The First Anniversary of Your Baby’s Death

By Monica Novak -

From Open to Hope ‘Ask the Authors’

Deborah writes in: Infant grandson passed away on the day of his birth, anniversary is coming, do you have any suggestions on how to celebrate this day, mom and dad are sooo sad.
Thank you for your help.

Response to Deborah:

Dear Deborah,

I am so very sorry for the loss of your grandson.  The year following the death of a baby takes a family through such a wide range of emotions, often culminating on the first anniversary of that death (or on what would be the baby’s first birthday if the baby lived a short time), that it can be difficult to decide how to spend the day.  There are many ways to celebrate the baby’s life and make it a special remembrance, and the key is finding what feels right for your family.  If there are other living children in this family, a fun activity could be planned with them in mind.  If not, I would suggest the parents find something enjoyable to do together or with other family and friends who will understand their sadness and provide support while offering love and upliftment at the same time.

When the first anniversary of my stillborn daughter Miranda’s death came around, I felt I should do something, but didn’t know what.  Because Miranda had been cremated, we didn’t have a cemetery to visit.  My mom remembered it was Miranda’s day and called to invite me and my 2-year-old daughter to the beach for the day.  I sat in the sand and wrote a letter to Miranda pouring out my feelings.  That night, after looking through Miranda’s memory book together, I put a candle in a cupcake and my husband, daughter, and I sang Happy Birthday to her.  It was a nice way to enjoy the day, while still remembering the importance of it.  And I so deeply appreciated every card or phone call that came from other family and friends to let me know they remembered Miranda too.

Friends from my support group celebrated in various ways.  One family had a meal at a restaurant down the street that had given them balloons one year earlier to release at their son’s funeral.  Some made special trips to the cemetery where their babies were buried, either taking flowers or releasing balloons.  One family took cupcakes to share with medical staff who had cared for their baby.  Another family donated three tape recorders to the NICU where their triplet babies had lived and died, so the staff could play music for other sick infants.

Some families light a candle and let it burn all day.  A wonderful way to commemorate and honor the baby’s life is to plant a tree or flowering shrub.  My dear friend Cathi Lammert of the Share organization spent the first anniversary of her son Christopher’s death gathering with family at a church Mass in honor of their son, followed by a brunch at their home.  They were given the gift of a small blue spruce which became their symbol of Christopher every day.  The tree became such an important part of their lives, that when they moved five years later, they had the tree moved to their new home just in time to decorate it for the Christmas season.

It’s okay to spend a quiet day in reflection, and it’s okay to invite family and friends to share in a celebration of your grandson’s life.  What you choose this year might become an annual tradition, or you might find that in time, the remembrance will evolve into something else.  On the anniversary days that followed the first year, as the intense grief subsided, my support group friends and I sometimes gathered at someone’s home for wine and dessert, or held cemetery picnics with food, games for the kids, and a balloon release.

It’s important for the parents to give themselves permission to treat themselves with care on this special day, taking the day off of work if possible, and doing something that allows them to treasure the gift of their son’s life, which hopefully in time will bring them more joy than sorrow.

Monica Novak is the author of The Good Grief Club, the highly-praised memoir about her friendships with six other women that carried them through the ups and downs of grief and motherhood following the loss of their babies in miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death.  She also serves as editor of Open to Hope’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss page.  For more information about her book, and for pregnancy loss and infant death resources, please visit her website at www.thegoodgriefclub.com or e-mail her at monica@thegoodgriefclub.com.

A Single White Rose

By Barbara A. Glanz -

In 1971 I faced the most difficult experience of my life, one which has changed me forever.  I had grown up in a small town in Iowa where families were the center of our lives.  I loved dolls and babysitting, and I could hardly wait to be a mother!  I even became a high school English teacher because I loved working with young people.  In 1965 I graduated from the University of Kansas and began teaching in LaGrange, Illinois, in 1966 I married a wonderful man named Charlie, and on April 2, 1969, we were blessed with our first child, Garrett Wayne Glanz. 

