. There was nothing in place to help us grieve and no one to guide us through this horrible, life-altering event. Basically, we were told to just get over it and move on. Well, that doesn’t happen. I still have a hole in my heart and I always will. Yes, I finally got to where I accepted our loss but I will never “get over it."

We, literally, did move on. By April 1969 we were on our way driving to Jack’s new duty station in Jacksonville, Florida, less than 4 weeks after major surgery and losing our baby boy. I had my 6 week check-up with a totally new doctor who had nothing more to offer in the way of resolving grief than anyone else had.

Fast forward to 1998. My husband had retired from the Navy after 36 years, and we moved back to St. Charles, MO where he worked for Boeing. One day, out of the clear blue, I thought about Jeffrey and wondered what he was wearing when he was buried. That thought quickly progressed to wondering, "Was he wearing anything?" Unfortunately, that question won’t be answered in this lifetime because both of my in-laws are dead. So, I decided to find out what premature babies are buried in. I called the local funeral home and was told that he was at least wrapped in a blanket. My heart lurched! He probably didn’t have any clothes on, only a blanket. Fortunately, I was also referred to Share. I had never heard of it, but I called, talked with Cathi Lammert and told her my story. I felt really silly after all these years, but my grief had never been resolved. I told her I might be interested in doing some sewing for Share. She told me there was definitely a need for burial clothing as you can’t go to the mall and buy teeny tiny baby clothing. So, long story short, I have found healing in sewing burial clothing and crocheting blankets for babies from teeny tiny miscarried babies up to babies of full term birth weight. I do it to honor and remember our Jeffrey, and it is a joyful thing for me to do. And I do it so no other mother has to worry if there is clothing for her precious baby to wear. Dressing a baby makes that baby so real. He/she is something to celebrate, not forget about and move on. Share has helped me all these years later as we mothers never forget our babies. Share's mission spans the years.

Autumn Whispering

2012-01-18T06:15:00.000-08:00

The following was written by Carol Koessel, in which she expresses her grieving and creative ways of healing.

When we lost our baby to a miscarriage, my partner and I were crushed. There was such a feeling of loss, and so little to do. We knew the baby had died, and we chose to let nature take its course and let the baby come on its own time rather than have surgery to remove her.

During that period of waiting, my partner Rick spent many hours in the shop in the garage working on something. After several days, he came and showed me a beautiful little pregnant goddess figure he had made of redwood burl to put our baby in. A tiny little coffin, but so beautiful and sweet it hardly reminded me of the death we’d had to endure. The thought of burying the beautiful little box he’d worked so hard on sent me back into tears.

After carrying the baby for 10 days, I could not bear the grief anymore. We decided to have the surgery to remove the baby. It never occurred to me to ask for the baby’s remains as it was all so overwhelming. We returned home and lay in bed holding each other and cried. My arms felt so empty, as did our hearts.

A few days later, I created a tiny little baby out of light pink beeswax to place in the little box Rick had made. Autumn Whispering’s spirit now resides in that little box on a fluff of lamb’s fleece. It is our reminder of our baby and the love we shared for her.

Rick’s woodwork was something he needed to do on his own, alone. It was his time to grieve and spend his private moments with the dreams, hopes and memories of our baby. For me, I wrote. I wrote poems, letters and journal entries. I keep a little memory book for our little Autumn. The writing was so healing for me. It helped me to remember the gift of her short time with us and the gift she will always be—a little light of hope in our hearts.

Autumn came in mid-September

Like a whisper in the breeze

Barely making herself known

To those still caught in summer

For me she was as real

As the sweet smell of

And the fiery of

Early fall

Autumn came and changed my heart

Whispering her name

Gently in my ear

Holding promises of what could be

The season ended much too soon

As did the dreams and hopes

Held in the wind

But never in my arms

Always in my heart

Spirit never

Love carries on

Regardless of the season

Crazy Like a (Perfectly Normal) Bereaved Parent: In Defense of Rick and Karen Santorum

2012-01-16T06:20:00.000-08:00

Perinatal death is in the news again, as people react to the story about Rick and Karen Santorum keeping their dead newborn son with them until he was buried. Once again, there are two opposing camps. On one side are the bereaved families and medical professionals who understand and embrace this behavior; on the other side are those who are uninformed and as a result, question the Santorums' judgment. This month, my friend, co-author, and frequent conference speaker Amy Kuebelbeck is my guest blogger, shedding light on this foreign terrain and skillfully adding to my efforts to build bridges of understanding and sensitivity.

By Amy Kuebelbeck

Republican presidential candidate Rick Santorum and his wife, Karen, have been vilified in recent days for how they handled the death of their premature baby in 1996. Much of the criticism has been uninformed, some of it heartlessly cruel.

According to this 1997 story in the Philadelphia Inquirer, Karen Santorum underwent fetal surgery to try to correct a birth defect in their developing baby. She developed a life-threatening post-surgical infection, which triggered premature labor. Their son, Gabriel, was born too prematurely to survive. He lived for two hours and died in their arms in the middle of the night.

The couple kept Gabriel in their hospital room for the rest of the night and brought his body home the next morning, keeping vigil with their older children until holding a private funeral at home and burial later that day.

Some TV pundits recently opined that spending this time with Gabriel's body was "crazy" and "weird." Online commenters piled on, typing snarky comments that were much worse.

They are wrong.

Granted, many Americans are ignorant or squeamish about birth and death. But here are two key facts:

Spending time with a baby's body after death is normal and healthy, and giving families the opportunity and support to do so if they wish is now the evidence-based medical standard of care. See this position statement from an international collaboration of parent advocacy groups, this information from the Mayo Clinic, or these recommendations from the American Pregnancy Association.

Involving siblings also is considered normal and healthy, even for babies born very prematurely, like the Santorums' baby. A human being at 20 weeks' gestation looks remarkably well-developed, just small. Any child born alive is legally considered a baby, not a fetus; all states require the reporting of a live birth at any gestational age. And most expectant parents view their child as a baby, not a clinical "fetus," whether born alive or not.

Some resistance to the idea of spending time with a baby's body is rooted in outdated thinking about miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death. As childbirth became medicalized beginning in the early 20th century, the subject became taboo. In a misguided attempt to protect parents from grief, doctors and nurses typically refused to allow parents to see a baby who was stillborn or dying, and parents were advised to forget about the baby and have another one. The bodies often were buried by the hospital in common graves or disposed of as medical waste. Mothers and fathers were deprived of their only chance to parent their child. Perhaps caregivers meant well, but for many parents this approach caused long-lasting grief and emotional trauma.

Fortunately, beginning in the 1970s, most U.S. hospitals have now adopted more enlightened practices. In part because of the loving work of parent advocates whose profound loss was minimized or ignored in the past, many newly bereaved parents are now encouraged to hold their child's body and to view that tender act as healthy and natural. They are invited to create memories with their child: to bathe their baby, give their baby a name, and take photographs. (See the work of photographer Todd Hochberg and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.) Nurses help parents collect priceless keepsakes such as footprints. The baby's body is treated with respect, and caregivers acknowledge the parents' emotional need to affirm their baby's existence. Organizations such as Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support, the Pregnancy Loss and Infant Death Alliance, RTS Bereavement Services of Gundersen Lutheran Medical Foundation, Sands UK, and the MISS Foundation continue to do pioneering work in advocating for parents and providing training for caregivers.

Spending time with the baby's body at home is less common, at least in the United States. The Santorums were ahead of their time in doing so, thanks to Karen Santorum's professional experience as a neonatal intensive care nurse, whose job included caring for families experiencing death. In some other cultures, keeping watch over a loved one's body at home is the norm, and it's leaving the body alone at a morgue or funeral home that would be considered "crazy" or "weird." But home funerals and wakes are quietly returning in the U.S., as described in a recent story on National Public Radio. Although legal requirements vary, it is legal in all U.S. states to provide at least some aspect of loved ones' care after death, according to home funeral advocacy groups.

The logistics are relatively simple for a baby. Our book, A Gift of Time: Continuing Your Pregnancy When Your Baby's Life Is Expected to Be Brief (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011), includes poignant stories from several families who brought their babies home, either for a few hours en route from hospital to funeral home or for the entire vigil until the funeral and burial or cremation.

For parents, who have already nurtured their child from conception through birth and death, reclaiming centuries-old traditions of caring for the dead in the intimacy of home can be another meaningful way of caring for their baby. Research has found that bringing the baby's body home for viewing helped parents with their grief.

Those who can't imagine doing any of this because they haven't experienced this heartbreak should count themselves fortunate. Those who have experienced it can imagine it all too well. For those yet to come, because others had the courage and compassion to fight outdated thinking and practices, their profound loss will be just a little easier to bear.

:: Amy Kuebelbeck is co-author along with Deborah L. Davis, Ph.D., of A Gift of Time: Continuing Your Pregnancy When Your Baby's Life Is Expected to Be Brief. She also is author of Waiting with Gabriel: A Story of Cherishing a Baby's Brief Life and is editor of www.perinatalhospice.org, a clearinghouse of information about perinatal hospice and palliative care for parents and caregivers.

Stitch by Stitch, Little By Little, Heart and Soul Begin to Heal

2012-01-10T09:10:00.000-08:00

This article was written by Heather Lammert-Sparks. For more articles on healing, click here to download our latest newsletter, Creative Ways of Healing.

After 3 years of trying to conceive, our dreams had come true. This past February we found out I was expecting our first child. As an artist and art teacher I began to dream of making and creating many handmade treasures for our baby. One of the first things I began was a crocheted blanket of a soft, variegated yarn of snow white, lemon yellow and a sunny yellow-orange. My husband, Kevin said it looked like “scrambled eggs”. Every morning and evening, when I was not nauseous or exhausted I crocheted…single, double, double…over and over and over.

On Tuesday, April 24th I was 8 weeks along and began bleeding. I immediately knew something was wrong. I knew too much about what could go wrong. I continued to work on the blanket and hope our child would hold on. On April 29 my body let our baby go, I miscarried our first child, Charlie. The bleeding was so bad that I had to be taken to the ER. I took the “scrambled eggs” blanket with me, hoping this was all a bad dream and I would wake up. The next day I put my work in progress into the antique dresser I had purchased for our baby along with the ducky gown from Nana and Papa, handmade ducky bib made by Grandma Joy and many presents from friends and family.

A few days later I saw Charlie for the first time, with his tiny curved red body and the hint of an arm developing. I could not bear to flush my baby down the toilet. I knew I had to do something special. I saved him in a glass jar and slept with him that night wrapped in his blanket. The next morning I sat with him and read him my favorite childhood book, The Velveteen Rabbit like my mother would do when I was sick as a child. I sang him Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Then I started to crochet a small basket made of a soft green, cuddly yarn to bury my baby in. When I finished I went outside to my backyard, dug a small hole being sure to remove all of rocks to create a soft bed. I gently placed Charlie inside the cuddly yarn and laid him in the soft dirt. I asked Mother Earth to watch over him and take care of him for me and I slowly covered him with the earth saying goodbye.

Over the next several months I found myself opening that drawer to run my hand over Charlie's blanket dreaming of my child and the mother I should have been. It continued to sit unfinished while I thought of someday finishing it, for our future children, so they would know and never forget the sibling they should have and would have had.

Saturday, November 26 should have been Charlie's due date. I had been dreading the day, the day that should have been the happiest of our lives. The day our first child

should have entered this world. The day we would become parents. The day we would have begun our family.

Late that afternoon and I was alone and not sure what to do with myself. All I could do was cry and cry and cry……….a river of tears. I opened the dresser drawer; read through all of the sympathy cards, looked at all of the handmade gifts and soft baby clothes and then I came to Charlie's unfinished blanket.

I pulled it out of the drawer and ran my hand over the stitches and decided at that moment I would begin crocheting again. I marked my last stitch, the end of a dream, with a small piece of gray yarn tied in a bow.

While I continued to crochet I talked to Charlie. I told him how much we loved him, how much he was wanted and how I needed him. I asked him to help my heart and soul begin to heal.

As an art teacher I continually tell my students how art heals, art saves lives and when we don't know how to deal with life, when we have no one to talk to and when we are lost making things with our hands helps us find our way. Since then I have decided I want to make Charlie's blanket for mothers who have also lost their first child. Crocheting has brought me a tiny bit of peace and a healing I have been so desperately seeking. It has become my morning ritual. I make my coffee, sit in my rocking chair and continue to work on Charlie's blanket. Tears flow; I dream of Charlie and imagine rocking my baby wrapped in the scrambled eggs blanket……single, double, double….stitching together piece-by-piece, little by little, my broken heart and soul.

Politics and Grieving Decisions

2012-01-04T06:37:00.000-08:00

In light of the election quickly approaching, recent headlines focused on Rick Santorum's choices he and his wife made after the death of their son. Click here to view a video clip on Rick's response to Alan Colmes' hurtful words about their personal decisions.

Expressive Arts: Using Your Hands to Heal Your Heart

2011-12-28T09:52:00.000-08:00

As we embark on the New Year, this article, written by By Rachel Faldet, M.A.W. may provide some insight to you.

One Valentine's Day afternoon when I was in my mid-30s, I sat cross-legged on an oriental rug in our living room. On my lap was a baby quilt of calico blues and greens, madras plaid purples and reds. During January, I had sewn together squares, triangles, and borders by playful whim. Finished with tying the flannel backing to the cotton front with strands of embroidery thread, I was examining my work. The edges weren't bound, but the gift was nearly done. The quilt – big enough for a toddler to snuggle in while listening to a good-night story – was for my sister's winter newborn.
    Earlier that week I learned that my pregnancy was over, and the doctor suggested that I wait for my body to miscarry naturally. I had deeply wanted my child -- and still did.
    When I think of that bittersweet holiday in the early 1990s, much of it is a blur, but for the image of my bereaved self threading a darning needle, pushing it through three layers of cloth and batting, cutting and tying thread in knots, and starting the process again. Reeling from an ultrasound that showed no heartbeat at twelve weeks gestation, I turned to my hands.
    Consider your hands. Look at them. Move them.
    Working with your hands can help you navigate emotional turmoil. Your hands can help you reach a place that University of Chicago psychologist and author Mihaly Csikszentmihaly calls “flow.” Through extensive research, he explored the question of how people can help themselves feel happy when their lives are full of problems and struggle. He advocates the idea that when people are in emotional pain, they need to do something to actively take them out of sadness for a while. In Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, Csikszentmihaly says, “One of the most frequently mentioned dimensions of the flow experience is that, while it lasts, one is able to forget all the unpleasant aspects of life” (58).
    In the months and years after my second miscarriage, I confronted my sorrow with sewing supplies and with paper and ink. Quilts for winter warmth at our house, and baby quilts for gifts occupied my hands and mind. I shaped words into prose, sorting through my experience for myself and eventually creating a book containing the voices of many bereaved parents. Over time, expressive arts helped heal my wounded heart.
    Expressive arts -- such as gardening, painting, following a cross-stitch pattern, sewing, woodcarving, soldering stained glass into jewel-like objects, knitting, writing, singing, playing an instrument, beading, or forming vessels from wet clay – can have soothing and therapeutic power.   When using handwork to help you cope after losing a child, what you create with your hands doesn't have to be perfect, or even good. It doesn't matter if the end result is beautiful or if it is rustic. What matters most is the doing itself. It's a way to put some control on an uncontrollable situation. It's a way to offer tribute to the child. If you end up with something usable and lovely – like a necklace of iridescent beads interspersed with Bali silver or a painting of brilliant orange-red poppies – that's a bonus.
    Rilla Esbjornson, a founder/leader of a Share group in Montana, can testify to the importance of using your hands in coping with grief. On a Christmas morning her son, Joshua Michael, was born by emergency C-section and died two hours later. The baby's lungs were not developed.
    In the bleak winter months after Joshua's birth and death, Esbjornson “spent hours watching soap operas and crocheting an intricate fisherman's afghan, cocooning myself within a grief work that was utterly overwhelming.”   After finishing three-fourths of the afghan, she realized that she had miscounted the stitches. She “ripped out row upon row of stitches, the undone fiber entangled with my grief. I crocheted the afghan twice before I got it right.”
    As a teacher who works with college writers, my world revolves around using writing as an expressive art.   In Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, beloved author Anne Lamott says to inexperienced and experienced writers, “Tell the truth as you understand it” (226). I'm drawn to this notion because that's what you do when you work with your hands – as writers or crafters or fine artists – even if you don't consider yourself creative by nature. You try to shape your experiences and ideas into forms that speak to yourself and/or to others. You try to make sense of your     experiences – the good and the sorrowful.
    The act of writing offers you records of your thoughts: informal, unshaped thoughts that you would never show another person or formal, shaped thoughts to offer to readers. After each of my miscarriages, I wrote informally, often slouched at my desk in the dark hours of night, retelling the story privately to myself using pencil and paper. After my second miscarriage – which spiraled me into serious depression – I wrote a much-revised, polished piece. It seemed public, I felt a sense of accomplishment, and I craved to read shared stories. What had others experienced? How did my feelings connect with theirs?

