Calm After a Storm

This was written by Heather Thompson and submitted to Share for the July/August newsletter. 

Mine may not be a gracious or popular viewpoint, but after all the songs of Christmas left me feeling like “peace to the world” or “heavenly peace” was being forced down my throat amidst feeling the least serenity of my life, I settled down after the turn of the year on a mission of what it would mean for me to find freedom from even a small part of my emotional turmoil. This was the first holiday season after my daughter, Makenna, died September 1, 2012. Having to experience all those family-oriented holidays starting with Halloween through the New Year within four months of her death added extra stress to an already stressful season for me. Grief in our extended family has been “complicated”, so there were many emotional barbs to navigate through over the holidays that did not allow for harmony between us, in addition to my own absence of inner peace in missing Makenna terribly. I spent time alone; I spent a lot of time hugging her holiday dress. Sometimes I hugged her ashes. And my mother had an angel that held her picture as the tree topper at my parents’ house where we spent the Christmas holidays. We tried to incorporate Makenna’s memory in the ways we could, but her father and I were acutely and painfully aware she was not physically there.

Once we came back home, I was given the opportunity to re-center and revisit my never-ending battle for tranquility with respect to Makenna’s death. My first step was changing my employment status to build in time I needed to pursue pregnancy and infant loss causes. I made a decision to end the familial hostilities that had been weighing heavy on my heart. I started a scrapbook of Makenna’s life. I made small gifts of companionship for some loss moms that are remote penpals and friends. I also followed up on very important letter I had written to the hospital where Makenna was born. In this letter, I explained how I had come to Labor and Delivery the night before Makenna had been found with no heartbeat. I elaborated on how, since that time, I have found the more “could” have been done, but how more is not “required” (by ACOG) to be done, so I realized that I had no recourse. However, that was not what my email was about. My email was about how, after the hospital and my caregivers had failed us so that night in L&D, after Makenna was born, and during our stay at the hospital that they also had not informed us of the Certificate of Birth Resulting in Stillbirth (CBRS) being available in our state. I was missing information that not only validated us as a family and verified my daughter’s existence, but that also would have made my battle to not lose my short-term disability and maternity leave benefits much less traumatic, if not non-existent. Since I had no legal documentation, my employer had considered my status as having had “a medical procedure” rather than the birth of a child.

I had not heard back from the hospital in six weeks and needless to say was not very happy about it. I contacted them again, and this time my email was followed by a return phone call. And two emails. I ended up speaking to a risk manager who told me that the hospital had not been aware of the law. Now I must tell you, this hospital is part of a large hospital system in the Washington, DC metro area that takes pride in winning “best in the region” types of awards. Despite being this caliber of hospital and this law being in effect in our state for years, the hospital staff had never made themselves aware. So, she let me know that they were convening a hospital system-wide obstetric panel to address providing this information to families experiencing stillbirth. I asked to attend the meeting. I also raised some additional changes that I would like to see from the hospital with respect to patients reporting decreased fetal movement and families experiencing stillbirth. I am waiting to receive her call next week.

Some would say finding peace is to be or become quiet, but I found peace in not staying quiet. I know the process has just begun to affect this change to provide information on CBRSes to families that have been affected by stillbirth. But the beginning of that dialogue brought me more peace than I have found thus far in my grief journey. I hope we all can find peace through winning those battles, those small victories. I hope you can find calm after the storm, in your way, and if even only for a moment.

Castles in the Sand

This was written and submitted by Chloe McGuire. 

Just a few weeks before my son died, my husband and I took a vacation to a resort in Puerto Rico. It was supposed to be our “last hurrah” before our lives totally changed and became consumed with being parents.

It was an amazing trip, one we will never forget. We had honeymooned at this same resort only two years before, and it was the perfect destination for our last vacation as a couple. Well, we thought it w

as our last vacation as a couple anyway.

The days of our honeymoon were spent snorkeling, boating, hiking, sightseeing until our feet throbbed, and drinking margaritas and pina coladas. On our second trip, we simply walked on the beach, our fingers entwined, and talked excitedly about the future that awaited us, so full of promise and joy. We scooped up shells by the handfuls, dumped them into our beach bag, then spent warm evenings on our  patio picking through them as the sun set, choosing special shells to place in bowl in our soon-to-be-born son’s nursery. We both grew up near the beach, we both love the beach, and we talked about how our son would grow up with that same love. We envisioned our vacation the next summer, the three of us building sand castles and taking photographs of waves splashing over us. We wondered if he would be frightened by the waves, if he would make funny faces when he was splashed by salt water. We wondered if he would leave the beach hat on that we purchased for him in a souvenir shop one night after dinner or if he would yank it off, giggling, exposing his sweet bald head to the sun’s scorching rays. We were so secure in the future of our family that when we checked out at the end of our glorious vacation, we booked the same room for the same week the next summer, telling the hotel employees that the next time they saw us, we would be pushing a stroller.