I felt in control of my life and filled with thanksgiving and anticipation for the future.  We had saved all of my teaching paychecks and were able to put a downpayment on a small English cottage in Western Springs, Illinois. Charlie was doing well in his work at the Chicago Tribune, and I found out I was pregnant again in early 1971.  We were ecstatic! 

I had a perfectly normal pregnancy, teaching adult swimming two mornings a week at the YMCA, and loving each moment of teaching our little son Garrett about our beautiful world.  Our second child was due January 3, 1972.  On December 20 I began having labor pains in the night, so we took Garrett to the neighbor’s and went to the hospital.  Since I was nearly fully dilated and only 2 1/2 weeks early, the doctor induced labor, and our second child, Gavin Ward Glanz, was born at 4:45 pm December 21, 1971.  We spent the evening calling all our family and friends to share our joy, and both of us tried to get a much-needed good night’s sleep. The next day the nightmare began!

When our pediatrician and personal friend, Dr. Allen, walked into my room early the next morning, I immediately knew something was wrong.  With great difficulty, he told us that he thought our baby son had a congenital heart defect and they were taking him by ambulance to Cook County Children’s hospital to the best pediatric cardiologist in the area.  However, he said not to give up hope because often open heart surgery could be performed and the children could be fine, so Charlie followed the ambulance, and I began the awful waiting.

Later that afternoon, Charlie called to tell me that our baby had died.  The problem turned out to be with his lungs, and there was no way they could have saved him even though he weighed over 7 pounds.  He was buried on Christmas Eve.

I know that never again in my life will I feel so helpless and so completely empty–I would have traded my life for his in an instant!  Because none of our family or friends ever got to know him, hold him, or even see his picture (the hospital didn’t take one), they had a difficult time relating to our grief, and although they were sad for us, they really felt little connection to our son.  As a result, much of the time Charlie and I felt alone in our deep love for him and in the terrible loss of being able to watch him grow and become an adult.

I tried to go on with my life, especially since we had a young son who needed me; however, there were days that I didn’t think I could make it through even the morning, so deep was my grief and sense of loss.  Someone about that time gave me a copy of a book that has forever influenced my life and helped make my recovery possible.  It was by Jess Lair, a wonderful Christian man, who talked about living five minutes at a time.  Many days I could not face even another hour, but I could always get through five minutes, and I consciously held onto that and my faith in a loving God as a means of survival.  That was one of the beautiful lessons I learned through all my pain–to be fully in the present and to treasure every minute of every day.  However, I still struggled with people’s reluctance to talk about our son, their lack of memories of him, and the terrible void there was in my life.

On December 21,1972, the day which would have been Gavin’s first birthday, the doorbell rang, and there at the doorstep was a delivery man from the florist.  He had a small bud vase holding one single white rose.  With it was a card from some very dear friends that read, “This is in memory of a very special life, one which we know will make a difference in this world–Gavin Ward Glanz.”  And each year for many years on December 21, that single white rose has arrived on our doorstep–a symbol that someone in this often indifferent, rushed  world of ours does remember the life of our little boy.

And they were right–he has made a difference in this world through me, the person I have become because of his life and death, and the abiding message of hope I am able to share with others as I speak all over the world.

A beautiful post script to this story is that on May 17, 1998, our first little grandson was born, and what did they name him?  Gavin William Glanz.  How very blessed we are!  Our son lives on through this precious gift of new life, and we will always celebrate our new little Gavin’s birthday with one single white rose.

Barbara Glanz, CSP, works with organizations that want to improve morale, retention, and service and with people who want to rediscover the joy in their work and in their lives.  For free articles you can use in your company newsletters and an archive of dozens of immediately applicable “Ideas of the Month,” go to www.barbaraglanz.com.  She is the author of  Balancing Acts-More than 250 Guiltfree, Creative Ideas to Blend your Work and your Life (Dearborn 2003), Handle with CARE-Motivating and Retaining Employees (McGraw-Hill 2002),CARE Packages for the Workplace–Dozens of Little Things You Can Do to Regenerate Spirit at Work (McGraw-Hill 1996), The Creative Communicator (McGraw-Hill 1998), CARE Packages for the Home (Andrews McMeel 1998), and Building Customer Loyalty (McGraw-Hill 1994).  As an internationally known speaker, trainer, and business consultant who has a Master’s degree in Adult Education, Barbara lives and breathes her personal motto:  “Spreading Contagious Enthusiasm^TM.” She has presented in all 50 states and is the first speaker on record to have spoken on all seven continents!  For more information, she can be reached directly at 941-312-9169; Fax 941-349-8209; email: bglanz@barbaraglanz.com; website: www.barbaraglanz.com.