That essay became the inspiration to put together – with the help of my friend Karen Fitton -- the anthology Our Stories of Miscarriage. Writing about our own experiences after our pregnancy losses was healing for us, and we believed that others who had miscarried had used writing in their grief work, too. We gathered essays, journal excerpts, and poems from bereaved parents across the country. This chorus of voices acknowledges the emotional pain of miscarriage; the pain that lingers after the physical pain is gone.
Some of the contributors to Our Stories of Miscarriage talk about using their hands to help their hearts. In journal excerpts titled “Lily in the Garden,” Deborah L. Cooper talks about being a gardener and bereaved mother. In early September, while digging in the garden she daydreams about “my little red-haired girl. Only seems right to give her the name of a flower -- Iris, Rose, or Lily” (24).   Several weeks later, she miscarried.
In Cooper's October 17 journal, a month after her miscarriage, she says, “Lots of labor has gone into my garden these past thirty days. When a woman's body gears up for having a child, there are incredible stores of energy building within. The flower beds have become my decompression chamber to bleed off that energy, along with my grief and pain. All the fortitude, the stamina, and the effort associated with childbearing have been forced out through my fingertips into the soil of my garden. If ever there were fertile hands, green thumbs. No one knows she's out there…Lily in the garden” (25).
Cooper, through her writing, chronicles and figures out the truth of her experiences. She crafts her words so they can connect well with others – even if her readers would never consider gardening as a way to deal with emotional pain.
In Listen to Me: Writing Life into Meaning, Lynn Lauber offers insights about the healing capabilities of writing. She says, “A death is still a death…but writing about it can provide a certain catharsis, a way of putting it in its place. By allowing emotional release, writing can help us to handle the anguish of bereavement and loss” (50). Lauber, who gave up her newborn for adoption when she was a teenager, says “Writing about pain doesn't banish it, but it can sooth it, 'rinse' it…Deep writing can pull you away from your troubles and concentrate your energies in a creative flow” (51). It's hard not to notice that on page two of the introduction, Lauber says that she never saw her infant daughter because the “policy of the unwed mothers' home” didn't allow that. Her concept of “rinsing” surely is based on personal experience.
Lauber's ideas about writing as healing certainly apply to other expressive arts. Substitute “drawing” or “knitting” for “writing.” The notion works.
The people whose ideas I've woven into this essay speak from personal experience. Like them, I'm not advocating that writing one essay or planting a cluster of tulip bulbs or crocheting one crooked afghan or sewing a quilt will make the pain in the heart of a bereaved parent magically disappear forever. You never forget the children of your heart. But I am advocating that by using your hands in creative -- perhaps even in unfamiliar -- mediums, you have an opportunity to help a heart that is spilling over with sorrow. Seek that place of “flow” where you experience a respite from sadness, as part of your grief journey.
Sometimes the desire to try handwork will come from you – the one suffering. Sometimes, though, caregivers need to guide individuals to consider using wet clay, Austrian crystals and Bali silver, batik fabrics of sea-green teals and ruby-reds, oil paints and pastels, glass pieces reminiscent of rose windows in European cathedrals, paper for words and cutting, ribbons and mother-of-pearl buttons to fasten to art quilts, basswood for carving figures, and soft periwinkle yarn from Australia to knit into warmth.
Sometimes solo work is best; sometimes group work with its social aspects is best. Maybe you'll delve into a project immediately after you know the child died, trying to find some respite from consuming grief. Maybe months or even years later you will feel compelled to push some lingering sorrow through your fingertips. Or maybe the expressive arts are not for you. Only you can know.
The Valentine's Day quilt I created before and after I learned that my baby had died in utero is faded from sunlight and washing. My sister's daughter Kate, its owner, is fourteen this winter. Using my hands, instead of stilling them, was the right choice for me when my world collapsed: sewing and writing helped me cope with my intense longing for the child of my heart.
That's not to say that I didn't cry frequently. I did. A tangle of overwhelming feelings of loss and grief were often my companions.   Sometimes I felt like I couldn't put on my coat and boots to walk out of my house in the snowy, bitterly cold mornings.   And waiting to miscarry naturally had turned into an emergency room midnight nightmare. But that much-used quilt of calicos and plaids – the work of my hands and my sorrow -- is a celebration of Kate's life and a tribute to the cousin she never had.
Consider your hands. Use them.

Duggar Family Loss

2011-12-21T06:13:00.000-08:00

Thought we would share a supportive article written by Deborah L. Davis from the Psychology Today blog addressing the grief of the Duggar family. Deborah L. Davis, Ph.D. is a developmental psychologist who writes books that support parents through crisis, such as the death of a baby, premature birth, and making life-and-death medical decisions. She has also written about medical ethics, perinatal bereavement care, and parenting in the NICU for medical texts and national organizations, informing and supporting health care practitioners who work with these families. Click here to read.

Coping with the Holidays While Grieving

2011-12-19T07:18:00.000-08:00

Christmas has always been a time for family. But when you feel like a part of your family is missing, it can be a particularly difficult time of year. Although it has been thirteen years now, I vividly remember our first Christmas after Bret died. He was born with angel wings in August 1995, but his original due date was November 30. Therefore, we had planned on having a new baby with whom to celebrate Christmas with that year. That Christmas, I worried that my emptiness would swallow me.

In the past, I relished our tradition of opening up a nice bottle of wine, cranking up the Christmas carols on the stereo, and helping our son put as many lights and ornaments on the tree as we could without toppling it over. That Christmas, we continued our tradition for our son's sake, but my heart just wasn't in it. Everything took on new meaning that year. Remembering that it was baby Jesus' birthday just reminded me of the baby I lost. The angel we always put on top of the tree gained new significance—I prayed an angel like that one would be watching over my baby. Shortly after Bret died, we were touched to find a teddy angel ornament that was dressed in blue. That Christmas, it was the last ornament we put on the tree, and many tears flowed that night as we ached for our baby boy to be with us. I dreaded Christmas day, not wanting to revisit my pain.

But like most other anxious experiences, the time leading up to the event was worse than the day itself. On Christmas morning, I began to find solace in the symbolism of the season, and I found a lot of comfort in our little blue teddy angel. I felt as though Bret was there with us. Losing Bret made me cherish my son and husband even more. It turned out to be one of the most meaningful Christmas seasons I had ever experienced.

The most important tip for handling the holidays after a major loss is to be gentle with yourself, and do what feels the most comfortable. Here are some other suggestions:

Acknowledge that Christmas is coming. As much as you may want to avoid it, you can't.
Try not to “float” into Christmas. Be deliberate in choosing what you would like to do.
Avoid thinking about what you “should” do. You need to do what is right for you instead of feeling obligated. Decide to do what you can manage and let your friends and family know. There are no “right” or “wrong” ways to celebrate the holidays.
Make Christmas a “season” rather than a day. Trying to do too much on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day will put too much pressure on you.
Don't take on too much. Decide on your priorities, including baking, decorating, sending greeting cards, or having a large family dinner. Are these things that really need to be done? If so, perhaps others can assist you.
Set times for the things you really want to do. If you don't schedule it, it probably won't happen.
If you plan to shop, create a list ahead of time so it is ready for when you feel up to it. Or you may consider catalogue shopping.
Realize that Christmas won't be the same. Honor your feelings and don't pretend you are happy if you are not. The holidays may increase your feelings of sadness. It's okay. Share your feelings with your supportive family and friends.
Try altering your Christmas traditions, and create new ones, if that feels comfortable. Or you can just change the schedule of your traditions. For example, if you are accustomed having a large dinner on Christmas Day, perhaps have it on another day instead.
Honor your baby. For example, you may hang a special tree ornament, or burn a special candle in his/her memory. Another suggestion is hanging a stocking in which family members can put notes expressing their thoughts and feelings. You may also donate a gift to charity in memory of your baby, or the money that you would have spent purchasing gifts for your little one. Remembering is healing.
Attend a special candlelight ceremony or church service. (A list of services is included in on our website at http://www.angelwhispers.ca/)
Take care of yourself. Create a balance by making time for socializing and time alone. Get plenty of rest, because the holidays can be very draining. Exercise, eat well and take care of yourself spiritually.
Remember that time and love from a relaxed you is the best gift for your family and friends.
Having fun will not dishonor your baby. After all you have been through you deserve some happiness. Allow yourself and your family to take pleasure in the holidays. Wouldn't your baby want that?

And as hard as it may be, keep in mind that you will come to enjoy Christmas again in the future. May the meaning of Christmas be deeper, its friendships stronger, and its hopes brighter as it comes to you this year.

*Reprinted with permission from the blog Angel Whispers of Hope http://angelwhispersofhope.blogspot.com/

Sharing Awareness

2011-10-07T07:57:00.000-07:00

By Rose Carlson

I always love reading and hearing about what others do in memory of their babies. While I am fortunate to have a job that allows me the opportunity to spread awareness of pregnancy and infant loss issues on a daily basis, I have also had the opportunity on many occasions to see what an impact Share and my own experiences have on people in my personal life as well. I teach workshops and speak to different groups in our community about Share and what we do. I write materials that go into our bereaved parent packets. I teach workshops at the twice-yearly Sharing and Caring training for caregivers and new Share group leaders. However, simply because I have had losses myself, I have been able to be a support to friends and family many times over the years.

My losses were all many years ago, and there wasn’t any support back then, at least none that I knew about. Share was in its early years, and I had never heard of the organization. Throughout the years since my losses, I have often been able to spend time with and reach out to friends and acquaintances who were miscarrying or experiencing some other tragedy with a baby they were carrying. While this was difficult for me at times because of long-ago feelings that were so easily brought back to the surface (whether or not I wanted them to be), I also knew in my heart what a gift I was giving them and that made any discomfort I may have had more than worth it. Whether I took their family a meal, gave them a listening ear, or on a couple of occasions, stayed with them while the miscarriage was happening, I felt lucky to be there in my friends’ time of need…and I was thankful that they would not have to go through such a heartbreaking experience feeling completely alone as I had.

One of my greatest challenges, now and before I came to Share, has been hoping to see a change in attitude that many people have about miscarriages as well as a change in the protocol medical professionals follow when caring for patients who have miscarriages. So many people back then, some even today, think that an early pregnancy loss is no big deal, not like losing a “real” child. (yes, someone told me that.) Since I have worked at Share, I have written the packet we send to those who have early losses as well as a pocket booklet about miscarriage for a Catholic publishing company. I often talk to parents on the phone who have had miscarriages. While I have always found these aspects of my job very rewarding, it wasn’t until I went through a loss with my sister several years ago that I saw first-hand just how far compassionate caregiving has come, and how much of a role each one of us can have in influencing and changing the attitudes people have about pregnancy and infant loss.

My sister’s baby died just two weeks further into her pregnancy than one of my own, yet the differences in the way the death of her baby was handled compared to the way mine had been handled many years before was truly profound. At first, there was a part of me that was envious of the things she was able to do that I hadn’t been given the option of--she delivered her baby in the labor and delivery department whereas I had D&C’s in outpatient surgery centers. She was able to find out she had a little boy; she saw him, held him, named him…she was given handprints and footprints as well as other mementos. She held a beautiful memorial service that was attended by most of her family and good friends. She buried him in a tiny wooden casket provided by Share at her in-law’s farm, right next to her father-in-law.

I was already unprepared for the emotions I felt after his memorial service when later that evening, my mom, who had seen and held him, told a friend of hers how he had 10 tiny fingers and toes, how “this wasn’t ‘just’ a miscarriage, this was a tiny little baby.” While hearing her say that was like a knife to my heart, especially when I remembered the way people had reacted to me all those years ago. When I thought about it and talked to my best friend about it the next day, I realized that THIS is why I am so passionate about my work at Share. Why all of us who work and volunteer there are. We all hope that what we do enables someone to have more than we did. Because of the work present and past employees of Share and many, many other selfless people have done over the past 30 years, and because of my openness about sharing what I do at Share with everyone I know…it was possible for my sister to have some wonderful memories and mementos of her son that she might not otherwise have had…it was possible for others to look at him not as “just” a miscarriage as many would think, but as a tiny baby boy named Daniel who was dearly loved and would be missed forever by his family. And my sister is only one person…I can’t even describe the feelings I have when I think of the thousands of other babies and families whose lives are touched in a positive way because of the many bereaved parents who have made it their mission to ensure that their own babies are not forgotten.

Whenever I think of not only what my coworkers and I do at Share, but also what countless volunteers and caregivers and others around the country do and have done, I often think of this quote by Mother Teresa: We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop. I have talked to many bereaved parents who say they want to do something to spread awareness in memory of their baby, but they don’t know what - that it is too overwhelming to even think about. They often wonder if the things they do would make a difference anyway. Let me tell you, they do. I am often amazed at the creative, loving ways people choose to honor their baby. Even if the only thing you do is talk about your baby and/or Share, you have no idea who might someday benefit from hearing your story or hearing about Share.

Catch 22

2011-08-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

By Maggie Stockmann

How many kids do you have? Is she your oldest?

Such a simple question with such complicated answers. All that goes into deciding how to answer – Will I see this person again? Are we in public? Am I strong enough to tell the truth? Am I strong enough to give the quick happy answer? Compromise?

No, she is our second…we lost her brother 2 years ago.

Yes, she is our oldest at home.

Yes, she is our first daughter.

Simply "Yes."

And yet, my promise to my son is that I will never forget, never diminish, always speak up for the lost babies. So why is it so hard to give a simple… "No, she is our second. Her brother watches over her from heaven." Is it because the happiness people are showing is quickly replaced by sadness in their eyes? Is it difficult because I strive to make all around me comfortable. If I say, "No," then others feel the need to comment or question. Will I then take the time to comfort them and make it easier?

"If you know someone who has lost a child, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died -- you're not reminding them. They didn't forget they died. What you're reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and that is a great gift."
~ Elizabeth Edwards July 3, 1949 - December 7, 2010.

And yet again, I feel so honored when Frankie is remembered by my family and friends. I am blessed to have a great friend whose first daughter share a birthday with my son. Each year when we celebrate Mia’s birthday with cake and ice cream, my dear friend remembers to call and offer her own "Happy Birthday" to me for my son. I will forever have a connection with her on this day. So why do I struggle to help others remember him?

The question that gives me a long pause lately…When are you going to have number 2? All I want to say is “We did on January 29th. Her name is Molly.” But I don’t want to become someone who people are afraid to talk to, afraid to share their happy baby news, afraid to include in events for fear of upsetting or saying the wrong thing. I don’t want to feel like I did shortly after his birth – an oddity that others wanted to help move on. I do not want to give the impression that I am stuck grieving my son. I miss him each and everyday but I am able to find joy in life again. I love my daughter and cherish every day with her as I know all too well that they are a true blessing.

In cases like this, is there ever a right thing to say? Isn’t everything a Catch-22? How do you answer this question?

Still Thankful for Longing

2011-08-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

By Marilyn Guggenheim

I take great comfort from this passage in Edwidge Danticat’s memoir Brother, I’m Dying:

When my daughter was born, her face blood-tinted, her eyelids swollen with tiny light pink patches that Colleen the midwife called angel kisses, her body coiled around itself as if to echo the tightness of her tiny fists, I instantly saw it as one of many separations to come. She was leaving my body and going into the world, where she would spend the rest of her life moving away from me.

Groggy and exhausted, I asked Colleen, ‘Is it normal for me to think this?’

‘Maybe you’re one of those women who enjoys being pregnant,’ she said.

It wasn’t so much that I enjoyed being pregnant. I simply liked the fact that for a while my daughter and I had been inseparable.

These words remind me that I had a bond with Elise while carrying her–one that will always remain undefinable by our experiences in this world, but a bond nonetheless. We separated when she was born too, but of course in a much more painful way–that final separation, skipping the togetherness of being daughter and mother on this planet.

But that bond we had while I carried her inside me: we were as close as we could be, though we could not see each other and I could not hear her. She could hear my voice, and her papa’s and her brother’s, and she could hear my breath and heartbeat. But this whole experience took place on a subconscious level, invisible to us in our sense-driven existence. I take comfort in the connection we had while still mourning its lost potential.

When I think of this closeness with my children that I lost with Elise, that slips away from me with each day Felix grows up, that closeness I cherish and mourn at the same time when Felix cuddles and kisses and says “I love you” to me, the words of Cindy Sheehan keep coming to mind. Cindy Sheehan was the woman who held a vigil against the Iraq war outside President Bush’s Texas ranch in August 2005 after her firstborn son Casey was killed serving as a soldier. Regardless of whether you agree or disagree with her actions, I once read of her devotion to her son that “he touched every part of me.” She carried him inside her, gave birth to him, nursed him and bathed him and helped him grow up. That sensory intimacy with one’s child is like no other for me, and missing it with Elise is what aches the most.

But it does not hurt anymore. It will always ache, but the hurt with its rage and devastation has faded away, thankfully.

All of us long to be with someone we miss, whether they have passed away from us or live on another part of the planet. And all of us have some belief in the invisible, in some form or element. My relationship with Elise is invisible, subtle, not of this world. Much more awaits us after this chaotic, contradictory life on this glorious, crazy earth.

If anyone is familiar with separation and reunion, it is Edwidge Danticat, who learned of this kind of love from her father and his older brother: her two papas. She writes lovingly of her uncle, a pastor who raised her for eight years in Haiti after her parents immigrated to the United States.

‘Death is a journey we embark on from the moment we are born,’ [my uncle] would say. ‘An hourglass is turned and the sand starts to slip in a different direction as soon as we emerge from our mother’s womb. Thank God those around us are too blinded by joy then to realize it. Otherwise there would be weeping at births as well. But if we weep at a death, it’s because we do not understand death. If we saw death as another kind of birth, just as the Gospel exhorts us to, we wouldn’t weep, but rejoice, just as we do at the birth of a child.’

This is what I resolve to do: keep hold of life and death. Like laughing and crying at the same time.

Grieving While Parenting

2011-07-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

By Rachel Cone

Surrounded by laughter and squeals of delight in the playground with my son Samuel, a nearby parent asks the seemingly simple question, “Oh, is he your only child?” My mind starts racing through all the different ways I can answer that question, but I quickly remind myself that I don't know this parent whose question is clearly intended to start a friendly conversation. “Yes,” I answer softly.

Other times I feel compelled to share the fact that I do have two children, one who “would have been 8 years old,” and one who “is 7 years old.” When Samuel is within hearing distance of me, more often than not that is my answer.

Which is the “easier” answer? While many people would think saying “yes” and moving on is easier, in fact it isn't. It only deepens the dismissal of the already taboo topic of pregnancy and infant loss. What I've come to realize is that not mentioning David presents a missed opportunity – for others who have also had a loss during pregnancy / infancy to connect with me and grieve in partnership even if for a brief moment with me.

David was my first born son, whose cause of inutero death was deemed “unknown” by the autopsy. It took courage to go through another pregnancy, but when Samuel was born a year later, I felt joy restored in my life again. This joy was intertwined with intensified grief as I experienced with Samuel so many things that I had dreamed of doing with David. I was a mother of two – one who I got to hold briefly and say good-bye to, and one who I will have the privilege to raise.

