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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Catch 22

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?

Still Thankful for Longing

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.

Grieving While Parenting

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.

Quotes

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

Mother's Day

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.

Come to the Window & Look

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.

Moving Forward

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."

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

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.

What About the Children?

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,

Enjoying the Small Things

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

Daniel, Jo Jo, Joseph & Zachary

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.

Gavin & Parker

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.

Changed

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

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

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

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.

Grieving vs. Mourning

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

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

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.