Signs of Hope

By Monica Novak - 

When our daughter Miranda was stillborn, the word “hope” took on new meaning for me.  Used often to describe the feeling that what you want in the future will happen, for example healing and moving beyond grief, hope for me meant knowing that my daughter had not just disappeared into oblivion.  Hope meant knowing that she was still with me, now, and that I didn’t have to wait until so-called death to be with her again.  I began asking for her to give me a sign that she was indeed with me.  It didn’t take long for the answer to come.

It began in July of 1995.  It had only been a month since we’d lost Miranda.  Al and I were lying on a blanket in the grass, on a beautiful summer night, with a light breeze and a gorgeous sunset, listening to the band and watching our daughter Alex dance.  I was thinking I should be nursing an infant at my breast.  And changing her diaper.  And dancing with her in my arms.  I was pulled from my longing by a white feathery, silky ball hovering around me-my naturalist friend, Jessica, would later identify it as a seedling from a Cottonwood tree-looking like the stuff angel wings must be made of.  A flying fluff, I called it. 

I reached up and watched it dance around my hand.  It swirled up and down and around me, never straying too far, ignoring the breeze that begged to carry it away.  My heart beat fast with excitement and wonder.  It should have been long gone.  What’s happening? I asked the universe.  Is that you Miranda, telling me you’re here?  Or was I losing my mind?

I looked away to watch Alex, expecting the flying fluff to be gone when my eyes returned, but it was still there, dancing playfully.  Needing to know her spirit was with me, I had been praying for a sign from Miranda that she was alright.  An unlikely means of communication, was this the answer I had been waiting for?  After several minutes it finally drifted up and away, caught in the gentle breeze.

Fourteen years later, I still notice every flying fluff that comes near me or gently floats by.  It’s become a special connection I have with my daughter, and although the circumstances are usually nothing to remark about, there have been some times when the appearance or “behavior” of these “signs” have defied the laws of nature.  One summer day I had been sitting at the kitchen table and found myself thinking about that flying fluff at the concert eight years earlier while a rain shower pounded outside.  A few minutes later, when the rain stopped, I walked down the driveway to let the kids in the van for the morning carpool and was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a flying fluff floating over my shoulder.  It can’t be, I said to myself.  Everything was soaked from the rain.  The air, still and heavy with humidity, hadn’t been able to dry a thing, much less blow it off a tree into the air.  Physically, this shouldn’t have been happening, yet it was unfolding before my eyes.  Then I realized I had just been sitting at the table thinking about the flying fluff from eight years ago, and a warm excitement, like the moment of a first kiss, poured through my heart as I realized the significance of the moment.  I couldn’t deny the feeling of Miranda’s presence with me.

Several years later, as I was sitting out on our covered deck thinking about the impending publishing of my book, which had everything to do with Miranda, I noticed a flying fluff moving through the backyard.  I smiled, as I always do, when suddenly the rain cloud looming overhead gave way to a drizzle.  Wouldn’t it be interesting if another fluff came flying through the rain? I thought to myself.  I had barely gotten that thought out before another fluff did indeed come floating through the yard following the first one.  I wondered how it was that this weightless puff of near nothingness could dodge the rain drops which surely would knock it to the ground.  As that seedling floated past me, the rain became heavier, turning a drizzle into a shower.  Now, I said to myself, another fluff would just be a miracle.  I watched in amazement as another fluff came floating by, completely ignoring the heavy rain that pelted the ground and everything in its path.  I laughed out loud, partially in disbelief, but also knowing that once again, I couldn’t deny the overwhelming feeling that Miranda was here, orchestrating this reminder just for me.