Am I different parent to Samuel because of David? I will never truly know the answer to this, but I believe that it has made me reflect on death and grief in ways that I might not otherwise have done. I speak openly with Samuel about these topics and the emotions they evoke. At times I have questioned my decision to be so candid about David, and share the details of my pregnancy, birth and emotional journey in the past eight years. How much should I tell him? Should I follow the norm and insist that death is what happens when you age or make unhealthy choices? What about those who die unexpectedly or for unknown reasons, including his brother? How honest should I be when he seeks assurance that he isn't going to die as a child? These are personal parenting decisions, with no right or wrong answers. I have found that answering his questions in an age-appropriate way has kept the door open for future dialogue.

Some days my own grief overpowers me, and I have a need to snuggle and hold Samuel in my arms while tears stream down my face. He has grown up surrounded by the knowledge and presence of grief's impact – including emotions, our annual rituals on David's birthday, my volunteer work as a grief support counselor to newly bereaved families, participating in events like the Walks to Remember, and even random encounters with strangers.

I remember being at a local park when Samuel was a toddler. While I was fumbling around to find a snack for him, he pulled at me and started to dig around in my bag and pulled out the tissues. I thought he was going to wash his hands, but instead he hurried over to the next bench and wiped away the tears of a woman sitting alone on the bench next to us. Samuel was not verbally advanced, but this gesture was so profound that it needed no words. The grateful (and speechless) stranger was so touched and gave Samuel the biggest hug ever. As it turned out, her tears were because she was overcome by grief watching the children playing in the park while she reflected on the void in her heart because one of her children was not there among them.

It was then that I realized that Samuel has a deep and unusual sensitivity and understanding of grief which I can attribute directly to our open conversations about David. Parenting is exhausting and challenging, but moments like that remind me that the rewards far outweigh the trying times.

I have found in the past eight years that sharing my experiences with the loss of David has connected me with many I would have never otherwise known, opened the dialogue about grief with my son, and sharing our story has contributed greatly to the healing of so many, not just me. I might have been a different parent had it not been for David, but I will never fully know how or in what ways. What I do know is that I am the mother of two boys, who have each influenced me and shaped me to be the mother that I am today.

Rachel is Mama to David...born still at 37 weeks on May 26, 2003 at 5 pounds 14 ounces; 21.5 inches; and Samuel...born healthy on June 2, 2004.

Quotes

2011-06-24T09:31:00.000-07:00

By Rose Carlson

I will love the light for it shows me the way,

yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.

~Eskimo Proverb

For those of you who may be new to reading our Share blog, you probably don’t know that I am a quote collector. I have been since high school when I wrote them in spiral notebooks and on scraps of paper. I seem to have some strange yet special radar for noticing quotes that are meaningful or speak to me for some reason; I’ve written about some of them here on this blog in the past. I also am the person who chooses the quote to write about each week on the Share Facebook page. Some weeks, it is challenging and I have a difficult time finding just the right quote as well as just the right words to write about the quote, but I really enjoy doing it because I know that many other people, besides me, relate to and seek out quotes that are meaningful to their lives.

That all said, the quote above evoked many different thoughts and feelings for me when I read it. First of all, it made me immediately think of parents grieving the death of their beloved baby. Throughout my almost 10 years at Share, I have met and talked to many different people from all walks of life and from many different circumstances and backgrounds. So often, I am awed by the support and care and love that some bereaved parents receive, and I am often just as dumbfounded by the lack of support and care and love others experience. I have also been amazed by the serendipitous times I just happen to be the right person at the right time to be there for someone else. Numerous times, I have been privileged and honored to be told the most heartwarming, touching stories--stories about support and care that came from someone completely unexpected. When I hear such stories, I know how much that support will mean to parents for years to come.

When I read that quote, I also thought of how in times of great tragedy, we can often be taken by surprise at just how kind and loving some people can be. I thought of how many times, someone who may have been a casual acquaintance suddenly becomes the one person who is there offering a meal or a shoulder to cry on. Times of tragedy are often a turning point in close relationships, and sometimes, a person we thought we could rely on becomes “unavailable” and we re-evaluate that relationship. Yet, just as often, someone comes into our life that we weren’t expecting and brings with them hope and love.

The above quote also brought to my mind an old friend who was an unexpected yet welcome source of support after I had my last two miscarriages. Melanie and I met in an American History class at a local community college, and we were probably an unlikely pair. She was newly married, much younger than me, had no kids, worked full time while attending college, and I was a stay at home mom of a one year old. For some reason, we hit it off. We studied together over cups of coffee, and we eventually introduced our husbands, who hit it off as well. Just a few months after Melanie and I became friends, I became pregnant and eventually miscarried. A few months later, I became pregnant and miscarried again. I remember being so confused and shocked by my old friends and family members who should have been there for me, but sadly were not. Melanie was the only person I knew who did not even once say things like “it’s for the best,” or “be thankful it happened early,” or “just be glad you have a child already.” She didn’t have children, but somehow, she understood that those losses were hard for me, and she spent many hours just listening to me. If she had feelings of frustration or thoughts that I should be moving on, she never showed them to me. Less than a year after we met, she moved several states away, and while we eventually lost touch for many years, I have never forgotten her kindness and support. We did reconnect a few years ago, she now has children of her own, and I have told her several times how much her care and support meant to me.

My point is this. When you have lived through the tragic death of a baby, it often seems as if life will forever be dark and gloomy with no bright stars in sight. You may be disillusioned and disheartened by your loved ones. However, you may also be pleasantly and unexpectedly surprised by those who reach out with a helping, loving hand that you didn’t expect. Those people are the stars in your dark night. When you are able to find stars among the darkest skies and gloomiest clouds, treasure them. Embrace them. Be thankful for them. And make sure to let them know how important in your life their shining light is.

Do you have a star in the dark night story?

Mother's Day

2011-05-09T12:44:00.000-07:00

By Jodi Martinez

I remember the first Mother's Day as a bereaved mom of Daniel, born still, and Jojo, miscarried five months later. I had been anticipating what would be a very difficult day for me. My husband being an airline pilot was away and I was home alone. I decided that I would spend the weekend with my mom so it wouldn't be so lonely. The Friday before, I packed a bag and headed to my mom's house. On my way, I realized I had forgotten something so I headed back home. When I arrived I found a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates at my front door. I opened the card and it read, "Happy Mother's Day! Love, Daniel and Daddy." I felt overwhelmed with emotion and tears ran down my face. I felt such a presence of the little souls we had lost. I was completely honored and grateful that my husband acknowledged me on Mother's Day.

It is very important to remember that even though we have lost a child (or children, as in my case) we are still mothers and fathers. My husband and I continue to honor each other on Mother's and Father's Day by lighting a candle in remembrance of three children that we have lost. (We lost another child, Joseph, in 2009.)

In feel we are parents as soon as a baby is conceived. We take care of our children as soon as we know that we are pregnant. I highly recommend remembering your significant other on these special days. It is their day. No one should every doubt it or question it. I feel our little angels are Heaven and they are with us in spirit each and every day. Losing a child doesn't make keep us from being mothers or fathers.

This Mother's Day I honored my three little angels in heaven - Daniel, Jojo, and Joseph - as well as my living child, my miracle, Zachary who was born in 2010. I am often asked, "You only have one child?" And I respond "No, I am a mother of 4. I am a mother of 3 heavenly angels and 1 child here on earth".

Come to the Window & Look

2011-04-27T13:43:00.000-07:00

By Diane Ackerman

During periods of crisis, grief or uncertainty, we all need to find enriching ways to transcend. Worry can narrow our focus, but reconnecting with nature and our senses opens it up again. The world we take for granted wobbles with mysteries and sensory delights: How astounding that we share the Earth with aromatic lilies and iguanas and Portobello mushrooms! When we pause to sense them, we become wonder-struck and experience a richly satisfying frame of mind that- for lack of a better word-we call joy. Wonder is a bulky emotion. When you let it fill your heart and mind, there isn't room for anxiety, distress or anything else.

Come to the window and look...at all the marvels bustling through one slender moment: Lens-shaped clouds signaling high winds aloft. Roof shingles overlapping like pigeon feathers. A magnolia tree's buds already burgeoning into fuzzy flower pods. A busily sniffing dog reading its scent-version of the morning newspaper. Such is the texture of life, the feel of being alive on this particular planet.

Observe patiently and affectionately... anything, and that thing-be it moon or human being-will never seem the same again. Stop to watch the squirrels, for example. Notice what they do with their tails. When it rains, they fold them up over their heads as umbrellas. As they sit and eat, they settle deep onto their haunches and throw their tails over their backs like scarves to keep warm. It's amazing the way a squirrel can clasp itself on the back with its tail, embrace and comfort itself. Humans do that too-hug themselves when they need nurturing and no one is around. And sometimes people rock back and forth in that pose, as if their arms belonged to another who was happy to cradle them.

Take a sensory walk...In which you leave behind all the usual mind-theaters, worries and plans. Notice only the world around you, the tiny dramas and endless spectacles of nature. Look at the sky, the color of snow or grass, the shape of tree limbs, curious shadows. Feel the solid earth beneath your feet, the breeze caressing your skin. Hear the tuneful insinuations of birds.

Notice now much sheer life the world contains, how many processes, including the satisfying feel of walking, of simply being a body in motion. And, whatever your age, don't forget to allow time for play. Wade through leaf piles, skip stones, make snow angels, crack the ice on shallow puddles.

Grow something...planting is an investment in the future, when a new cycle of life will emerge, an act of pure optimism that invites all of the senses. What to plant indoors? Try an amaryllis, or a bowl of fragrant paper whites, several heady hyacinth bulbs or even a potato suspended by toothpicks in a glass of water.

Planted indoors or out, peppermint and lavender will lift the spirits, chamomile will relax them-and all three will produce pretty flowers. It's impossible to be unhappy when smelling peppermint. In your mind's eye, picture gathering a fistful of peppermint, putting it in a tea ball and steeping it in the bathtub. Climb in.

Picture the gardens awakening...in the spring, when waves of yellow daffodils and colorful tulips will bloom all over town. Zoom in on one flower in your mind and watch it sway in the light breeze. Add a bird's song-perhaps the wren's liquid warble. Add the guitar-string-plucking sound of a green frog or the raucous come-hither trills made by tiny spring peepers.
Switch the mental scene to summer. Imagine smelling fresh basil, lemon balm, lavender or rosemary. Returning birds will need shelter, so paint a birdhouse. I just decorated one with bluebirds; purple grackle and yellow stars, then wrote "Wrennish Hall" on one side and "The Bird is the Word" on the roof.

Create a mental spa...where you turn down the volume on your TV or radio and turn up your senses, all of which can be uniquely comforting in times of stress. Explore the sense of touch, for example- especially if you have a loved one or a pet to cuddle with. On an icy winter day, it's fun to curl up beside a window and bask in a pool of sunlight the way a spaniel might. Surround yourself with cuddly things to enjoy anew-soft blankets, teddy bear. (My teddy is made of crushed velvet, stuffed with buckwheat and lavender. When you pinch him, it revives the scent.) Have a massage to soothe the muscles and refresh the nerves.

Smell can be soothing too. Baking suffuses the house with aromatic memories; fragrant teas like chamomile or apple and spice can help one relax. Make your cuisine comfort food. At lunch most days, I've been eating extra crunchy peanut butter on cracked wheat toast, which tastes yummy and reminds me of being about eight year old.

Listening to natural sounds can lure the mind away from worry and toward wonder. Or even listening to what audio engineers call "room tone" - that is, the background noise we take for granted, the surprisingly rich audible stir we regard as silence.

Think about the day's experiences... each evening, choose one that stands out. It may be as zesty as a slice of great lemon meringue pie, as peaceful as a lunchtime snooze, as unexpected as a quick slant of sunlight catching dust particles in the air. Embellishing it with words helps to store it in memory. What was the best thing you noticed or that happened?

Reviewing the day's delights often surprises and serves as a reminder of how full a life is, how lucky some days feel and how even stressful days may contain glowing nuggets of peace, pleasure and joy.

Moving Forward

2011-03-30T08:41:00.000-07:00

By Hannah Stone

As a three time survivor of pregnancy loss, I know all too well that the words "moving forward" do not equal "letting go."

Nearly 17 years after my first loss, I still feel the pain and grief. It's not quite as raw as it was all of those years ago but it's still there. I think about the son or daughter I never got to hold and I never had the opportunity to know. What would he or she look like? Would it be my green eyes that would stare back at me or would they be the brown eyes of my husband? Would he or she be panicking about SATs and college applications? I will never know the answer to these questions and I think that the unknown is what pains me the most as a grieving parent.

I lost my first pregnancy on March 1, 1994. It seems like a lifetime ago yet it seems like yesterday. I remember the day it happened...going to my obstetrician's office for a routine 12 week exam with my husband and telling her that I was nervous about seeing the heartbeat for the first time. I was naïve, believing that what had happened to a few friends, wouldn't happen to me yet I wouldn't feel right until I saw that heartbeat. I never saw that heartbeat. Hearing the news that I had lost my baby broke my heart and in the months ahead, broke my spirit. On that day, I not only lost a pregnancy that was very much anticipated by my husband and myself (and our extended family members and friends) but I also lost my innocence. I learned on that day that life cannot be taken for granted and things can change in an instant...just like that.

On March 1 and on September 18, I remember the baby I never got to meet. Those two days represent when I lost the pregnancy and when the pregnancy was supposed to successful end birth. The pain lessens as each year goes by but I never forget and certainly, not on those two days or the days on the calendar that mark the losses of my other two pregnancies and the days of their due dates. I can talk about my losses and I am not as emotional as I was in the days and weeks and months following my losses but I still feel the grief. Time heals but it doesn't cure. From the moment you learn that you have lost your precious child, you are never the same person. I know I'm not.

Forgive Them, For They Know Not What They Say (Or Do)

2011-03-17T09:16:00.000-07:00

By Brian Henry

When we lost our daughter Caroline, we gained a world of perspective we never wanted.

Most people lead a life blissfully ignorant of pregnancy loss. Many of our friends and family had no idea what it was like to suffer this type of loss, so it stood to reason that they also had no idea how to react when it entered their lives.

Forgiving the ignorance of others isn't exactly the first thing you do after a loss.

In the days following Caroline's stillbirth, we expected everyone would understand right away what we needed - gentle words, limitless understanding, the ability to listen for hours on end as we cried our way through another difficult evening - and further, that they would instantaneously and successfully deliver the support we needed.

When those expectations weren't met, we were disappointed and angry. Everyone we came in contact with was summarily labeled according to their level of support - there were the rarified few that made it into the "very helpful" category, a few more that were "somewhat helpful" and then the majority who fell into the abyss known as "wow, couldn’t have been less helpful, let's never call that person again."

Only in the years since our loss have we realized our expectations didn’t match reality. We failed to understand what is possible emotionally from people who haven’t had a loss, which made it more difficult for our recovery.

We should expect basic human reactions – "I'm sorry." "How sad." "I'm here to help." - but we found ourselves demanding even more. Only now, after suffering our own loss, meeting others who have suffered losses and educating our friends and family about pregnancy loss, do we truly understand, and forgive.

Forgiveness is a big word for us. We don't ask for it from each other very often, even though we should. And we don't give it out a lot to others, because we feel obligated to hold onto our angry feelings, take every slight, file it in our brain and recall it at a moment's notice.

We felt that if we did forgive, it would allow hurtful words or lack of support - unintentional though it may have been - to shape our view of ourselves and of our loss.

As we went along our own journey of recovery, we came to understand that forgiving people around us for not meeting our expectations (and forgiving ourselves for having those expectations in the first place), actually helped us to better appreciate what our friends and family could, and did, give to us.

It's a lesson we didn’t want to learn, but now that we have, we hope we’re better at forgiving those closest to us and helping others understand how they can better support families who have suffered such a devastating loss.

In what ways have you used forgiveness after your loss?

What About the Children?

2011-03-01T07:31:00.000-08:00

By Maureen Day

I have only a few memories of my sister, Patti; really just glimpses that I recall… jumping rope in the kitchen and getting in trouble, laughing on the couch, seeing her sick lying on my mom and dad’s bed. Then, she was gone. I was only 4 years old when she died at the age of eight, unexpectedly from Reye Syndrome - sudden brain damage occurring from the use of aspirin to treat chicken pox. I didn’t understand any of this, of course, at the time. I only knew she was gone and so were her pictures and that every time I said her name,
my mom would cry and my older brother would get very angry with me. So, I quickly learned and followed along. I was afraid to ever have a friend named Patti, not wanting to speak her name but kept my angel sister close to my heart and would talk to her at night. As I grew, sometimes I would secretly whisper to my mom asking about her when no one was around. She always cried and I always felt so badly about that, but my desire to know compelled me to choose hurting my mother rather than go on pretending. It became our secret and she would tell me small, beautiful details about her. Like how much my older sister loved me and had fun playing with me. And the time she dreamed about her… she had her blonde hair all in curls just like my mom always liked to fix it, and she walked in the back door, came directly over to my mom and without a word, gently kissed her cheek. She believed this was Patti’s way of saying good-bye. We rarely spoke of her, but when we did it was so healing and just felt so right inside even though I was convinced what I was doing was so wrong. To avoid the pain I believed I was inflicting on my mother, I would sneak around and ask neighbors what happened, rummage through her bottom dresser drawer and find pictures of her and sweet little notes and drawings she had made that my mom had tucked away. I just needed to know as much as I could.

Eight years ago I lost my baby, Katie, at 11 weeks. I was devastated and surprised at just how deep was my pain and sense of loss. I felt compelled to do something with my experience and try to help others who were grieving in the same way. But it wasn’t until I attended a class called Children & Grief that I had a personal epiphany, a revelation connecting so many dots in my life. I learned that if you’re old enough to love, you’re old enough to grieve. It was explained that at the age of four children process through repetition – which was why I kept asking over and over again about my sister. And as children develop and death can be more clearly understood, they need honest explanations so their minds don’t just fill in the blanks, which can be scarier than the reality. And at each stage of development, children need to be allowed to grieve all over again. Denying grief and loss only postpones, never eliminates. The only way to move through it is to acknowledge, talk, cry, and FEEL every emotion that comes along on the grief journey. Having a support system, opportunities to share and express grief, a stable environment, information about death, and encouragement to just be a “kid” will allow children to mourn in a healthy way.