How swiftly life changes.

How swiftly dreams and hopes and joys wash away like footprints left too close to the surf.

How swiftly life changes, transforms.

One day, you are walking on the beach, one hand held gently in the hand of your beloved, your other hand resting on the swell of your son who grows within you as warm waters gently splash over your feet. A few days later, your hand is once again held in the hand of your beloved, although not so gently. It is held so tightly it hurts while you scream sounds you never imagined you would scream as you hear those words, “I am so sorry, there is no heartbeat. Your son has died.” 

How swiftly life changes.

How swiftly your dreams of the future wash away, though not like footprints your feet leave on the sand. Footprints on the sand wash away without a trace, leaving a smooth, pristine surface behind with no evidence the footprints ever existed. Dreams of the future aren’t so easily erased. Dreams of the future with your baby are more like footprints left in concrete that slowly hardens, that are there forever. Nothing can wash them away.

After our son’s death and birth, I worried that the beach would be forever tainted for me. I often went into his room and gazed at the crystal clear bowl of shells that I had tied a sandy-colored ribbon around and placed on a shelf the morning we went to the doctor to have our world shattered. Those shells were gathered when we were blissfully happy, and I never was sure if I wanted to throw them away or hold them in my hands.

The months bled into one another, and we eventually remembered the vacation we had scheduled months before, the vacation we planned with our new baby. Just the thought of it took my breath away, but my husband insisted. He convinced me that a trip to the beach would be healing, but all I wanted to do was stay home under the covers. I couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be healing to go to the place we had been such a short time ago dreaming about our son and the beautiful vacations we would have over the years. We even imagined that the beach would become so special to our son as he grew that we would continue to vacation there when we were grandparents.

I gave in to my husband’s wishes. He had been so wonderful to me in the months since our son had died, putting his own needs aside to tend to mine, and I felt I owed him this gift. A strange thing happened, and he was right. The flight to the resort was turbulent in more ways than one, and walking into the lobby nearly brought on a panic attack. We settled into our room, the same room we had enjoyed so much the previous year, and I walked onto the deck, the sea breeze blowing my hair away from my face, and I felt a peace unlike anything I had felt since our son’s death. I closed my eyes, breathing the salty air in gulps.

It’s been 5 years since our first son died, and we have since been blessed with another son. Each year, the same week, we return to the resort in Puerto Rico that once held so many of our dreams along with so many of our heartaches. We have made many beautiful memories there with our son, and we envision creating many more over the years. Each year, we take photographs of our feet in the sand and another of the water washing the footprints away. The bowl full of shells sits on a shelf in our family room along with a photograph of a sunset we took on that last trip before our world came crashing down around us.

Some people have told us they can’t understand how we can continue to go to a place that must hold such unhappy memories. But for us, we can’t NOT return there because so much of our lives, our hearts, our very history are connected to that beach.

The White Elephant

This article was written by Justin Margadonna
-----------------------------------

The white elephant in the room, protruding its tusks into every nook and every crack .   He doesn’t exist anymore?  He must; he sits on the mantle.  The heartbeat is inside the soft, cuddly bear.  A cross balances over the threshold with name stenciled in gold.  The little white angel dangles from a tree branch in December.  A stone with an inscription near the metal gate of the backyard greets the few solemn visitors (vines enjoy crawling this area, trying to yank the past away).  A brick with engraving in a park with birds, pine needles, and our diminishing presence. 

We barely knew him.  A form on a flimsy piece of film.  One moment happy and then the next second pure devastation…a day torn in billions of sharp pieces.  What caused the real nightmare?   Was it something I said or did?  Did God (if there is) punish for past sins?  Is that shirt I wore at the ultrasound bad luck?  It must be since it remains in my closet, not worn, not touched since.  Thoughts of all types scurry around one’s mind during hours of ruin. 

In the beginning, some say they’re “sorry,” all while giving a look of hopelessness to the already hopeless. 

“If there is anything I can do, just let me know.”  Who has not been guilty of this generic strand of sympathy?

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”  Correct…hopefully. 

“I will call you later to see how you are doing.”  Later has come and gone.

“Have her get an abortion.”  From the mouth of family.

In the beginning, some do surprise; those you barely know give a hug, have tears in their eyes.  “We lost our angel too.”  You realize living in an isolated existence does not have to be.  There are those who also carry torment and actually understand truly what feelings are bleeding inside a hollow shell. 