Many of my friends have stories of their own.  Kristi, who lost her triplet babies, told us one night about coming home to find three baby bunnies running and playing in her backyard.  When her husband came home that day, they were there to greet him, as well.  My friend Dawn, who also lost her triplets, had many stories of birds on her deck, always in groups of three.  When Christa’s infant son Michael died, her connection to him became dragonflies.  Five years later, when another infant son, Brandon, died, they returned from the memorial service to find a dragonfly in the kitchen on the curtain rod above the door.  My other friends have stories of special songs on the radio at significant moments, unexplainable smells and sounds, and their own unusual encounters with objects or animals. 

Even my mother got signs from my grandmother “Nana” who lived well into her 90s.  After Nana made her transition, my mother brought home Nana’s chime clock, and although it was broken and hadn’t chimed in years, it was one of my Nana’s (and my mom’s) favorite things from my grandparents’ house.  Imagine my mother’s surprise (and feelings of love and hope) when the clock began randomly chiming!

My friend Cathi Lammert, Executive Director of Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss, compiled a book of stories just like the ones above.  It’s called Angelic Presence.  The subtitle is Short Stories of Solace and Hope After the Loss of a Baby.  There’s that word again.  Hope.  It’s available to all of us.  But sometimes we need to ask.  And then pay attention.  The signs are sometimes obvious and undeniable, but more often they’re so subtle that they cause us to doubt their validity when we use our minds to overanalyze them.  So how will you know?  Keep asking, keep paying attention, and focus on your heart, not your head.  Your feelings are the key.  Whether you feel your signs and messages are coming from your baby, a loved one, an angel, or a higher power (you might call God, or Source, or Creator), it’s not really important to distinguish, for those words all mean the same thing: Love.  And where there’s love, there’s hope.  What signs of hope have you been given?

Monica Novak is the author of The Good Grief Club, a memoir about her friendships with six other women that carried them through the ups and downs of grief and motherhood following the loss of their babies in miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death.  She also serves as editor of Open to Hope’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss page.  For more information about her book, and for pregnancy loss and infant death resources, please visit her website at www.thegoodgriefclub.com or e-mail her at monica@thegoodgriefclub.com.

Holding On and Letting Go

By Beth Seyda -

After my infant son, Dylan, died I started jotting down various things and scenes I recalled from our experience.  I wanted to write about these memories not only to capture the details of Dylan’s life and death as a personal keepsake, but I also wanted to send it to our health care team.  I wanted them to learn from our experience.  Writing our story felt good, it was therapeutic for me. I wanted to share the parental aspects as well as the medical.  Writing allowed me to release all this “stuff”. 

Afterward, I felt different.  For a while I was weepy and wondered if I was having delayed post-partum depression.  Or maybe I was moving onto some new phase of grieving.   I called DJ, our grief counselor, and described this to her.  Did she have any idea what this was?  She said writing was helping me let go of a lot of things and it was allowing me to move on.  And it would feel different.  That was good enough for me, as long as this made sense to someone who was trained in grief counseling, I was OK with it.

As time went on, more of these “letting go” feelings occurred and I struggled with them.  I kept holding onto those two weeks of Dylan’s life so tightly, but what had wrapped itself around the wonderful memories of his brief life were layers upon layers of pain, loss, and grief.  All those layers were heavy and I became accustomed to drudging that around.  So it felt like if I let go of the pain, I would let go of everything, including Dylan.  And I would not let go of him.  The pain from the loss and my love for Dylan were so intertwined. 

Very, very slowly I learned that I could let go of the pain and Dylan remained.  It took me a while to recognize that, though.  After shedding some of that weight, he just felt so light, like he wasn’t there, which terrified me.  But then I could feel his presence, his spirit, he had not gone anywhere.  I just had to get used to feeling lighter and know that Dylan would always be in my heart.