My parents were wonderful, loving people and I don’t blame them in any way. They did the best they knew to do and times were different then in the way people dealt with death. But as a child of loss in an environment that did not allow for healthy grieving, without even realizing it, I had been prepared for being a parent experiencing loss. Somehow I instinctively knew that I NEEDED to acknowledge my baby, talk about her, keep her part of our family, express my love for her, and openly grieve her loss. I am so thankful for my sister Patti and the lessons her young life taught me that will last me and allow me to serve others for the rest of my life.

How do you share the memory of your baby with his/her siblings?

Enjoying the Small Things

2011-02-23T07:45:00.000-08:00

By Rose Carlson

I regularly read a blog called Enjoying the Small Things. It is written by a gal who lives in southern Florida with her husband and two young daughters, one of who has special needs. This blog writer has a really great way with words as well as a sunny outlook on life, and she often writes posts about the “small things” she stops to take notice of in her daily life. I’ve been reading her blog for nearly a year, and many times, she has inspired me to do the same…to stop and notice the seemingly insignificant details and events of life, take note of them, and most of all, remember and write about them. And that’s what this
post is about…enjoying the small things because often, when you are grieving, small things may be the only things you have to hold onto and get you through each day. While it has been many years since I lived through my own losses, I do often encounter situations that remind of when I was, and I try to relate the things I write on this blog to those who are new to this heartbreaking journey.

Recently, St. Louis was hit with a doozy of an ice storm. We don’t normally get a whole lot of snow in St. Louis. We tend to get smallish snow storms that result in a few inches, and we are more likely to get freezing rain and sleet. This winter, however, has been a difficult one, with several snow storms along with the ice storm last week. It’s no secret to those who know me that winter is my least favorite season…the cold goes right through me, driving on snowy, icy roads scare me, and the storms frequently shut our community down. I could happily live on the beach and not care if I never laid my eyes on another snow flake. This winter though, I decided to make the best of our many snow days and try to appreciate the beauty that winter can hold. I resolved to try to look beyond the sloppy, slushy roads and notice the sun sparkling on the snow-covered branches of trees and bushes. I even went out in my yard at 5 AM on Christmas morning in my pajamas and boots to take pictures after looking out the window and noticing how stunning the Christmas lights looked blanketed with snow. It has not made me any more fond of winter, but I do feel as if the frosty, dreary weather hasn’t gotten me down as much as it normally does.

Last week after the ice storm, at the end of my first day back at work, I took a longer, more scenic route on my way home, a road that winds along the Missouri River bottom. I often do this, even though it lengthens my ride home. Driving along the river road is more relaxing and has much better views than taking the highway and sitting in traffic; it helps me “destress” a bit on my way home. On this particular day, it was breathtaking. I have no other way to describe it. I was so very cold, but the sun was peeking through the clouds and shimmering on the ice-covered trees and the tall grasses that border the road. It was one of the most picturesque winter scenes I have ever seen--everything was coated with what looked like sparkling glass. I had my camera with me, and I pulled over on the side of the road, climbed over a snow bank, and tried to capture the magnificence of this winter landscape.

My photographs did not come close to capturing what I hoped they would, but the next day, I stopped again to take some pictures of Old Man Winter in all his icy glory—this time of the river where it flows through the downtown area of my city. Again, I thought in amazement how beautiful it all was…the barren, brown trees against the pale blue sky…the large chunks of ice floating lazily down the river…the stark contrast of the black wrought iron fence against the whiteness of the snow…I was freezing, yet I stood for a few minutes admiring the harsh beauty.

So back to the reason for this post…enjoying the small things. Sometimes, in the midst of grief just as in the midst of 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, in spite of 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 begin to 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.

If you would like to share, I’d love to hear about what small things you are enjoying right now.

Daniel, Jo Jo, Joseph & Zachary

2011-02-15T09:44:00.000-08:00

By Jodi Martinez

The death of my first child, Daniel Joseph, had to be the most horrific experience of my life. In 2007, my life was wonderful. I had just gotten married; I had a great job, and was expecting my first child. Then at the end of August I found myself in the middle of my worst nightmare. One minute changed my life forever. I found out that my son had Hydrops and the doctors told me that he had a 1% chance of living. Sadly, on September 18, 2007, he was stillborn at 29 weeks.

I was numb. We had just finished the nursery and the invites had already gone out for my baby shower before we had found out any of this terrible news. I couldn't believe that there was nothing the doctors could do to help. I felt empty. That is when I was first introduced to Share. Share was so wonderful and supportive in so many ways. I remember when I made the first phone call to Share I was in shock that people still lose their children so late in pregnancy with all the advances in modern medicine. I was so naive. Share showed me that others have experienced the same type of loss and provided a setting to talk about how I could honor my child. It was such a blessing to know that my husband and I were not alone.

The doctors had told us that we could start trying again right away. We found out the following January that we were expecting, unbelievably with the same September 18th due date. Unfortunately that pregnancy ended in a miscarriage at 8 1/2 weeks. I had genetic testing done which provided no answers and the doctors still encouraged us to keep trying. In June I found out I was pregnant again, only to again miscarry at 9 1/2 weeks.

In 2009, I came to grips with the fact that I would never be a mom. I prayed about it daily and asked God to send me a sign about His desires for me. I was attending medical school and thought maybe I would go on to help others who had been through what I had experienced. Maybe I could make a difference in others’ lives by specializing in fertility. We had starting considering adopting and I decided to start volunteering to help keep my mind occupied. The very next day something in the back of my head told me to take a pregnancy test. The results came out positive! I was pregnant! I couldn't believe it. I gave birth to a healthy baby boy on April 21, 2010. My prayers had been answered and God gave me a miracle. My son Zachary is the greatest gift that God could have ever given me. I experience every second of growth and every milestone with him. I don't want to miss a thing.

Losing three of my children has changed me forever. I sometimes stop and think about how I should be a mom of four living children right now. There is not a day that passes by that I don't think about them in some way. The holidays are a special time where they are very present in all that we do to celebrate. We honor and remember them by displaying their own ornaments on the Christmas tree. We also include them on Mother and Father's Day each year. I remember the first Mother’s Day after I had lost my first son, Daniel, and how much pain I was in. My husband even sent me a bouquet of flowers. We feel it was important to acknowledge all of our children because life is life no matter when it begins or when it ends. The anniversary of my second loss, Jo Jo, is coming up on February 18th. We will light a candle, spend some time together as a family and pray.

My three little angels Daniel, Jo Jo and Joseph will always be a part of our lives and their souls will never be forgotten. We will make sure that Zachary will know that he had three siblings and when he is old enough we will tell him about them.

How has the loss of your baby changed you?

Gavin & Parker

2011-01-25T07:14:00.000-08:00

By Kayla Schisler

Losing a child is undoubtedly the toughest thing a parent has to go through. There is no word to explain the pain you go through while grieving for your child/children. Your life is forever changed. I lost my twin boys, Gavin and Parker, on April 4th 2009 at 22 weeks. They lived about thirty minutes, but were too young to survive. It was devastating. I always felt like I was put on this earth to be a mother. At the age of twenty, I never thought I would have to endure that much pain and grief.

Life has changed in many ways for me. I became a bereaved parent. My job now is to make sure Gavin and Parker’s memory lives on. We make sure they are still included in our family. We celebrate their short life on their birthday. They have stockings and ornaments at Christmas. My fiancé and I write letters to them, and we decorate their resting place. Every day we work to make sure nobody forgets they came into this world.

I grew stronger as a person, and my relationship with my fiancé grew more resilient. We learned how to communicate and grieve together. Yes we had differences in our grieving, but learned how to be there for each other. During the grieving process some relationships were lost, while others were gained. Some friends and family just could not understand the level of pain and grief I was enduring, and I do not blame them. You cannot understand unless you have walked down this path. So I sought out others who knew my pain. I went to many support groups, and talk to a lot of different people. They became great friends and my second family. Some of us have connected on personal levels, and even after two years we still relay on one another. The strangers I met sitting around a table, are now the people I cannot imagine my life without. I know my boys sent these people into my life, and I hope to one day be the one to help another grieving family just starting on this long journey.

These are just a few changes that have occurred in my life since my boys went up to Heaven. I’m sure there will be more things I notice as the years go by. Even though I am a bereaved parent, I am still a PARENT. Your are still a mother, father, sister, brother, grandparent, ect. That is the one thing you cannot forget through this journey. Your life may have changed in good or bad ways, but your child left their footprints in your heart. That is the greatest gift, and they will forever be with you.

Changed

2011-01-07T08:56:00.000-08:00

I spent the past few weeks writing an article on changes your baby brought to your life for the current issue of our Sharing newsletter. I talked to many different women whose losses were anywhere from a few weeks ago to many years ago. Some had early losses, some experienced stillbirths, and a few had babies who lived a short time before dying. In talking to all of these moms, I noticed certain “themes.” One area that many mentioned was their spiritual life and both the positive and negative changes brought on by the baby’s death. They talked about changes to their interpersonal relationships, changes in career paths, changes in the way they parent, and changes in their outlook on life. And while no bereaved parent wants to hear anyone say “this is all for the best” after the death of their baby, and it’s most definitely NOT for the best, many of the stories and thoughts shared with me were of positive changes.

As I was writing the article, I couldn’t help but think of my own experiences and the many changes in my own life due to the loss of my four tiny babies many years ago. I thought about the way I once imagined my life compared to the way my life is now.

Like many women, I had everything confidently planned out…I’d go to college, earn a degree in journalism, work for a newspaper or magazine, get married, and after a few years of being married, we would have a baby. Actually, my plan was to have 2 kids, 2 years apart. Of course, I was going to have a boy and a girl. I even had their names picked out, long before I had someone in my life I wanted to marry. I just always knew that I would be a mom, and that my life would work out the way I wanted it to if I worked hard and did what I was ‘supposed’ to do. I had no doubts about that, and never even considered the alternative--that I might not have the picture-perfect life I envisioned.

Unfortunately, as we all know, life doesn’t always work out the way we plan it, no matter how hard we work and no matter how closely we follow the rules and do what we are “supposed” to do. Mine certainly didn’t, and I know that all of yours didn’t follow the path you expected either.

I became pregnant before I intended, and just when I was getting used to the idea of having a baby, the baby was gone. Several years later, I became pregnant again, and that pregnancy also ended without a living baby in my arms. I was shocked and heartbroken. Having a baby is supposed to be the most natural thing a woman can do. I wondered what was wrong with me, while everyone I knew told me it was no big deal, that I was young and of course I’d have more babies--things that many of you have probably heard as well.

I ended up having 2 more miscarriages, which rocked me to the core. I remember writing in my journal one day that my life was officially over, underlining over many times. While I don’t remember specifically thinking my life would never be the same again, I can look back after all these years and definitely see a “before me” and an “after me.”

Some of the changes I underwent were sudden and jarring. For instance, a month or so after my 4th loss, it suddenly hit me one day that in my grief, I was not being the kind of mom that my then two year old son deserved and needed. On the day that I realized that, I vowed to change, and I did. I am glad that I had this revelation because it got me through many challenging days. Whenever I wanted to curl up in a ball in bed, I thought of my small son who needed me and how I needed to relish every moment with him.

All of my children, all 8 of them, have changed me in ways I could never have imagined.

Some changes in me developed gradually over time. I now have four living children who I can’t imagine my life without. I have been told many times over the years that I am overprotective, and I often wonder if I would be if not for my own losses as well as the losses of those I have met over the years. Another change I experienced is that I do not take anyone for granted. Ever. I truly know the meaning of “life is too short.” I try to always do whatever I can to make sure that my children and others I love and care about know that I love and care about them.

Even though it’s been many years since my losses, 25 years since the first and almost 18 years since the last, I will never forget the babies who didn’t make it. They all died early in the pregnancy…at 11 weeks, 6 weeks, 12 weeks and 10 weeks, yet those tiny souls have had a huge impact on my life. Even though I have no pictures or footprints or any other memento, they have been a force in my life that is sometimes mind boggling to think about and always difficult to put into words. Those tiny souls, who many people thought at the time didn’t matter because I really didn’t “know” them, caused twists and turns in the path of my life I could not have imagined in my wildest dreams. Those tiny souls eventually led me to a rewarding job that I love and can’t imagine my life without. And those tiny little souls led me to some very special, amazing people that I can’t imagine my life without.

Almost 18 years ago when I was in the depths of despair, I would never have anticipated that I would say this, but if I had my life to live over, I wouldn’t change a thing. The gifts that all of my children have brought me, and the person they have all made me…well, they all make me feel blessed beyond measure.

What ways have you changed since the death of your baby?

Strength

2010-03-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

By Rose Carlson

Each time we face our fear, we gain strength, courage, and confidence in the doing.~ Edward Vernon Rickenbacker

When you hear the word “strength,” what do you think about? Do you become angry when people tell you things such as “you can get through this! You are strong!” or, “You are much stronger than I am, I could never make it through the death of my baby.” Do you feel as if you are being strong when you go through the motions and carry on with your life like nothing ever happened…like your baby didn’t die? Do you feel as if you are being strong when you smile and say “Fine, just fine!” whenever someone asks you how you are doing?

I’m going to give you a new perspective on strength when you have experienced such a life-shattering loss as the death of a baby.

This past weekend was our bi-annual training workshop for new Share group leaders, nurses, social workers, and anyone else who works with bereaved parents who have experienced the death of a baby through early pregnancy loss, stillbirth, or in the first few months of life. Caregivers from across the country attend this 3-day workshop. It is an emotional, sometimes challenging weekend, and by Sunday, I am often mentally and physically drained, but in a good way. I usually spend my drive home thinking of how honored I have been to share in the lives and hearts of the people who attended. We all learn so much from each other…I often end the weekend wondering who gained more…us or them. This past weekend was no exception.

The topics covered include things such as understanding the grief process, children’s grief, cultural diversity, complicated grief, memory making, running a support group, and others. Several of us at the national office teach some of the workshops, and we also have a network of professionals from our community who teach other workshops. One of those is called Caring for Yourself. For many years, the same person taught this session. She is warm, funny, and everyone has always learned a great deal from her. Due to some health issues, she has been unable to teach the past couple of times, so we have a new speaker who has taken her place for the past two trainings. Kelly K. is the grief services manager at a local funeral home and has done an absolutely wonderful job stepping in. Kelly is also warm, engaging, and an excellent speaker. So even though I have listened to this talk many times over the six years I have been involved with this training, a new person has put her own touches on it, and I really enjoyed listening to her Saturday morning.

At one point, she talked about how differently people cope with death and grief, how some people feel they need to immediately jump with both feet back into their lives, and how they think that they are being “strong” when they do so. She shared with us a story about a woman who called her a few weeks after the death of her loved one and cheerfully said how she was doing this and that, keeping busy, going back to work…she was proud of how strong she was being. Kelly told us she asked the woman what she was doing to grieve and deal with her feelings while she was busy being so strong. She said how she told her that being strong is not pushing your feelings aside and going on with life as if nothing tragic happened, but that real strength is facing the scary, hard feelings you have, and dealing with them.

It made me instantly think of so many of the bereaved parents I have met and talked to over the years who make such an effort to be strong, not share their true feelings, “buck up and move on…” It made me think of those who tell bereaved parents “you’re so strong, you can get through this” without really realizing what they are saying. And it made me wonder what exactly does being “strong” mean?

Others may try to make you think that when you cry, go to the cemetery and visit your baby, do other things in memory of your baby, that you are dwelling in sadness, that you are weak, giving in to your emotions, stuck in the past...I often tell parents that all of those things are okay, and normal, but still, I have the feeling that most people would not think that doing all of those things is what you do when you are being strong.

I have thought about this a lot over the past few days, and I believe that what Kelly said is right on; it takes a great deal of strength to confront and deal with feelings that are unpleasant, downright ugly, maybe completely out of character, and most of all, frightening to deal with and understand. It takes great strength and courage to be real, to bare your soul and share your innermost feelings with those who love you and care about you. It takes more strength to tell someone “I am really struggling” and deal with whatever conversation ensues than it does to say “Fine…I’m just fine” and then change the subject when someone asks how you are. It takes great strength and courage to say to a friend or family member “what you said really hurt me.” It takes a great deal of strength and courage to tell your sister or cousin or friend that her pregnancy brings up feelings of jealousy that you never imagined you could have. I could go on, but I won’t. I do however have a whole new view of what it means to be strong.

How do you feel about what I have written here? Are you someone who has felt as if hiding your real feelings, smiling when you would rather cry, saying you are fine when you are anything but fine is what you do to show you are being strong? Do you feel as if others around you think that this is being strong? Have you shared your true feelings with someone and found that more difficult than hiding them?

Life Reframed

2010-02-09T14:56:00.000-08:00

By Cynthia Prest

Two children, one boy and one girl…a house in the suburbs...a big, green lawn with space for the kids (and perhaps a dog) to run around...a neighborhood filled with children who skip and ride their bikes to school...tree-lined sidewalks for long walks with the kids…this is the life I expected. Ok, so I could take or leave the dog; that wasn’t an essential part of the dream. What were essential were the two kids. Perhaps it was because I grew up with an older brother or maybe it was the “Dick and Jane” books. Regardless of how it started, my dream for as long as I could remember was two children, minimum.
I now need to reframe my life to possibly not include two children. Hubby has already nixed the dog idea. It’s one thing to know all along one child was all you wanted and to make that conscious choice when building your family. It’s quite another thing when that choice is made for you.
When my son asks if he’s going to get a baby soon, I have to steady my breath before I say no. If several more years go by without a brother or sister and he inevitably asks me why, I will have to be prepared with a coherent answer. What will I tell him? I tried, honey, I really did. It just didn’t happen. I know my mothering is impacted by having one child, but I’m not sure how. Will he feel my regret at having one child? Will he grow up feeling that something was missing or that he wasn’t enough? As if he isn’t enough. Believe me, he’s enough.
I sometimes wonder if I’m a better mother because I have one child. He gets my full attention. He doesn’t have to share me with anyone. He doesn’t lack for anything because we have other kids to consider. He is the center of my and my family’s universe. The more I experience motherhood, the more I am baffled by how parents divide their attention among two or more children.
I’m getting older, and while the wrinkles have yet to appear (for which I am grateful), each approaching birthday reminds me that my reproductive system is aging right along with me. When I read in People magazine of another celebrity having a baby, I immediately scan for her age. “She was 38, good.” Sigh of relief. If she could do it, so can I.
Except… I have other factors conspiring against me. I’ve had six miscarriages. I’m not sure statistics have even been compiled on how many other women are in this particular boat.
Except… I have visions of another baby. I feel myself pregnant with her. I see myself holding her. I envision introducing her to her brother. Where is she? Will I ever get to meet her?
Except…I dread being pregnant again. It’s been a nightmare of medications, exams, procedures, ultrasounds. How much more can I endure?
I know, without a doubt, that one more pregnancy will be my last. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been putting off making the decision, since I know there is finality in it. I want another child; I also want my sanity. I want to enjoy my life - the life I have now, not the life I dream of having.
I try to live every day choosing hope…believing that the best is yet to come…knowing, even though not quite believing, that I can survive anything. I do hope to have another child some day, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I know I’ll be okay if I don’t.