* * *

A life created has vanished, and so few acknowledge what was “once.”  They, perhaps, simply don’t know (or are ignorant of the fact) that pain needs support, that speaking and talking is a good thing.  Sweeping love and life beneath a proverbial rug solves nothing.   Talk, yell, cry, and hug.  Something is better than nothing. 

At the outset, there is an initial influx of love via symbolic gifts and words.  These, like so many other human signals of caring, reduce to a fine dust, occasionally hovering about a room.  When the initial shock and awe is concluded, friends, family, and acquaintances return to the mundane too soon.    

An atmosphere of uncomfortable movements starts when conversation tries to focus towards the little one who once breathed.  Are they looking upon me in a strange manner (with those empty eyes) assuming my mind has run away?  Am I the crazy one, ready to be admitted to the loony bin just for the simple fact of acknowledging him?  Why does speaking of the dead cause such unease among people, especially when the deceased is a child?  We are so ready to be negative in this world, unafraid to insult, unafraid to bring fellow man to his knees.  Gossip comes so easy, does it not?  In the end, discussing life’s most important treasures (our children) should also come so easy. 

I too have been guilty of pretending and forgetting (life gets in the way with its many frivolous distractions):  yard work, grocery shopping, paying the bills.  However, let’s work at not forgetting, while showing others that remembering and talking about angels is perfectly fine.  In doing so, the ugly white elephant just might stay away.      

Follow Share on Pinterest

National Share now has a Pinterest page, search National Share.
http://pinterest.com/nationalshare/

This page includes a few of the following boards:
- Memory Making
- Grief Resources
- Angel of Hope
- Quotes
- Holiday Traditions
- Jewelry
- Memorial Garden Ideas

This is another resourceful way to share ideas to help each other grieve.

Finding Peace & Solace

This article was written by Share's  Program Director, Rose Carlson. 

Parents who have experienced a miscarriage, stillbirth or death of a newborn baby often struggle in the early days, weeks, months and even the following years to find ways to comfort their grieving hearts while they also search for ways to cherish and honor their baby’s memory. It can be healing to find things and places to focus on when you are unable to think of nothing more than your aching, empty arms. Just as every bereaved parent grieves differently, they also find peace and solace in different ways. Some parents have a meaningful place or a special symbol they connect with while others find comfort in things they do in memory of their baby.

When I experienced four early losses many years ago, nothing was typically done to commemorate the loss, and I, like many others, had no place to go, nothing to remember those little souls by. My only memento from four losses was a business card from my doctor to remind me of my next appointment, the last one, since I didn’t make it to that appointment. I carried that card with its fraying edges in my wallet for many years as it was my only physical connection to that last little life that left me too soon. I no longer have that card, but throughout my years at Share, I have found several ways to incorporate those babies into my life.While my babies aren’t buried anywhere, I do have two places that have become very meaningful to me, that always bring some peace to my heart all these years later.

One place is a park in St. Charles, MO where an Angel of Hope stands--engraved bricks in memory of children who have left the world too soon surround the monument. Part of my job at Share is being the “Angel Keeper,” yet it hardly seems like a job to me. In that role, I plan ceremonies at the Angel three times a year and assist families with purchasing and dedicating their bricks. I also pull weeds, clean up and make sure she stays looking pretty. For many years, I didn’t have my own brick, but the Angel was still a special place for me because I knew how meaningful it is to families who have bricks placed there. I do have a brick now, and my best friend has a brick there as well…we placed them together, and whenever I go out there to clean or prepare for a ceremony, I feel a calmness settle upon me. I always take my camera, and I have many wonderful photographs from each season…some of showy flowers, pink dogwood blooms and colorful butterflies, others of spectacular fall foliage, and still others of pristine snow-covered bushes and trees. There is a wooden bench down one of the paths where I often sit and reflect on things that are weighing heavily on my heart, and many prayers have been said on that bench. I have tied balloons on her hand when friends go through their own losses. The Angel of Hope has become my place.

The other place that brings me solace—a place I feel connected to is the area of Baue Funeral Home’s cemetery where Share provides a quarterly burial service for miscarried babies. It is part of my job to plan and attend these services, but again, it doesn’t seem like a job to me. I look forward to it, and every time, I meet parents and hear stories that touch my heart and make me feel so very lucky to work at Share. Sometimes, I meet someone there whose story is very similar to my own, and I have shed many tears in the car on my drive home. Once, I carried a tiny casket from the funeral home to the gravesite, each step reminding me of the precious treasure I was cradling in my hands. A monument marks the spot where the tiny babies are buried that says, “Our hopes and our dreams lie here,” and each time I attend this service, I think about how much something like that would have meant to me all those years ago. 

As I began writing this article, I asked bereaved parents who have had all types of losses, to share with me the places and things that have brought them solace and comfort since the death of their baby, and as always, I was humbled and honored to be given a glimpse into their lives and hearts.