Beth Seyda’s life was transformed in 1997 with the birth and death of her critically ill newborn son, Dylan.  She combines her 25+ years of professional experience in consumer research with her personal experience as Co-Founder and Executive Director of Compassionate Passages, Inc. The mission of her non-profit organization is to give a voice to pediatric patients and their families through advocacy, education, and research with the goal of improving pediatric end-of-life care and providing support to dying children and their families.  Compassionate Passages donates the book Empty Cradle, Broken Heart: Surviving the Death of Your Baby to bereaved families. 

Beth lives in Chapel Hill, N.C., with her husband, Mark, and their 7-year old son, Tyler.  To learn more about Beth’s non-profit organization, go to: www.compassionatepassages.org

Corporate Department Takes Special Care to Welcome Back Bereaved Mom Co-Worker

By Monica Novak -

I received a call one day from Pat, the Share support group facilitator and perinatal bereavement coordinator at the local hospital, telling me that she and I had been invited to speak to one of the departments at a nearby corporation.  Diana, the manager who had contacted Pat, told her that one of her employees, a woman named Michelle, had recently delivered her firstborn child, a stillborn daughter, and was about to return to work after a six-week maternity leave.  Not only was Michelle an employee, she was a dear friend of Diana’s and everyone else in the department.  They were deeply concerned about Michelle and wanted to do everything possible to make her transition back to work as easy as possible for her.  Diana and some of the others had spent time with Michelle during her leave, and the department was planning a welcome back luncheon several days before Michelle’s official return to work to give her time to ease back into the routine and help her to get through the awkward first moments in a pleasant setting.

Pat and I arrived and were welcomed by a group of about 12 people and a table of fresh fruit, muffins, and water.  Diana had placed tissue boxes on each table anticipating an emotional discussion.  Pat showed a short video of a family as they went through the process of discovering they were expecting a baby, sharing the joyous news with family, preparing for the arrival, and then the devastating news that the baby had died.  The video ended with the delivery and last moments as the parents and extended family passed the baby around and said goodbye (it was a good thing we had the tissue on the tables, for them and for me!)  Pat then talked about what grieving families typically go through following the loss of a baby, and offered suggestions for what to do or say.

I shared my own personal story of losing my daughter Miranda, stillborn at full term just like Michelle’s daughter, and my agonizing decision to return to work.  I suggested that they make sure everyone in the department and possibly in the building be told of Michelle’s loss to keep her from the pain of being congratulated (the first two people who passed me in the hall at work the day I finally did return congratulated me and asked how the baby was).  I told everyone not to have any expectations about Michelle’s productivity for quite some time, although they laughed at that, saying “You don’t know Michelle, she’ll be as sharp as ever!”

Some ways they could welcome Michelle back included: give Michelle a hug, tell her “I’m sorry,” sit down and ask her to talk about the baby, to always address the baby by name, and ask to see photos if she has them.  I then pulled out a photo of Miranda and passed it around so they would know what to expect.  I’m guessing that most of them, if not all, had never seen a photo of a dead baby.  Many commented on how beautiful Miranda was, even with her red lips and red fingernails.

I talked about things people say that Michelle most likely would not find helpful.  Don’t tell her stories of other babies who survived the same situation (like the woman at work who told me about her baby who survived an umbilical cord knot-the reason for Miranda’s death).  Don’t say “Maybe it was for the best,” or “It was God’s will,” or “You’re young, you’ll have more children.”  These were things that were said to me by well-meaning people, meant to lessen my pain which at that time was not possible.

I suggested they consider sharing their own personal story of loss if the moment feels right (I learned of two co-workers who had lost babies, and made a new best friend at work after she shared her story of losing her dad and brother one year earlier.)  These co-workers became part of my support system. 

I also suggested to these caring co-workers that they treat Michelle’s loss as they would the loss of a parent, spouse, or older child, the main difference being that her memories were limited to her pregnancy and delivery, and instead she had a lifetime of hopes, plans, and dreams.  I told them to expect periods of distraction and possible moments of emotion, and to ask how she’s doing from time to time, and let her know they were thinking of her or her baby.

When we opened up for questions, someone asked if they should remove the photo on Michelle’s desk taken of her at the end of her pregnancy, concerned that the sight of it might upset Michelle upon her return.  Pat and I agreed that that decision was best left up to Michelle, and although the sight of it might bring a moment of sadness as she remembered that happy day in her pregnancy, it would also serve as a reminder that she had indeed carried her child and was still a mother.  She might choose to leave the photo on her desk, and could very likely feel resentment at having that decision made by someone else without asking her.