A Weekend of Grieving, Healing and Finding Hope

2009-12-17T09:16:00.000-08:00

By Cynthia Prest

What am I doing here? This is hard. I don’t want to be here. I should leave. I could walk out, get in my car, and drive back home.

I was thinking this a half hour into the Share Group Leader Certification Workshop. I had planned this weekend for months, paid the fee and travel costs out of my pocket to attend it, and driven alone for six hours from my home in Wisconsin to St. Charles, a lovely city on the outskirts of St. Louis.

The retreat is a biannual training the National Share Office provides to aid those who work with bereaved parents. It’s an invitation for support group leaders, hospital chaplains, social workers, counselors, nurses, and bereaved parents to gain tools and resources to effectively work with families and hospital staff.

There were 25 of us there, and the majority of us had personal experience with perinatal loss. The workshop began with introductions, sharing our reasons for being there, personal stories, and names of the children we had lost. As we went around the table, I began reliving the losses of my children. I didn’t know how I was going to survive the next three days. I willed my body to sprout tentacles that would wrap around my chair to keep me in place.

The remainder of Friday was spent learning about the grief process, the special needs of children dealing with grief, navigating difficult decisions parents are faced with when a pregnancy isn’t going well, and understanding how cultural differences impact grieving. The presenters were gracious, understanding, compassionate, and knowledgeable. We were introduced to the Glen Davidson model of grief: shock, searching, depression, reorganization, and shadow grief. We learned that all of the difficult emotions associated with each of these phases is completely normal – devastation, questioning, guilt, jealousy, anger, helplessness, confusion, longing, and hope. You may think you’re the only one who feels these things, but you’re not. Through my journey of grief, I’d come to understand this, and it was validating to hear it from experts.

The first day was full of getting to know one another, learning new concepts, and reinforcing known ones. There were tears as we heard one tragic story after another of babies dying before their time. Our grief was raw, and it was shared. Knowing everyone in that room was holding me safely in the palm of their hand was the only thing that kept me there that first day. I had come down with a cold and was happy to retreat to my hotel room in the historic district to relax, knit, and surf for escapism television shows. I was grateful I survived the first day.

Saturday morning began with a presentation on complicated grief. I had never heard this term before and felt the need to comment, “Isn’t all grief complicated?” What I learned is that early pregnancy loss and stillbirth grief is complicated for a variety of factors: no one knows the baby’s existence except through the parents, the parents had hopes and dreams known only to themselves, those experiencing this kind of loss are unprepared for the emotional pain, it may be one’s first experience of personal loss, and there’s a social stigma associated with it.

We learned there is a distinction between grieving and mourning. There are three events associated with grief. Bereavement is the event of the loss, the death of the baby. Grieving is the internal expression of the bereavement event. Mourning is the external expression of the bereavement event. If you don’t recognize the bereavement event, engage in grieving, and then move into mourning, you get complications of grief, which can include depression, anxiety, and an impairment in daily living.

As I listened to the presenters talking about their own losses, the other participants share their experiences of losing their children, and saw how they had memorialized their babies, I felt cheated. My babies didn’t have names that I could write in remembrance on my name card. I didn’t have footprints of my children I could have engraved on a charm. I didn’t have pictures of my babies of when they were born. I felt a sadness that choked me from the inside out as I realized I had not mourned my children. My husband and I chose to not name our babies because it didn’t feel right at the time. I had not wanted to plant trees in their memory because we might move one day or the tree might die, and that would be like the loss happening all over again. I had never felt right about any of the ideas I heard other parents did to remember their babies. Throughout the course of the afternoon, it occurred to me why I was stuck in my grief. My babies didn’t have names. The fundamental right a parent has when they have a child is to name him. All people have names – it’s part of what makes us who we are. I realized I needed a way to refer to my children, to myself and to the world, in a way that is unique to each of them, other than “the first baby,” “the second baby.” I did something that afternoon that I still find extraordinary, and as if something or someone had awoken inside me and was using my hand as her instrument. I pulled out my journal and I thought about those children. I thought about the dreams I had for them, the lives I planned to provide for them, the birthdays I wanted to celebrate with them. I wrote names for our children. I thought about the day I lost each of them, and I wrote the first name that came to me.

I held this secret within me for the rest of the day. I waited patiently for the right time to share this transforming moment. After the workshop ended for the day, a group of us visited Share’s Angel of Hope, a beautiful statue where parents can lay bricks inscribed with their baby’s name, birth date, or a message. We then visited a cemetery where the owner has dedicated an area for babies who were miscarried to be buried. I was touched by his generosity and saddened for those he can’t reach. If only this was available to all parents in every city around the globe. We walked among gravestones for children who had died later in pregnancy or during early infancy. I was touched to see how their parents decorated each of their gravestones to reflect their uniqueness. After an exhausting, emotionally draining day, we went out to dinner and got to know each other even better. I was humbled to be surrounded by such strong, intelligent, gracious people.

Sunday was the day I had been waiting for, the topics focused on how to organize and run a support group effectively. I have been involved with Share for five years, but felt I needed more tools on how to organize and facilitate a group before embarking on the responsibility. I got many ideas for topics, advertising, activities, and taking care of myself so as to not become overwhelmed with it all. It invigorated me, and I couldn’t wait to get home so I could put all the ideas in place.

Before we left, the women of the National Share Office invited us to take part in a ceremony. We were asked to leave the room so they could set up. We chatted in the lobby of the conference center for several minutes, remarking on what we had gained and what was next for us. When we returned, the conference room table had been transformed with a candle, booklet, and certificate at each of our places. They led us through the reading of a beautiful poem and thanked us for taking part in the retreat. To close, we were invited to light our candle and say the name of the child or children we wanted to remember. The moment I had been waiting for was here, and I began to get nervous. Would I get through this? What would my husband think of me sharing these names before I told him about it? It felt right to debut my secret with this group, so when it came to my turn, I took a deep breath. I looked down at the table, because I knew I wouldn’t get through it looking anyone in the eye. I told the group that I had made a big decision, that I had finally decided that I no longer needed anyone’s blessing or permission to do this, and that I named my children. I heard intakes of breath and tears falling, and I picked up my candle. With a shaking hand, I placed the candle back on the table and asked my new friend seated next to me to light the candle for me. As she lit my candle, I shakily said that I light this candle for Alex, Amelia, David, Elizabeth, Gabe, and Madeline. The group continued, and we ended our retreat with hugs and promises to stay in touch.

It was an intense, emotionally draining, and very healing three days. The amazing people I met, relationships I developed, and information I learned were so very valuable. I continue to be in touch with several women I met there. As I get my community’s support group going, I’m sure I’ll be in touch with a lot more of them.

Thank you to everyone with the National Share Office for providing this retreat, for the presenters for dedicating their time to providing support, and to the participants for having the strength and courage to be there. I think of you often.

I’m happy to say that I will lead my first Share of Madison support group session in January, almost six years after learning about Share. The retreat was what I needed to feel I can do it successfully, and to have resources to rely on if I get stuck or need encouragement.

My biggest blessing from that weekend is the necklace I now wear every day that bears the names of my children. They are with me always, and that brings me peace.

The Christopher Days

2009-11-30T07:00:00.001-08:00

By Cathi Lammert

Today is your birthday dear Christopher. The air is crisp and the holidays are upon us, just like 27 years ago. Last night, I reflected about those many feelings just prior to your birth. We were both so very sick and I knew that the following morning a C- Section would be performed to bring you into the world, and I prayed the doctors would be able to save you. I remember all those feelings of uncertainty and yet a glimmer of hope that you would survive. I remember how valiant your fight was and that you gave it all your might but you were just too premature and too sick with our Rh problems. You left this world just 4 days after you joined it, and our life changed forever.

As your mother, I write often about you and the gifts you have given us. Before your death, I thought that when someone died love remained status quo. I had no idea that our love for you would remain in our hearts and grow deeper. The death of a baby is not something you get over, but it is something that becomes a part of you and is eternal. Many people who really do not understand this may be surprised that 27 years later I still remember all the details of your short life and choose to celebrate your short presence.
We have always called this week The Christopher Days; it is our time to remember you.

The celebration began today as your Dad decorated your blue spruce. He could have decorated it yesterday when the weather was warm but he chose today and he was outside in the cold for 7 hours! Your Christopher tree is now 15 feet tall, so it needs lots of lights… or at least your Dad thinks so. I spent a lot of time watching him decorate this evening and was amazed at the loving precision in the placement of each strand. This year, we have close to 3700 lights. I also am amazed how we continue to see forms of angels within the lights. When this annual tradition was completed, tears rolled down our cheeks as the tree was so magnificent.

I choose to write this tonight, as I want you as new mourners to realize that grief is so intense for so many months. I worried that I would forget Christopher but as you can see we have not. I also thought that I would never smile again but I have. Finding a simple ritual, such as decorating the Christopher tree each year has helped us immensely in our remembering. The tears we shared tonight were not of anguish but sweet pure love.

Grieving vs. Mourning

2009-11-23T09:23:00.000-08:00

By Rose Carlson

A few weeks ago, several of us from Share attended a workshop given by Dr. Alan Wolfelt, who is an internationally known speaker and author on grief issues. Dr. Wolfelt has written many different books for those who are grieving, from children to widows and widowers, to families of suicide victims to bereaved parents. He has also written books for those who care for people who are grieving, and he owns and operates a beautiful retreat center in Colorado.
Each year, one of our local funeral homes brings Dr. Wolfelt to our city. On the first day, he presents a workshop for people who are grieving the death of a loved one, and the next day, he presents a workshop for those who care for and work with those who are grieving. This is the workshop that I attended last week with my co workers. It was titled “Exploring the Spiritual Aspects of Death, Grief and Mourning.” While it was a very inspiring workshop, that is not what this blog post is about. I may be compelled to write on this topic sometime soon as I did have many thoughts about this topic swirling around in my head at the end of the day. Actually, I could probably write several different posts on this topic. But, what I’m going to write about now is something that has been on my mind since I attended the workshop last week. Dr. Wolfelt only touched on this briefly a few times as it wasn’t the focus of his presentation.

Grieving vs. mourning.

Honestly, this is not something I have given any thought to before. They would seem to be the same thing, yet according to Dr. Wolfelt, they aren’t, even though most people use the terms interchangeably. He says that grief is made up of the internal thoughts and feelings we all experience when someone we love dies. On the other hand, mourning is taking the internal experience of grief and expressing it…that real healing occurs not just by grieving, but through mourning. He says that most people in North American culture grieve, but they don’t necessarily mourn. He talked about how many years ago, those who were grieving wore black for a certain period of time so that everyone they encountered knew they were mourning the death of someone important in their life, and that this was a crucial part of their healing because even complete strangers knew they were grieving and would ask about their loved one. We don’t do that now. In fact, most people don’t even like to talk about grief and mourning, and quickly try to change the subject when it is mentioned. As most all of us have discovered, most of our society is uncomfortable with outward expressions of grief, quickly change the subject when the grieving person brings it up, and often will go so far as to tell the griever to “get over it and get on with life.”

This is apparent for pretty much all grieving people, but I couldn’t help but think as I listened to him talk that this is probably most apparent among parents who have experienced the death of a baby, even though he didn’t specifically mention that. Dr. Wolfelt believes that people don’t mourn because of the many conditions that are placed on them by society and the things grieving people are told. In the case of parents grieving the death of a baby, this would be things such as “be thankful, there was probably something wrong with the baby.” Or, “You’re young, you can have more children.” Or, “At least you lost the baby early before you got to know it.” Or, “It wasn’t meant to be.” These types of statements can make grieving parents feel as if they must keep their feelings to themselves, and so they don’t mourn the way they need and want to. The way they should be able to, surrounded by loving family and friends who give them the care and support they so desperately need as they try to navigate their way through a life they hadn’t planned.

Not only are bereaved parents who have had a baby die strongly encouraged to “move on,” have another baby and forget about the one who died, but those who outwardly express their grief in healthy ways of mourning are often looked at as unstable or crazy, and I find that very sad. Parents who outwardly express their grief are often told to “get over it,” “why do you keep bringing it up?” or “be thankful for what you have!” I believe that the people who say these things aren’t trying to purposely be mean or insensitive, yet they often come across that way. And comments such as these leads to parents suffering in silence and not mourning the way they need to.

As we all know, you don’t ever “get over” the death of a baby, no matter when the death occurred. In fact, I don’t think you ever “get over” the death of anyone you love and who is important to you. However, through real mourning, according to Dr. Wolfelt, you do eventually integrate your loss into the fabric of your life. In fact, according to him, mourning properly is essential to integrating your loss. He says that when a mourner is unable to express his or her feelings, they may become “stuck,” that the feelings of intense grief and pain may last longer.

In all of my years at Share, I never thought of it quite that way, but really, that is the heart of our mission…helping parents integrate their tragic loss into the fabric of their lives so they can move forward from those intense, raw early days and eventually be able to once again lead joyful, productive lives. We let them know that expressing their grief is not only healthy, but it is necessary. We help them understand that grief is not something with a time limit on it, but a lifelong process. And just as importantly, we help their family and friends understand that doing things that are meaningful to them, and that being able to talk about their baby as much as they need to is indeed healthy, and in fact, necessary.

All of us at Share hear time and again from parents that they don’t know what they would have done, don’t know where they would be, if not for Share helping them validate their baby’s life. Yes, we do validate their baby’s lives, and that is so important. But after listening to Dr. Wolfelt, I think what makes all the difference is that we help families mourn. And we help them see that mourning their baby IS a lifelong process. We encourage them to share their grief publicly…to wear a special pin or piece of jewelry, to share their baby’s photographs, to talk about their baby. These are the things that will eventually lead to some healing and peace.

Does what Dr. Wolfelt says make sense to you, that grieving is different from mourning?
Do you see any situations in your own life where you feel your healing is hindered because you aren’t allowed to mourn?
What things have you done to mourn so that others know about the grief you were/are experiencing?

Sunny Skies after the Fog

2009-11-04T18:56:00.000-08:00

By Rose Carlson

A few Saturdays ago, I left my house really early…much too early for a Saturday; it was barely light, and it was unnaturally cold for early October, but I was going to speak at the Share walk in Fairview Heights, IL and needed to be there by 8 am. It is normally about a 45 minute drive, but it took me nearly an hour and a half because there was heavy fog that morning. I didn’t think much about it when I left home as fog is not uncommon around here. But, as I got on the interstate, the fog was so thick I could barely see where I was going, especially when I got near the Missouri River, which separates St. Charles (where I live) from St. Louis.

Where is this going you may be wondering? What does driving in fog early on a fall Saturday morning have to do with anything that would be posted on the Share blog?

Well, I do have a point. I promise, I do, but sometimes, (most of the time, really!) it takes me a bit of writing to get to my point, so bear with me please.

I crossed the Missouri River driving only about 30 miles an hour because I could not see much more than a few feet in front of my car. I was thinking it was the thickest fog I had seen in a long time, and I was really unsure of myself driving in it. Once I was over the river, the fog wasn’t quite as thick, and while it was still hard to see the highway in front of me, I relaxed a bit. I had planned on spending my drive going over in my mind the speech I had prepared, but I was so nervous driving, that all I could think about was navigating safely through the fog.

Maybe it’s because I was on my way to a Share event that my mind took the turn it did that morning. After all, I have driven in fog many times before. While I don’t like it, I have never before looked at fog and compared it to grief, but as I drove on that morning, that is exactly what was on my mind…thinking of being in the thick, swirling fog as the same way we all feel or have felt when we were grieving…unable to see very far ahead, only thinking of getting through the next few feet. Or the next few moments…putting whatever plans we may have had on hold as we go into survival “get through this” mode…that is what I thought about when I was going through the thick fog…it was very scary not being able to see what was ahead of me. Just as when you are grieving, it is scary to think about the days and months ahead. You can’t see where you are going, and that is not a good feeling. It’s not uncommon to feel as if a dark cloud is hovering over you, and you can’t imagine ever breaking out of it. I have driven this same stretch of highway many times…yet it was much different and felt unfamiliar driving it through the heavy cloak of fog. When you are grieving, your life may seem much the same way…you may be doing the same things, going the same places, and they may all be very familiar, yet at the same time, not familiar at all.

Once I drove over the bridge that crosses the river, the fog wasn’t as thick. In fact, the sun was kind of shining through the fog, and I wasn’t quite sure what to think about that. It was still foggy, but the sun was shining through, and it was still hard to see. The sun at that point almost made it harder to see.

And again I thought of the grief journey…how sometimes, you are in your darkest moments, unable to think of more than a few moments ahead. Then, sometimes, the sun shines, or rather you feel a tiny bit of relief from the dark, scary times you have been through. The sun shining through into your life for a moment may disorient you, as it did me on this foggy morning. It may take you a bit to adjust to the new brightness in your life, and you may feel afraid to believe that it will last. Just as I knew as I drove that I wasn’t completely out of the fog yet.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, I found myself once again enveloped in a fog so thick I could barely see, and I thought about pulling off the highway and calling Kaci, the person in charge of the walk I was going to so I could tell her I couldn’t make it. I still had a long way to go, and I felt like giving up and going back the way I had come, back to the safety of my home. But then I realized that I couldn’t do that. I was halfway there, and it seemed silly to turn back. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be avoiding the fog--I’d drive through it the whole way home. And besides, I knew that Kaci was counting on me to be there. So I kept going, even though I really didn’t want to.