• The kids and I go and visit Olivia- we change her decorations with the seasons and for holidays. My husband can't stand to go to the cemetery, and has planted certain plants in our yard for her. That's where he loves to spend his free time. At first it bothered me that he wasn't interested in coming with us, but I better understand how he grieves.
• We still annually send off balloons on Becket's birthday and we have three small display suitcases with his items in them and a small scrapbook of NILMDTS photos. We generally don't open any of these items, but his brothers sometimes ask to look at them, and we do. Maybe three times a year. For me, the NILMDTS photos and process have brought the most peace to me. There are certain songs I associate with Beckett. They mostly bring me peace but sometimes, especially one of them, makes me a little sad. I ALWAYS notice when I hear the one song....car, store, wherever..it always makes me think of Beckett. (They are not traditional mourning songs).
• When I felt like I was ready to move forward, I found it therapeutic to make myself a bracelet with special beads and charms that I picked out. Nothing fancy just stuff from AC Moore. It was in remembrance of my losses and ectopic pregnancies.
• I like to go to his grave and sit with a book or my bible and read. I sometimes read to him and other times just sit quietly. I have taken each of my children (who are all grown) and we have spent time at the grave together. My daughter takes my Granddaughters and they not only clean up around their Uncle’s headstone but around others all around the entire place. They want "his home" to be special as well as others.
• Five months after my son was born still, I had a miscarriage at 13 weeks. We were able to find out through genetic testing that our baby was a little girl. The following fall, my 5 year old daughter, husband and I designed a beautiful garden in our backyard. We planted blue hydrangeas for our son, a pink rose bush for our daughter, and a butterfly bush. We made a stepping stone with each of our handprints in it along with special rocks and shells we had from different vacations we took as a family. Each spring, we pick out pink and blue/purple annuals for the garden. We also hung a hummingbird feeder. We enjoy spending time tending to our garden with our now 3 living children, and it is the most peaceful spot. I love looking at the garden through my kitchen window, and I love sitting in the grass having picnics next to it. Whenever I am having a bad day, that is where I want to go, no matter the season or weather.
• I know that some people think it is crazy, but I love to go into my baby girl’s room. In the months before her birth, I painted a mural of a field of flowers and butterflies on the wall and spent a lot of time picking out the perfect things for her room. It is painted a sunny yellow, and I love her room. It brings me so much comfort to sit in the chair that I should be rocking her to sleep in. I feel close to her there.

Sharing Newsletter: Finding Peace & Solace

The July/August issue of Sharing is now available. It provides insight on how we can gain peace and solace while remembering and reflecting on our baby(ies). Please take a moment to read this edition of our newsletter or pass along to those who may benefit from its contents.

http://www.nationalshare.org/JulyAugust.pdf

2013 Walk for Remembrance & Hope Registration NOW OPEN

Registration is NOW OPEN for the 2013 Walk for Remembrance & Hope on October 19, 2013 in Creve Coeur Park, Saint Louis, MO!

Click here for more information and to register today!

Return to Zero

A poignant article written by Sean Hanish, director and producer of the movie, Return To Zero, on the loss of his son, and a glimpse into the emotional drive behind sharing the life of a bereaved family on film.

http://stillbirthmatters.wordpress.com/2013/06/04/youre-going-to-be-a-daddy/

Footprints...

Remembering our loved ones

Angel Ball 2013 a Hollywood Success!

Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support, Inc. hosted the 11th annual Angel Ball, Welcome to Hollywood, on April 26, 2013 at the St. Charles Convention Center. As 220 guests gathered for the Hollywood-themed gala, the event was a spectacular evening of delicious food, unique live and silent auction items. The event raised $57,000 for Share's mission.

All of us at Share extend a heartfelt thank you to everyone who attended, donated items to the auction, made monetary donations, and volunteered their time to make this event one of the best ever! Thanks to everyone’s generosity, Share will be able to able to continue providing services and programs to families grieving the death of a beloved baby. A special thanks to our sponsors: Centric Group, Express Scripts, Life Time Fitness, SSM, Barnes Jewish St. Peters / Progress West and St. Louis Children's Hospital.

Cathi Lammert's Farewell

Cathi Lammert, the Executive Director of Share, will be retiring on June 1, 2013. Cathi's leadership and DNA is in the marrow of who we are and how we've reached more than 350,000 grieving parents since 1992. The below video was created to show our appreciation to Cathi. If you would like to donate to Share in honor of Cathi's devotion, dedication and determination, please follow this link (you will be able to include a special message for her): https://www.z2systems.com/np/clients/share/donation.jsp?campaign=38&test=true

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iilXnqoVrlY&feature=youtu.be