Another issue that came up was the new baby of another co-worker in the department who was also on maternity leave and expected to return soon.  We suggested that it was okay to celebrate with the other new mother, but to be aware of the difficulty for Michelle and to acknowledge her feelings.  Keep the lines of communication open, and encourage a dialogue between Michelle and the other mother.  On a side note, I added that nobody should expect Michelle to show up for any baby showers or baptisms anytime soon.

An older co-worker mentioned that she had young grandchildren and often shared photos and stories of them with co-workers.  She wondered if that would still be appropriate.  I reminded her that Michelle would not expect everyone’s lives to suddenly stop.  And she might appreciate sharing in this woman’s joy of her grandchildren.  If any new grandbabies come along, she might want to be extra sensitive about what to share and when.

Someone wondered if they should present Michelle with something on her first day back, such as balloons or flowers.  Pat and I felt that balloons seemed too celebratory, but flowers would be a nice gesture.

I pointed out that holidays, especially Christmas and Mother’s/Father’s Day were very difficult days for bereaved parents.  Michelle was still a mother, and it would be extremely thoughtful to send her a mother’s day card or at least acknowledge her on this day. 

The anniversary of her baby’s death would also be very difficult, and I suggested that everyone put this date on their calendars and send a card, a note, or flowers next year to share in Michelle’s remembrance and show support.  I wanted everyone to know that for the rest of her life, Michelle will be thinking about how old her baby would be, what she would be doing at that age, and how Michelle’s life as a mother would have been different.

Although Pat and I spoke from years of experience, our final message was this: Let your heart guide you.  Don’t be afraid of Michelle’s pain or tears, and don’t be afraid to let her see you cry, because it shows you care.  I closed with this poem that is often used in bereavement materials and was printed in our hospital’s Angel Garden calendar:

The mention of my child’s name may bring tears to my eyes,

but it never fails to bring music to my ears. 

If you really are my friend,

let me hear the beautiful music of my child’s name. 

It soothes my broken heart, and sings to my soul. 

-Author Unknown

At the conclusion of our discussion, several women got up to give us heartfelt hugs and thank us for sharing this information with them.  We all had tears in our eyes!  Pat and I felt so honored to be able to spend time with this special group of people and wondered out loud how different things could be if employers and corporations everywhere took this caring approach towards their grieving employees!

Monica Novak is the author of The Good Grief Club, a memoir about her friendships with six other women that carried them through the ups and downs of grief following the loss of their babies in miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death.  She also serves as editor of Open to Hope’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss page.  For more information about her book, and for pregnancy loss and infant death resources, please visit her website at www.thegoodgriefclub.com or e-mail her at monica@thegoodgriefclub.com.

Will You Follow Your Heart?

By Monica Novak -

I was having breakfast with my friend Wendy on a recent Sunday morning when she told me this story.  On her way out of church that morning, she saw an older woman sitting in the pew crying.  It’s a large congregation, and Wendy didn’t know the woman, but something inside Wendy told her to stop.  She followed her heart and walked up to the woman to ask if she was okay and could she do anything for her.  The woman wiped her face and told Wendy that her 2-month-old granddaughter had just died, and she had to go help her son and daughter-in-law through the grueling process of making funeral arrangements.  She was waiting for the crowd to clear so nobody would see her face. 

“Oh no, I’m so sorry this has happened.  How did she die?” Wendy asked, sitting down next to the woman.  “She had a heart defect and got through one surgery and was doing well.  She had gone home and gained weight, and we were hopeful that she was going to make it, and then she went downhill really fast,” answered the woman.

Wendy had been a NICU/special care nursery nurse, and had watched many families during this type of crisis, she told the woman.  But then she shared something more personal.  Wendy told the woman that she herself had lost four babies and that she understood the heartbreak. 