As I drove on, I thought of how when you are grieving, you may often feel like just giving up, going back in time, then you think of those who are counting on you, and you know that you can’t give up. And as much as you wish you could, you can’t go back in time either.

Finally, just past the St. Louis airport, I broke through the fog, and the sky was beautifully blue and sunny. I was so relieved that I had made it through that scary drive. I still had a good ways to go to get to my destination, but I relaxed, turned on the radio, turned off the defroster and even cracked the window to let in some fresh, although cold air. I was finally able to drive the speed limit.

I gave up on my original plan of rehearsing my speech in my mind. I had gotten too sidetracked, and I decided to just drive and enjoy the beautiful morning. My plans had definitely changed, but I was okay with it by that point. Once again, I thought of grief, and how often you realize that the plans you may have had before really weren’t all that important, that what is important is to just enjoy the moment you are in.

I had about 10 minutes of enjoying the moment I was in. I thought I had gone through the “bad” stuff, that the rest of my trip to Illinois would be smooth sailing.

Then, I neared the Mississippi River which separates St. Louis from Illinois. All of the sudden, the fog was back. Thin at first, but as I drove on, it became thicker, and I felt like I was back where I had started from when I first left home. I hate driving over the bridge that crosses the Mississippi in the best of weather conditions. There are too many lanes and several interstates all meeting to cross that one bridge, and if you aren’t paying close attention, it is way too easy to end up in the wrong lane, going the wrong direction. So thinking of navigating that bridge in heavy fog was not appealing to me at all.

I was kind of angry by that point, too… I had been driving along, enjoying the sunshine and the beautiful fall morning, singing along to the radio, and BAM! I was back in the fog, the fog that I hated driving in and thought I had left behind. Once again, I was unable to see where I was going, once again, I was nervous…if I hadn’t been so close to my destination, I might have been tempted once again to give up. But, this time, I knew I would eventually come out of the fog.

I turned off the radio, gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter, and tried once again to see my way safely through the fog. And just as I had thought, within a few minutes, I was once again out of the fog, and the day was beautiful and sunny.

I arrived at the walk later than I had planned on because of the unexpected fog, but I arrived. And I was happy to be there. It was truly a beautiful morning; the trees were starting to change to their fall colors, and they were stunning against the perfectly clear blue sky. It was hard to believe that only a few minutes before I had been unable to see that blue sky because of the heavy fog. And it was cold. But I had such an appreciation for the beauty of the day, maybe more so because of the conditions I had to go through to get there. Maybe if I hadn’t driven there in such horrific weather conditions, I would have arrived thinking only of the cold and not the beauty of the day, not the thankfulness I had for having arrived there safely.

On my way home from the walk, I didn’t encounter any fog. It was truly a beautiful fall day in St. Louis. As I drove back to St. Charles, I thought once again about the journey of grief…how it is so challenging to navigate through life when you feel as if your life is covered in a heavy oppressive fog. But inevitably, the fog does lift…in the beginning, the fog may only lift for brief moments, giving you a mere glimpse of the sunshine that lies ahead before it envelops you once again. But, as you continue on, the skies do eventually clear.

At this point in time, you may still be in that fog. And you may feel as if you will never come out of it. It’s hard to believe, but you will. Your skies will one day be clear and sunny again And hopefully, once the skies in your life are again sunny, you will have an appreciation for them that you might not have had if not for the dark, frightening fog you have navigated your way through.

In the Present

2009-10-07T08:27:00.001-07:00

By Cynthia Prest

I should be preparing for the birth of my baby, who would have been due right about now. I should be helping my son get ready for his duties as a big brother. I should be planning my maternity leave from work. I should be agonizing over names. I should be picking out an outfit to dress the baby in when it’s time to leave the hospital.

I can’t do any of these things, because my baby died seven months ago.

Having six miscarriages has changed me, in so many ways. Since experiencing my first loss in 2003, I no longer live in the future or in the past. I used to be an expert at living three months into the future. I planned for EVERYTHING. I cringe to think of what I missed in the present because I was either looking forward or backwards. Something in me shifted after my first baby died, and that shift has gotten stronger over the years. I went from believing that whatever I planned would become reality to realizing that I have no control over what happens. Losing that baby, after all the planning I had done, shook me to the core. Nothing felt right to me anymore. The way I had experienced the world for three decades was no longer accurate. I had always believed that if I planned well enough and tried hard enough, gave it my best, that things would work out the way I wanted. What do you mean my baby died? I didn’t plan for that. I don’t know how to handle that. Where’s the manual for this experience?

I don’t like to live with “should.” Lots of things should of happened, but didn’t. Living with “should” keeps me stuck. I don’t want to be stuck. I want to be present. I no longer want to live in the future or the past. I want to be present as my son learns how to write his name and experiences joy in the simple things, like his new winter boots that he refuses to take off, even in the house. I want to be present for my husband as he explores his newfound love of triathlons. I want to be present for my friendships, both old and new, as these people I care about tremendously navigate their new paths.

I’m supposed to get on a plane in less than 24 hours, and I’m not packed. My former self doesn’t recognize this new woman. This woman who used to be prepared for trips two weeks in advance. This woman knows that I will get packed, and I will get on the plane, and I will have everything I need. Whatever happens, no matter what I have planned or not, will be fine. I will embrace whatever comes my way, and I will be stronger for it.

Trying Again--Against All Odds

2009-09-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

By Cynthia Prest

With my first three miscarriages, I knew I was going to try again for a child. There was no question in my mind. When I had my unfathomable fourth miscarriage, after my son was born, I wondered if trying again was the right thing to do. I went through a short period of time where I thought we should give up. I changed my mind, and I went on to have two more pregnancies and miscarriages. In the exam room after learning our most recent child had died, I asked my husband, “How do you feel about Tyler being an only child?” I was reacting out of shock and unimaginable grief. He laughed in a “I can’t believe you’re asking me that” kind of way. Of course, he was fine with that. I just couldn’t imagine going through this experience again.

For reasons I have yet to discover, it was only after this most recent miscarriage that it occurred to me that my husband and I weren’t the only ones who should be involved in the decision. We had friends, family, and a child who were experiencing this right along with us. For that reason, I started to seriously consider whether it was fair to all of us to keep going through this.

When I met with a new doctor a few months ago, I asked her if I was crazy to keep trying to have a child after having six miscarriages. She looked me in the eyes and said very seriously, “This is your path. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t be on this path.” Her compassion and reassurance were tremendously healing. I knew I had to keep going.

My track record of having successful pregnancies isn’t great. I’ve had one live birth out of seven. What logical reason exists for me to keep trying?

I was reading through my journal recently and came across a quote I captured while reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, shortly after my fourth miscarriage. The couple at the center of the story had lost several children during pregnancy. The husband is trying to convince his wife to try again. He said, “One more time. Not because it won’t be terrible if it happens again, but because it’ll be wonderful if it doesn’t.” I held on to those words for many months, and it kept me going through the next two losses. Yes, it may happen again. But, what if it doesn’t?

I had a conversation with someone a couple of years ago about my then two year-old’s emerging stubbornness. I admitted proudly that trait came from me. He said it’s unusual for someone to admit to being stubborn (it’s not one of the classically positive character traits). I said my stubbornness had served me well. He grinned in a “good for you” kind of way. I try to maintain that attitude when Tyler is being exceptionally persistent.

Is it stubbornness that propels me forward? Is it faith? Is it believing this is the path that I was destined to be on? I don’t believe I need to have two children or was destined to be the mother of two kids. I just have always wanted two – that’s the picture I created of my life. I suppose part of my determination comes from resisting something preventing me from reaching my goal. I have drive. I get stuff done. And this is something I can’t get done. And that infuriates me. So, maybe that’s it – it’s the rage that propels me forward and keeps me trying against all the odds.

Perhaps there’s a resilience that grows out of repeatedly being denied something I want so badly…a strength that comes from trying to prove things wrong. It’s like telling a four year-old he can’t have something; he just wants it more. “I’ll show you,” he says. Maybe that’s not just young children; perhaps that mentality exists in all of us. I’ve talked to so many (too many) people who have experienced the death of a child, and with every story I hear, I wonder, “How do they keep going?” Perhaps our persistence is healthy – it keeps us moving forward, which is the best way to go.

What Do You Say?

2009-08-26T17:02:00.000-07:00

By Rose Carlson

One of the things I hear most often that is upsetting to bereaved parents is the many insensitive and sometimes downright mean remarks that nearly everyone hears at one time or another. Their disbelief at the things people actually have the nerve to say is generally followed by feelings of wishing they could come up with the perfect reply or the perfect way to handle these thoughtless comments and the people who make them.

Because of this, friendships and other close relationships are often never the same. I always find it very sad that on top of losing a baby, anyone has to lose a friend, too, especially when it’s due to someone saying the wrong thing, or even worse, saying nothing at all. Many times, the people who are closest to you, who you expect to understand your grief and pain the most, are the ones who end up being the most hurtful.

After each of my miscarriages, I was truly shocked and amazed by the words that came from my friend’s and loved one’s mouths…things like: “You’re young, you’ll have more babies!” “At least it happened early.” “There was probably something wrong with ‘it,’ you should think of it as a blessing.” (Oh, really? A miscarriage is a blessing? How exactly, I wanted to ask.). My favorite, “It’s been a MONTH already! You need to get over this!”

I always assumed that the reason people said such things to me and others who have early losses was precisely because they happened early, before anyone except the mother feels much of a connection to the baby. However, after starting my job at Share, I quickly discovered that pretty much anyone who has had a baby die at any time during pregnancy or shortly after birth is likely to hear the same things, and many times, even worse things.

I am routinely stunned and horrified by what parents who have had later losses tell me…like the mom who was told after her daughter was born still at 20 weeks, “At least you hadn’t done a nursery yet.” Or the mom who shared with me that her grandmother told her after the full term stillbirth of her third child, “Oh well…you didn’t need another baby anyway.” Or the many parents who are told “Count your blessings! You have other children!” as if that makes the death of one okay. Or, “It wasn’t meant to be.” The “ors” could go on and on.

Even though it’s been many years since my own losses and I no longer harbor any ill will to those who said such insensitive things to me, I frequently find myself shaking my head in disbelief and outright anger at the things people say. I like to think that we as a society have come a long way over the years in the way we respond to parent’s grief, but sadly, that is not always the case, even though the medical community has become more aware of the needs of the bereaved parents they care for.

However, the support of the medical community ends when the parents leave the hospital without their baby and are plunged back into real life. Family and friends are typically supportive in the early days and weeks, but then many times, something happens. It’s as if their patience wears thin. That is when the “you need to move on” types of comments begin. I hear and read it again and again.

Once the questions about when you are going to get over this start, something else often happens. While the grieving parent’s world has come to a screeching halt, everyone else’s life eventually moves forward. It can be difficult if it seems as if those who were so supportive at the beginning no longer want to hear about your sadness, so you may stop talking about it, which can make everyone around you think you are moving on, when nothing is further from the truth. It’s a vicious circle…one which many times leads to misunderstandings, hurt feelings and sometimes permanent damage to once-close relationships. At this point, it is easy to become angry with your friends and family members who don’t respond or support you the way you wish they would or the way you need them to.

So what is a grieving parent to do? When you are in the depths of grief and feeling vulnerable, it can be difficult to come up with the right thing to say in response to someone who has just said something upsetting to you. I always thought of the most perfect comeback response later.

With many years behind me since my miscarriages, and seven years spent at Share talking to bereaved parents, I’ve heard many ideas on ways of handling those who just don’t get it. I have also discovered that most people want to get it, they want to understand, they want to help, but they simply don’t know what to say or do. And what NOT to say or do. And sadly, most feel as if they are being helpful when they say the things they say.

The best way to deal with people in that situation is to be honest. Tell them that what they just said was hurtful and why. Tell those who seem to ignore you in your time of need what you need from them. I think you will find that for the most part, people are genuinely concerned and sorry when they realize they have been hurtful to you. Of course, there will always be those who no matter what you say still think you are not grieving the “right” way, and there is nothing you will be able to say or do to change their minds. In that case, give yourself permission to limit the time you spend with them as much as possible, at least until you are feeling stronger.

Something that others have found helpful is to write an open letter to family members and friends. When I first started volunteering at Share, I was reading a newsletter one day, and there was a letter in it that a bereaved dad had written. I don’t remember the entire letter, but he basically wrote what he and his wife were going through, and exactly what they needed (and didn’t need) from each of their loved ones. He did so in a loving way without accusing anyone of doing anything wrong. He closed the letter by saying that he hoped they understood. He also told them to keep in mind that whoever was receiving his letter was deeply cared about by him and his wife…that he was sending the letter because they didn’t want to lose any one of their loved ones from their lives due to any misunderstandings that might arise during this very tragic time. I remember reading that letter and thinking how I wished I had thought of something like that, and I often suggest the idea to parents and grandparents.

Try to keep in mind that most of the time, friends and family say the things they do because they want you to be “back to normal” when it is unlikely that you will be. Unless they have been through what you have, they have no way of knowing that. Even though it may be impossible to believe in the early days, you will feel better, you will laugh and be happy and smile again, but you are living a new normal now, and that can be hard, if not impossible, for others who are close to you to accept.

While it seems unfair that in the midst of your grief you have to worry about ‘teaching’ others the best ways to be supportive of you, that is often the way it works out if you want to keep those people in your life. When you are grieving and not feeling as if you are receiving the care and support you need, it’s easy to be angry at your friends and family members who seem to have moved on and don’t respond the way you wish they would.

But at the same time, unless they have been through a similar situation, they will not necessarily know the right way to be helpful to you, and you can guide them…let them know what you need. Just as this is a new and scary journey for you trying to navigate through the confusing maze of grief with it’s many twists and turns and uncertainties, so it can be just as confusing for your loved ones in learning how to be supportive to you as you walk this journey. By being honest with them, it can lead to an even deeper relationship than you had before.

Finally, while it is not easy to do, try to remember that most people who love and care about you want more than anything to be helpful, to ease your pain. But, it’s impossible to do because really, there is nothing that can ease your pain. I work at Share, and even I sometimes have a difficult time coming up with the right thing to say. A couple of years ago, my sister had a little boy who was born still, and I was utterly terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing. Since then, I always think that if someone like me, who spends every day working with and supporting grieving families, questions whether or not I am saying the right things…imagine how challenging it must be for those who haven’t walked this path.

I’m not saying that if someone has said something hurtful that you should just say, “oh well…she meant well.” Not at all. What I am saying is that giving someone the benefit of the doubt, opening the lines of communication, and telling those who have been hurtful or insensitive that they have been can be an important step in ensuring that the death of your baby doesn’t mean the end of a friendship or other relationship that is important to you.

What are some ways you have handled insensitive and hurtful things that others have done or said in the time since your baby died? How did the person respond to you? Did the things you said change anything?

Grief Season Opens Early by Cara Tyrell

2009-08-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

“They stocked the stream yesterday” I hear annually. Within hours the fishing poles, tackle and canoe have been unearthed, readied for the next days use.

“Got your license yet?” is the popular question months later as clever deer take cover and less intuitive ones end up in our freezer.

Vermont is known for its seasons and not just the classic four: Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring. No, here we trudge through Mud Season. We sweat through Hay Season. We swat through Black Fly Season. And, this year, the Rainy Season seems to have come to stay.

What is less attended to is Grief Season. This season is a sneaky one. It does not arrive preceded by rain, or mud or sun. There are no marking flowers or distinct temperatures associated with it. No, that isn’t entirely true. If I stop and focus; if I look, listen, and feel the signs are everywhere: a slight chill in the air, the promise of Fall within weeks, leaves starting to look more crisp than the week before, and a slightly red tint on the leaves of Emma’s burning bush.

This is my grief season. Much like J.K. Rowling’s love potion, the signs are different for each of us. Ordinary parts of perfectly good seasons become omens of rough days to come. She was due on the 6th. . I realized she was gone, then labored through a deluded haze on the 7th. She was born on the 8th.

Annually, I have come to recognize these signals, taking emotional cover. Every August, the roughest segment of road appears marked by a bright yellow road sign: CAUTION - SEPTEMBER APPROACHING – 14 DAYS – SHARP TURNS AHEAD.

And yet, is seems my grief season has begun early. Even if the signs are different, I fear it has arrived early. Without warning my body hurts, aches, head to toe. I am plagued by constant fatigue. My migraines have returned with vengeance. Armed with prescription meds I can keep them at bay, but they are always there ready to attack with the slightest provocation. My mood, so recently light and flexible to match our summer schedule, has become darker, more subdued with the regrettable side effect that I find myself barking at people more and more. Wait! It isn’t time yet. I’m not ready yet. Oh, just breath – I’ll test this theory.

I smell the air. It’s still hot and sticky. I search the trees. Their leaves still look supple and lively. I inspect her burning bush. It is pregnant with growth this year, just as green as its neighbor – not a hint of red.

Don’t ask…no, don’t. But I can’t help myself.

Why? Why the shift in schedule? Does this mean it will pass and dissipate earlier than usual too? Doubtful. So, why the assigned extension?

I could attempt to answer this rhetorical query.

Because I am going back to work.
Because this magical year of writing is coming to a tapered end.
Because babies are still dying.
Because my commitments will cause me to be ‘less Emma’s mother’ again
Because I’m sharing pregnancy after loss anxiety with the members of our support group who are trying again.
Because on September 8th she turns nine years old.

Because…Because…Because

They are only guesses. Some might me more accurate than others, but it comes to the same end. I passed the road sign. My Grief Season has come early this year.

What are your grief season signals? How do you meet it head on?

Anniversaries

2009-07-30T07:22:00.000-07:00

This week's blog post is written by Cynthia Prest, leader of the Madison, WI Share group. Cynthia has experienced six pregnancy losses and has one living son. She started a blog, My Yellow Brick Road has Potholes to chronicle her journey. Cynthia will be a regular contributor to Share Your Thoughts.

Anniversaries are best spent celebrating happy days – the day you met the love of your life, your wedding day, the day you graduated school, the day you began your sobriety. How do you mark the occasion of a baby who was never born?

Do you mark the day you found out the baby died? Do you consider the day on the calendar that the baby came out of you? What about the due date? Some of my babies miscarried naturally, while others were taken out the day I found out or several days later. Which date do I commemorate? I have struggled with this for six years. The only date that has ever felt significant to me was the date I found out the baby had died. So, here they are, documented in order and all together for the first time.

July 29
January 5
October 10
July 18
November 30
March 13

I don’t know what to do with these dates. The first anniversary of the death of my first child, I bought myself sunflowers. I thought that would be a nice tradition to start. I never did it again after that, and I’ve not done anything for the other dates either. Nothing ever felt right or like it would be enough. Then, there were so many that it became overwhelming. So, the dates pass with no fanfare, no cards, no flowers, no acknowledgment that my children ever existed. This brings me a tremendous amount of pain.

I decided after my son was born that since I was done having miscarriages I could have a piece of jewelry to mark their lives. I love to pick up a piece of jewelry whenever I travel somewhere, and all my jewelry (no matter how little the cost) has significant emotional value to me. So, jewelry it would be. I customized a necklace with the birthstones of the months of the three babies. I used the months I found out they died. Even though I had my son at that point, I was nervous to create this, wondering if it would cause me bad luck. What would I do if I had any more miscarriages? Of course, I did have three more miscarriages several years later. It’s hard for me now to wear that necklace. This necklace that I love so much sits in my jewelry box. I understand that it celebrates my first three children, but somehow it feels wrong that it’s not all of them. Unfortunately, since it’s custom made, the jewelry company can’t add stones to it now. I can only wear it on days that I’m strong enough to accept that wearing it doesn’t mean I’m not acknowledging my other children.

I finally decided some time ago (I think after the fourth baby died), that I needed to do something else to commemorate my children. I’ve heard a lot of ideas – planting a tree, putting a marker in Share’s Angel Garden, making a scrapbook. I decided to have large stones engraved with the dates and the gender (if I knew it) to place in my garden. I knew we’d be moving from our current house, so I wanted to wait until I knew the space they’d be going into at the new house before doing so. I thought having a memorial service with family and friends to lay the stones would be a nice way to celebrate their lives. We haven’t moved yet, so I’m still waiting. I think about these stones all the time – how big should the stones be, should I have a picture on them, the bench I should have placed next to them, what will they look like planted all together, whether they will bring me any peace. It gives me something to look forward to. It’s painful to not have a place where my babies are buried, to not have had a ceremony or an obituary marking their lives. It’s as if they never existed. They reside only in my heart, and that has to be enough.

Potholes of Grief by Rose Carlson

2009-07-17T08:50:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I was reading the latest edition of the BPUSA (Bereaved Parents USA) newsletter that came to our office. For those of you who may not have heard of BPUSA, it is an organization that provides support to parents who have experienced the death of a child of any age. It is a national organization with chapters all over the country. I really enjoy reading this newsletter, even though the organization doesn’t specifically serve those who have had a baby who died as Share does. I always find that the stories, poems and quotes in it are universal to anyone who has lost a child, no matter what stage of pregnancy or life.

The other day, an article caught my eye because a box within it highlighted a quote from the article. It said “The best way I’ve found to deal with the potholes of grief is to just let them happen.”

Potholes of grief. That intrigued me, so I read the article. The author, Margaret Gerner, a social worker, talked about how out of the blue, random things such as songs on the radio take her right back to when her son died 26 years ago. She calls them potholes of grief because potholes are bumpy yet shallow places in a normally smooth road. She compares potholes to the grieving moments after the death of a child that come after you have “resolved” your grief, or think you have anyway. (Because, really, it’s a grief that is never completely resolved.)

I thought when I was reading it how the potholes you encounter while driving down the highway, blissfully unaware of the jolt your car is about to be subjected to, is a perfect analogy to the situations you often encounter after your baby has died, sometimes years later.

She didn’t write this, but I couldn’t help but think as I read it that just as potholes in the road come upon you suddenly and without warning, so do the potholes of grief. You finally get to the point where you are just happily tooling along the road of life, maybe thinking that you have dealt with all the really hard stuff, when all of the sudden you hit a hole. A hole you probably weren’t expecting, that jolted you out of your reverie of thinking you were fine, that you had dealt with your grief. That hole might be a song on the radio, a family event, or some other milestone. Whatever it is, it probably takes you by surprise at a time when you weren’t expecting it.

The next time you drive down that same street, the pothole may have been patched over and your car drives 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.

I hit a pothole today.

It’s been many years since my losses. Sixteen since the last one. I’ve had three children since then. And hit many potholes along the way. I didn’t think of them as that at the time, but I like that description! I like how she describes them as shallow places in a normally smooth road. They are defiantly not like the deep pit you sometimes find yourself unable to crawl out of when your grief is so new, fresh and horribly painful. While potholes do hit you unaware, the pain is usually short-lived, and often, potholes of grief aren’t even painful…they are simply memories that take you by surprise with their intensity.

There have been many times, too numerous to recall, since I’ve worked at Share that I have encountered potholes in the form of situations that are so close to my own that I sometimes have a hard time talking to the mom on the phone; or reading a post on the message boards; or seeing a picture. There have been many times that a bereaved parent has called who is in a situation that is so similar to mine that takes me back, takes my breath away…today was one of those days.

There have been other times that even though the situation was similar to my own, I barely gave it a thought. I’ve learned to just go with the flow and if it is a situation that is upsetting to me for some reason, I have gotten to the point where I can realize that there is a reason why this particular person’s story had that affect on me at the time. I told Cathi about it one time after such a call, and she told me to look at as being my babies way of staying connected with me, that for whatever reason, I was supposed to be thinking of them that day, and that was their way of making sure I did. I like that thought.

So today, a mom called our office whose loss was so similar to one of my own, that I had a hard time knowing how to respond at first. Similar right down to the month she found out she was pregnant, the month she miscarried, and the month she was due. One of the reasons she was having such a difficult time is because she had just recently passed her baby’s due date.

I don’t usually share my own experiences with those I talk to on the phone at Share, but as we were talking, I realized that in a week, I will experience the due date of one of the babies I miscarried. While I’ve had four losses, this one, my third, often hits me the hardest because it was the only one I saw the baby on ultrasound. Also, this baby was due on my great grandmother’s birthday, July 25, and from the time I found out I was pregnant, I thought that was a good sign that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t, and I miscarried at 12 weeks. I had another miscarriage at 10 weeks four months later, and I always remember that time of my life as one of the hardest, most challenging times I’ve been through.

So back to my thoughts about potholes…like I said, it’s been many years since my losses….24 since the first, 16 since the last. Many years of small bumps in the road of life…many years of potholes, some bigger and more jarring than others, just as potholes on the highway are. I used to have a hard time dealing with them, wondering what was wrong with me. Since I’ve worked at Share, I’ve stopped wondering what is wrong with me and started accepting that sometimes, situations are going to come up that take me back to those hard days and weeks and months.

Today was a bit different. The baby that I miscarried who was due July 25 would be turning 16…a milestone that I know from the past kind of “got” to me. So while I was talking to this mom on the phone, I was thinking about that baby. And a funny feeling came over me…in the past, when I’ve been in similar situations, I have a difficult time knowing what to say. Today, though, I was on a roll! At first, I didn’t know what to say. Not only was I thinking of my own loss, I was thinking how ironic it was that I was the only person in the office at the time, how on a normal day, any one of four other people would been there, and I was thinking that for some reason, I was meant to talk to her.

After my initial feeling of not knowing what to say, something clicked, and by the time I hung up, she told me she was so glad she had called and said how much I had helped her. Many times, when I talk to a bereaved parent on the phone, I hang up thinking I really did or said nothing that was at all helpful. I’m not alone in thinking that as my co-workers at the Share office often say the same thing. I think it’s because we all want so badly to BE helpful that we worry and wonder if we really are.

But today…I hung up feeling really good, honestly, better than I have ever felt after I talked to a bereaved parent on the phone…like I really had accomplished something. I didn’t say anything that magically made her sadness and pain disappear. That is impossible to do.

Margaret Gerner wrote in her article, “They (potholes of grief) are a sign that your loved one is still in your heart and, no matter how much time passes, you will always miss him or her.” She also says, “Occasionally, there are pleasant memories that bring us a feeling of warmth.”

Today, I had a feeling of warmth. And while the memories of all those years ago is not pleasant at all, and no matter how many years go by, never will be, it was pleasant to feel the presence of a tiny little soul whose spirit was with me and helped make someone’s burden a little bit lighter.

Fear Is a Barnacle by Cara Tyrrell

2009-07-13T10:18:00.000-07:00

Fear and Grief. They are a team. The worst kind - a tag team. They surrounded me when Emma died, consuming every part of my being. When one rested the other swept in, rejuvinated, more than able to keep me wading in a broken- unable to function - place.

My grief has morphed, evolved, shape-shifted. My life is filled with moments. Most of the time I can tell her story without crying. I can feel her presence without falling to the floor. I can love my angel baby without my heart repeatedly self-destructing. To support my growth, I take affirmative action to ensure the our daughter - our beautiful Emma Grace - is remembered always.

In a recent post I said I would, "go back", but the joke was on me. I didn't need to. My fears are still here, quiet - stealth like, but part of me forever. They took permanent residence within the marrow of my bones, waiting for their chance. They attacked on a Sunday morning.

The girls, all four of them, had gone to bed without any trouble - two in one room and two in another. Sure, I heard some talking. The youngest had to use the bathroom, get a quick drink of water, and "check" her sister's middle of the night flashlight to be sure it was working. But, all in all, a very smooth bedtime routine considering we had three additional kids in our house on a Saturday night.

The baby, after a very stimulating and napless afternoon, had passed out early. At 6:00 I snuggled him in, read a book, surrounded him with all his familiar bedtime paraphanlia and sang as I walked out my bedroom door. The monitor was on full blast. We never heard a peep. That boy was tired!

"Well" I said to my husband, who looked equally napless and wiped out after pulling four giggling girls on a sled around our rather large field multiple times, "He'll probably be up at the crack of dawn." We were quite mistaken.

***

At nine o'clock I tiptoed around the pack-n-play at the base of my bed. Snuggled down under the mountain of covers necessary in an old farm house in mid January, I listened. It felt so good to have a baby in our room again. He talks in his sleep, sometimes sings a little I think. For the first two hours, I was in and out of a light slumber. I tossed when he tossed. I turned when he turned. I lay still, listening to the rustle of flannel sheets moving against the mesh sides of the portable bed. And then, I slept - until 6am - (the formally referred to "crack of dawn"). Caroline's four-year-old elephant feet thumped down the stairs. Tip-toeing past the sleeping baby I stopped for just a moment to take in the sight. The peaceful slumber of a 1 year old is a sight to behold.

That's when my demons jumped out. You better check and see if he's breathing! I scoffed, Of course he's breathing. And yet, gripped by an irrational fear, I checked. The baby slept.

I peeled hard boiled eggs. The coffee maker buzzed.

The baby slept.

I made scrambled eggs. I drank my coffee.

The baby slept.

The girls pounded around on the hard wood floor, doing a morning rendition of our chicks moving in their tiny coop.

The baby slept.

I took out the "you can only play with these when the baby isn't here" toys for the girls.

And still, he slept.

Fear attacked again. I tried to fend off his advances, but he was too strong. He played dirty.

You better go check on him again. His head was tilted into his blanket, just a bit, wasn't it?

I'm sure he's fine. Had a long day. He's just tired!

You don't know that for sure, do you?

Well...no. I guess not.

What if you let him sleep and then it's too late? What if you get up there and he's still, beyond help. Oh Cara, It's bad enough that you let your baby die without taking action, but you may have killed someone else's. GO. GO CHECK NOW!

I ran up the stairs, panicked, a feeling of dread in the my chest that hadn't squeezed me for so long. I couldn't get there fast enough. I was now sure that there was something wrong - that I had missed my chance to save him. That our friends who are so particular with who they entrust to watch their children would feel the same fear and despair that I have for the rest of their lives. That they would never again be able to look at me with with any semblance of respect.

No longer caring about noise levels - I pushed the door open and, with fear looking over my right shoulder and grief on my left. I peered into the crib.He lay still - with eyes wide open. At the sight of me a huge grin grew on his perfect little face. "Aaaa" he said, not attempting to sit up, just smiling up at me. Brushing off my shoulders, I reached down to meet his upright arms.

He is fine. I am forever haunted.

Rainbows

2009-06-10T11:33:00.000-07:00

While living children are mentioned in this post, it addresses a topic that many bereaved parents think, wonder and worry about…having subsequent children after their loss.

This past weekend, my sister came to visit. We haven’t spent an entire weekend together in a long time, and it was really nice. Her youngest child is only 15 months old, and he is simply a ray of sunshine. And he is my sister’s rainbow baby. For those who aren’t familiar with that term, a rainbow baby is a baby who was born after a loss…a promise of hope after a terrible storm.

Two and a half years ago, my sister gave birth to a very tiny little boy who was born still. This precious little boy was conceived just before the baby who died was due, so it’s impossible to spend time with him without thinking how if not for the baby who didn’t make it, he wouldn’t be here.

Unfortunately, I’m no stranger to dealing with those feelings. My second son who will soon be 15 would not be here either if not for the last two miscarriages I had. While I was going through a very difficult pregnancy with him, the thought never crossed my mind that he wouldn’t be here if not for what I had been through. During that time, I was so focused on getting him here safe and sound that I thought of little else. But minutes after he was born, while I was holding him and gazing into his beautiful face for the very first time….it hit me. I would not have him if not for our losses because it wouldn’t have physically been possible. The last baby I had miscarried was due on Halloween, and he had been conceived nearly a month before that.

As I held him that first time, so much in love, I felt guilty. I wondered if the spirits of the babies I had miscarried thought that I no longer cared about them now that I had a new baby. I felt guilty that I had ever been so distraught over the babies I had miscarried, knowing that if not for them, THIS baby who I had come to love so fiercely wouldn’t be here. It was a vicious circle, one I traveled around and around many times in the coming months and years.

And now I travel that circle again…and so does my sister. I know she does because she has told me before that she was so sad about her baby boy who died, yet she can’t imagine not having this delightful little boy either.

I thought of something else this weekend, too. He is such a happy baby, always with a smile on his face. Happy…smiley…a true joy. He always has been. It’s almost like he knew from the beginning his mommy’s heart needed healing, and he is doing that. I look back on my own son’s babyhood, and I remember thinking the very same thing. My son who was born after my miscarriages was always happy with a huge grin on his face. I didn’t know about Share back then and had never heard of the term rainbow baby, yet I did often marvel at the ray of sunshine and hope that I was blessed with after all of the heartache and tears.

My son often asks me about the “babies that died” and if I would have had him if those babies wouldn’t have died. I used to be uncomfortable answering his questions because I never wanted him to think he wasn’t wanted or planned. I have always been open with my kids about my miscarriages, and even when he was pretty little, he asked questions. I started telling him that for some reason we don’t yet know, HE was the one who we were meant to have with us here on Earth. So far, that answer has satisfied him. I don’t know what my sister will tell her son, but she and her kids also talk openly about their baby who died, so I’m sure that someday, she will also be faced with having to explain that which is so hard to explain.

Whatever she tells him, he will know without a doubt that he is so loved. And he will know the joy and healing he brought to our whole family.

I often read on Share that so many others have these same feelings of worrying about how you can love and welcome a new baby into your heart and family when that baby would not be here if not for the death of another. And so many moms feel guilty over the feelings they have. These are not easy emotions to deal with and accept, but they are “normal.” As we all know, one baby can never replace another. But, it IS possible to love a new child without diminishing the love you have for your baby who died.

2009-06-03T09:27:00.000-07:00

Step By Step

by Cara Tyrell

Day by day… Minute by minute… Second by second.

These are the forced mantras fed to us after loss. Just take it day by day, minute by minute, second by excruciating second.

I do not miss the truth behind these words, for no other option allows us to remain, even mildly functional as the world we once knew by rote, shatters - then redefines itself. And yet, I distinctly recall the stale feeling they left behind as I attempted to formulate a semi-appropriate reply. No words fit. Each syllabic formulation died on my tongue, just short of its mark.

That was eight years ago.

Now, I hear myself say these words to devastated parents, hoping against hope that some truly comforting meaning has been embedded in them throughout the years. You are not alone. We will get through this, together – day by day, minute by minute, second by second. And we do: in the hospital, over the phone, through emails, at monthly meetings…and still, I wished for something more; an overtly affirming over-the-top action that speaks louder than short-phrased, albeit well meaning, platitudes.

That something exists. It existed all along. I had no idea.

Share Southern Vermont hosted its first annual Walk for Hope and Remembrance in early May. It was a first on so many levels, each of them more affirming than the next.

It was our first big event, our ‘grand opening’, if you will - broadcasting to communities in need: We are here! If you need us, call. If you are hurting, email. If you can help us, call. If you wish to support us – emaill. And they did.

“Thank you!” they said, “I lost my baby 10, 20, 30, 40 years ago... I wasn’t even there for myself... I came to support my granddaughter... I feel like I can finally grieve for him/her...For the first time, I called myself, ‘his mother’. Thank you for that.”

It was the first time I had ever attended any kind of organized memorial for lost babies. I see now how truly astounding that is, for I have been doing my work. I have never apologized for Emma’s memory. I have never been silent about the three kids in our family. I have been to the therapist, kept a journal, scrapbooked, put ornaments on the tree, and celebrate my daughter’s short life in countless ways throughout the years. But never once had it crossed my mind that I could share my grieving road with others, gather with them monthly to share stories and tears, or listen to my baby’s name read with one-hundred others, and then – walk, together, towards the next phase of our grief.

I am filled with gratitude that our generation is not told to hit an eternal pause button until we ‘meet again’, to just ‘let it go’ and ‘never speak of it’. We are allowed to grieve. We know our steps don’t always have to be forward, sometimes going back is the only way to progress, but we have each other and that means everything.

Eighty four sets of feet took some big steps last month. The collective energy was nearly tangible as individuals felt their own personal shift. We grieve together: day by day, minute by minute, second by second, and now – step by step.

Did you participate in a walk this spring? What is the most recent ‘step’ you have taken?

Eden's Angels: Trust

2009-05-26T06:35:00.000-07:00

This weeks blog post was written by Jeanna O'Leary, Share Group Coordinator at the National Share Office. Jeanna is mom to twins David and Allison, who were born to early to survive. She also experienced an early pregnancy loss. Jeanna also has three living sons, 7 year old twins and an 18 month old.

Last weekend my 1 ½ year-old son and I boarded a plane with my Mom and headed to Henderson, Nevada for a special weekend with our family to celebrate the first communion of my cousin’s daughter, Lauren. We had a wonderful visit filled with lots of laughter and special memories. However, the week leading up to our visit was not without some sadness. I could not help but think about how my twin son and daughter, David and Allison, would have been celebrating their first communion this spring as well. I began to envision my little David looking so handsome in his shirt and tie and my little Allison twirling around in her pretty white dress and veil. This and so many other dreams were tucked away in my heart the day I said good-bye to our son and daughter. Many bereaved parents know all too well that bittersweet feeling deep in our hearts of watching other families live out the very hopes and dreams we may have had for our own babies.

We were sitting around the table at my cousin’s house before it was time to leave for the church when my aunt and cousin presented me with a special gift. It was a lovely glass vase containing two gorgeous white roses. Attached to the vase was the most beautiful statue I have ever seen. It was an angel in pastel colors surrounded by a little boy and girl holding hands around the bottom of her gown. This kind gesture was my family’s way of telling me that they, too, were remembering David and Allison. My cousin then told me she was given permission by their priest to place the vase of flowers and statue in the front of the altar during the mass. This way I could watch Lauren receive her first communion while seeing this beautiful gift representing my babies. I was overcome with emotion knowing that I was not the only one thinking of David and Allison or feeling their presence during the ceremony.

As I unpacked my suitcase after returning home, I examined the box containing the angel statue. Eden’s Angels is the name of the series and the statue is titled, Trust. It reads on the back of the box, “With Eden’s Angels we bring you and your loved ones the goodness and beauty that can be found within the world around us. We encourage you to share the gift of grace with all those you hold close to your heart.” I have reflected many times on these words since last weekend. Perhaps in celebrating the milestones and dreams of others and sharing with them in their happiness, I am giving gifts of grace to David and Allison. My hopes and dreams did not have to end 8 years ago after their deaths. They will continue as I celebrate with those who are loved by the same heart that carries my babies.

Our Miracle by Jill Lear

2009-05-14T11:32:00.000-07:00

This weeks blog post was written by Jill Lear. Jill's daughter Hattie Ann was born 13 weeks to soon and lived for 39 days, from May 4, 2002-June 11, 2002. Jill is also mom to two miscarrried babies and 3 living children.

Our Miracle

For the longest time, I had a hard time praying not understanding why God didn't give us our miracle. I still have a hard time, but I have come to realize God did give us our miracle, we just didn't see it at the time. Here is what I came up with.

I spotted for the first 14 weeks of her pregnancy, she could have been a miscarriage.

We were told during labor that she only had a 50% chance of surviving the delivery. She made it through with no problem.

Two days after she was born, she was doing so well they decided to take her breathing tube out. She immediately started hemorrhaging from her lungs. It took them 2 hours to get the breathing tube back in. We were told she probably wouldn't make it through the day. She did.

That same day my dad had called Father Brad to let him know that Hattie had been born. Out of the blue, he showed up and baptized her. We started to feel like there was hope immediately.

The following day, they did a brain ultrasound. It showed a Grade 4 brain bleed. The doctor said that it was the worst he had seen in 10 years. He said her chances of surviving until the end of the week were slim. She made it.

Hattie started to improve and on day 16 we held our daughter for the first time. Her vitals improved every time she was placed on my chest. What a feeling. It had been my fear all along that she would die without me getting to hold her.

On day 38 with her kidneys already shut down for 4 days, the doctor told us we were going to have to decide on whether to continue her care or let her go. What parent could ever make that decision? Afterward a nurse who was not Hattie's nurse came up to me and started encouraging me to fight for her life not to give up until Hattie told us to. She told me stories of babies who's skin literally fell off after kidney failure and yet made it back. She said that when Hattie's heart gave out that meant she was just too tired to continue the fight. It made our decision. We would not give up.

On day 38 I spent the night at the hospital for the first time. I was able to say good night to her and kiss her good morning just like a real mom.

Day 39, her vitals started to go down. They decided to try putting in a bigger breathing tube (she had outgrown her original one) . Once again, they were unable to intubate her. We watched as her heart rate continued to drop until it was in the 10's. We told them to let her go. My husband and I were both there to say good-bye.

What amazes me is that fact that they had such major problems intubating her (getting her breathing tube in) twice, yet in that first minute of life, it went in with no problem. God was definitely there giving us a gift.

Although the experience was a total rollercoaster, I would not have traded it for anything. We watched as her skin grow thick like a newborn. We watched as she developed cartilage in her ears. I got to be her mom. I got to change her diapers, give her my milk, hold her and sing to her. I was able to share all my hopes and dreams with her. I was given the time to show her how much I loved her. That is just so important. I know that she died knowing how much her mommy and daddy loved her.

Hattie Ann did some amazing things in her short 39 days. I know she touched so many lives from ours, our friends and families, to her doctors and nurses. We may not know what her purpose in life was, but it was great and we should feel blessed that we were the ones chosen to be her parents.

Looking back at her days, God was with us every step of the way giving us the chance to be her parents. Her life might have been short but we definitely got our little miracle.

2009-05-05T13:20:00.000-07:00

When we decided to create this Share blog, I knew that I did not want to be the only one writing posts on it. While I do love to write, it's not my blog...I want it to share the perspectives and thoughts of guest bloggers, others out in the blogging world who already have blogs dealing with pregnancy and infant loss issues. There are so many out there, and so many really wonderful writers. I have found several blogs over the past few months that I enjoy reading, and we have them linked here. If you know of any others, please email me a link to them so I can check them out.

One of the blogs I discovered recently is Cara Tyrell's...Building Heavenly Bridges. Cara is the founder of Share Southern Vermont, and I had the pleasure of meeting her in March when she came to our Sharing and Caring training workshop for Share group leaders. Cara's first child, Emma Grace Tyrell, was born still at full term eight years ago. Since then, Cara has been blessed with two living children, and she has kept her love and memories of Emma close at heart and started Share Southern Vermont as well as her blog in Emma's memory. She not only writes her blog...she is a columnist for Exhale, an online magazine for those grieving the death of a baby (http://www.exhalezine.com/.) She is also is in the final days of planning her first remembrance walk, being held this coming Saturday in Springfield, Vermont. Cara will be writing for Share your Thoughts the first week of each month, and I hope you enjoy her touching, thought-provoking posts as much as I do.

In these days leading to Mother's Day, know that you will be in the hearts and thoughts of all of us at Share.
Warmly,
Rose

I Am

I am so many things; so very many that listing them for you would be an extensive project, sure to bore both of us. So, I tell you only three things about me, as a start.

1) I am Emma’s mother. She is not part of this world, but she is my daughter –my first born, and I – her mother, always.
2) I am a trained Share group leader working with families as they walk their grief roads.
3) I will be posting here the first Monday of every month.

Truly, that’s all we need to know – for now. The rest will come in time, through words and back-story, emotion and conversation. It matters little what I do with my days, because my sole purpose both as a Share blog contributor and a group leader, is to be a source of hope, comfort and inspiration. In other words: Emma’s mother.

There are very few parts of my real life where I am afforded this title. I have to fight for it, remind others that she existed, still exists – because I love her, because we talk about her and keep her alive within our home.

It is for this reason that I crave our monthly support meetings as much as the parents in active grief do. I walk into the library, slowly pushing open the heavy door, taking in every inch of our space. Breathing deeply, I reach into my bags to set up: the lending library, the new parent folders, our snack, our chairs, our tissues. I can feel the shift. Emma’s time is at hand.

“I’ll begin”, I say, a broad smile spreading across my face as the familiar words slip off my tongue. “I am Cara, mother to Emma Grace, with us for forty weeks and one day, born still on September 8th, 2000.”

These words were not always so easy to say. There was a time when they felt like a lie, when the mere idea of speaking them caused me to become mute. There was a time when I choked them out, syllable by rebellious syllable, aware that I had to accept the truth, only to end with a cascade of tears, near hyperventilation. There was a time when they became weapons, my tools laced with righteous indignation to prove to the world that I had a daughter. There was a time they became a tired refrain to, “Is this your first?”, the constant inquiry with lilted inflection that followed a glance at my bulging belly. Only now, eight years later, do these words fill me with a sense of bittersweet peace and purpose.

Thank you, for allowing me this space to share Emma with you. I look forward to reading each of your stories.

Whose parent are you?

2009-04-27T06:08:00.001-07:00

What Really Matters

What matters is not what life does to you, but rather what you do with what life does to you. ~Edgar Jackson

I have been a “quote collector” for as long as I can remember, even many years ago when I was in high school. I’m always on the look out for them…I write on slips of paper when I’m in my car and see interesting things on signs. I watch for them in magazines. Sometimes, I flip through books that are sent to me at the Share office before I even read the entire book just to read the quotes that are often at the beginning of each chapter. I have them tacked to the walls in my office and on papers folded in my wallet. Sometimes, when I find one that really inspires me, I have to write about it.

I found one such quote yesterday when I came across the one above in a book called “The Heart of Grief” by Thomas Attig. This book isn’t specifically about grieving the death of a baby; the main objective of the author is to show how the journey of grief can bring us to lasting love that honors those who have died while at the same time enriching our lives. Attig shares this in the preface: “We have no choice about whether we will grieve. The world changes irretrievably when those we love die. Respond we must. We only have a choice about what paths we walk in response. We will suffer no matter which paths we choose. When we walk paths toward lasting love and find it, its many rewards make the journey worthwhile.”

I haven’t read the entire book. Actually, I haven’t read much of it at all. It’s been sitting on a shelf in my office for quite a while, and I pick it up when I have a few minutes of free time because it’s not a book that is written in chronological order…you can skip around and read stories as you please.

When I read this quote, it really had an impact on me. I know at times it is easy to get bogged down in thinking about things that have happened that are out of your control that you can do nothing about. Nothing. No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you want more than anything to do something about it. Life “does” a lot of things to all of us. A child dying is probably the ultimate horrible thing that life can do to anyone. We can’t do anything about that, no matter how much we get mad and yell and want to stomp our feet.

We can’t do anything except hopefully get to the point in our lives where we can say, “Okay, what can I do to not let this destroy me?” or “What good can eventually come from this terrible, tragic thing that life did to me without my consent?” And that is exactly what this quote reminds me of…making things better, making sweet lemonade out of the bitterest of lemons. Perhaps you are only recently embarking on this journey of grieving the death of your precious baby and the very LAST thing you want anyone to tell you is that there will ever be any thing that is good or positive about the death of your baby. And I’m not telling you that, I promise. I’m not telling you that one day you will think it’s good that your baby died, because there is absolutely without a doubt nothing good about a baby dying. NOTHING.

What I am trying to tell you is that hopefully, someday, you will be able to look back and know that you did something good with what life did to you, that you did something with the love you have for your baby.

If you are so inclined, I’d love to read what you have done or someday dream of doing with what life did to you.

Wishing you peace and healing,
Rose

My Brick

2009-04-17T08:51:00.000-07:00

I originally had the idea to write something similar to this for an upcoming newsletter, but once we had the idea to start a Share blog, and it was decided by my coworkers that I would do some writing for it, this was a topic I knew I wanted to write about. Memory making, and preserving mementos, is a subject that is near and dear to my heart as someone who has had several early losses many years ago and has nothing other than the memories in my mind and heart to remember those babies by. Not even an ultrasound photo. After I came to Share as a volunteer seven years ago, I was inspired to start doing a few simple things, such as collecting angel Christmas ornaments, and I have a tiny angel pin and an angel Christmas ornament that a dear friend gave me. I also save programs from the walk and other Share events as well as anything I write for the Share newsletter, but other than that, I really have nothing. So over the years, I have sort of made it my personal mission to help the bereaved parents I talk to in my work at Share come up with ways to memorialize their tiny little ones when they may have little or nothing tangible. While I have done a few simple things over the years to remember my babies, by far the most meaningful thing I have done in memory of and in honor of them is to have an engraved brick at the Angel of Hope in St. Charles, MO.

Part of my job at Share has always been “Angel Keeper.” Honestly, out of all my tasks at the National Share Office, it’s always been one of the things I most enjoy doing. Over the years, there have been times when I’ve been asked to give it over to someone else to “lighten my load” a bit, and I never want to. I actually DID give it to someone else at one point, and I hated it! I have only missed one dedication ceremony in nearly 6 years…and that was because I was in Atlanta at a conference. Anyway, I send out confirmation letters when we receive the orders, plan the dedication ceremonies, send out invitations, oversee the engraving of the bricks to make sure there are no mistakes, and make sure the area stays cleaned up. I have even been out on a typical St. Louis cold/rainy/windy “spring” day scrubbing off bird poop with a brush and bucket of warm water the day of an event. Her head is above MY head, so cleaning her involves reaching above my head… the wind was coming from just the right direction to blow a lovely cocktail of bird poop, warm water and cold rain right into my face. Oh, yes, I am a loyal Share employee!

Like I said, I really enjoy this part of my job. Other than scrubbing off bird poop in the cold and rain; I’d be lying if I said I love that. Thankfully, that was a one-time thing. But, I always love the dedication ceremonies as it is so touching to see all of the families come and lovingly place their brick. They bring their living children, siblings, parents, cousins…they place tiny little urns and flowers next to their brick and take photographs. They gather their family around the Angel and take even more photographs. Adult children often purchase bricks for their parents who experienced the death of a baby many years ago when “these things” were not talked about. There are always many tears, but there are many smiles and hugs, too. Families have shared pictures, scrapbooks and other mementos at the ceremony. Bereaved dads help the families lay their bricks. A bereaved mom sings a beautiful song. And I always feel so honored to be a part of it all. Some of my favorite memories are when parents whose baby died many years ago have told us at the ceremony how they feel as if they finally have a special place to go to reflect on and remember their baby. It’s truly awe inspiring.

Unfortunately, the weather isn’t always the best. Sometimes, it’s hot and steamy in November; sometimes, it’s 50 and rainy in May. Sometimes, the weather is absolutely, stunningly perfect. Sometimes, the fall foliage is breathtaking; sometimes, the trees are barren and forlorn. That’s St. Louis for you. As Forest Gump would say, “You never know what you’re gonna get.” But no matter what the weather is like, it’s a beautiful day in the Ben Rau Gardens at Blanchette Park in St. Charles, MO. It’s a beautiful day because families come to honor and remember their children who died way too soon.

Several times over my years at Share, Cathi, my beloved boss, asked me why I didn’t have a brick. In the most loving Cathi-way possible of course! I never had a good answer for her and would quickly try to change the subject. (I’m good at that!) I never wanted to tell her that I felt rather silly after so many years, when my losses were so early, doing something like that. So I continued going to the dedication ceremonies, keeping the thoughts of my babies and those of the special parents and friends I’ve met through Share in my mind and heart throughout.

Then, my dearest friend, who I met through Share five years ago, decided that she wanted to purchase a brick in memory of her daughter, even though she lives 1000 miles away from here. And she asked me why I didn’t have one. I didn’t know what to tell her either, because I really had no good reason. Again, I masterfully changed the subject. But eventually, I started thinking that maybe I needed a brick after all. Then, I started thinking of what I wanted inscribed on it. Actually, obsessing about it is probably a more accurate word than “thinking” about it. How in the world do you fit all of the feelings and emotions you have about tiny babies who didn’t make it…tiny babies who most people would think meant nothing…tiny babies who literally changed the course of my life in ways I could never have imagined at the time…how do you fit all of that into 3 lines of 15 characters each? Finally, after days and days of thinking, obsessing, writing things down, scratching them out, finally, I chose the perfect inscription. I filled out the form, RAN downstairs from my office with my check and told Megan, who at that time handled the money that came into Share, “Deposit this before I change my mind!” The inscription I chose was this:

BLESSED BY TINY
SOULS THANKS 4
YOUR MANY GIFTS

I don’t know why it was such a big deal for me to do this. I always tell parents to do what they think they need or want to do and not worry about what anyone else thinks. But most people who know me know that I’m horrible (REALLY horrible) at practicing what I preach.

But…I now am the proud owner of a brick at the Angel of Hope in St. Charles, MO. My friend and I laid our bricks privately on a beautiful Sunday last fall when she was in town for the weekend. It was a bittersweet moment, one of many, as we both know that if not for the heartache we have both experienced, we would never have met. It is also bittersweet to know that all we have of these babies who touched both of our lives and brought us together are engraved bricks around an angel statue in a beautiful park. No, that’s not all we have. We have our memories. And we have a remarkable friendship that neither of us can imagine not having.

And now, I love going out to the Angel even more than I did before. Our bricks are placed right at the entrance so I see them as soon as I walk up. Every time I see them, I have so many feelings wrapped up all together in one neat little package…feelings of deep gratitude for all I have been given because of five little souls (my four, and my friend’s daughter)…feelings of sorrow when I think of the many tears that have been shed over the years by all of the parents who have had to say goodbye to a precious child…and a feeling that I have joined the ranks of those who can say after many years, I finally have a place to go reflect on and remember the babies who are not here with me, but that I was so blessed to have grace my life. For a long time, all I could see was the heartache, but now, I really do think only of the many gifts they brought to my life.

It is never too late to do something to honor and commemorate your baby. Doing so may give you a peace in your heart that you didn’t know was possible.

-Rose Carlson, National Share Office Program Director

Share joins the blogosphere!

2009-04-14T14:08:00.000-07:00

We officially have a Share blog. Your comments and posts are always welcome. Look for new posts weekly.