Wendy gave the woman the name and location for the local pregnancy and infant loss support group she had attended.  She also gave her home phone number and told the woman to have her daughter-in-law call Wendy anytime she needed someone to talk to, even if it was in the middle of the night.  And Wendy meant it.  Wendy asked the baby’s name, the names of her son and daughter-in-law, as well as the name of their living son, the baby’s brother.  She wrote them down and said she would pray for them.  Then Wendy hugged her and said goodbye. 

This story reminds me of the time I sat across from a woman in the café of my local Target store.  She was visibly distraught over something, and I wanted to approach her and ask her if she needed help.  I was waiting for her to make eye contact with me, to “invite” me to come over and talk, but she never did, so I stayed put.  After ten minutes, she got up and left.  My heart sank, for I hadn’t followed it’s urging that day.  I will never forget that woman and will always wonder if I could have helped her in some way, if perhaps I was “put” there for a reason.

I was no stranger to the outreach of a caring human being.  After my daughter Miranda was stillborn, I was deeply grieving and struggled with the decision to return to work.  While I was at home on maternity leave, I received this unexpected letter from a co-worker:

July 7, 1995

Dear Monica,

I don’t believe we have met yet; however, we spoke for quite awhile a couple of months ago when you interviewed me for the company newsletter.  I remember our phone conversation well and have been looking forward to meeting you ever since.  I am writing today to express my deepest sympathies to you and your family in the loss of your daughter, Miranda.  It was only this last Friday that I learned of the tragedy that has come to you.

We spoke at length the day you called, but particularly about children and the excitement felt when expecting a new one to the family.  I felt that maternal bond that comes from mothers/expectant mothers talking.  Today I am writing because of another bond felt-that of experiencing tragic loss.  Two years ago on July 2^nd, my father and 16-year-old brother (13 years my junior) died in a weather-related car accident.  It was unexpected and it was unwelcome, as is your loss, and although I have felt great pain and emptiness at no longer having them with me, I can only imagine the emptiness of losing a child-and I know I can never fully understand.  In our department is a mom who lost her four-month-old child to SIDS.  I did not know her at the time of her loss and although the losses and experiences are different, we can take comfort in each other; listening perhaps a little more closely, a little more appreciatively, than others who have not experienced sudden and tragic death.

I have no great words of wisdom and I fear all too few to comfort.  One thing I have read and do know in my heart to be true-All life has purpose.  Miranda’s life within you had purpose, and I know she feels your love.  I hope that we will meet, and I hope that we can talk and perhaps draw some small comfort from each other.

My thoughts and prayers are with you, your family, and especially with Miranda.

Lynne Schwartz

At the time of our phone interview, Lynne had two little girls and I was six months pregnant with Miranda, so our conversation had naturally turned to motherhood.  I had hoped to meet her, but not under these circumstances.  I later made the decision to return to work, in large part because of Lynne reaching out to me.  We quickly became close friends, often spending our lunch hour together, sharing life stories and struggles with grief. 

Lynne and I had worked at the headquarters for a large corporation, and of all the people I could have interviewed for that company newsletter, why had I been connected with her?  Coincidence?  I don’t think so.  Lynne was “put” in my life at just the right moment through that interview.  She followed her heart when she wrote me that letter.  And I followed my heart when I decided to go back to work, making a beeline for her department (and a big hug!) just minutes after I returned that first day after maternity leave. 

Of all the people who could have seen the crying woman in that crowded church, why was it Wendy who noticed?  Coincidence?  No, I don’t think so.  Wendy was “put” in that woman’s path because she was the perfect person to console her.  Wendy followed her heart when she stopped to offer help.  And the woman followed her heart when she opened up and shared her pain with Wendy.

Have you ever heard the saying “People are God’s hands here on Earth?”  We’re put in each other’s lives at just the right moment, in just the right place.  Perhaps it’s the orchestration of angels.  However you want to explain it, and whatever you want to call it, it’s all around you if you’ll pay attention.  But sometimes it’s up to you to follow your heart and offer a kind word or a gentle touch.  And sometimes it’s up to you to follow your heart and accept it.  The next time you’re put in a situation like this, will you choose to follow your heart? 

Portions of this article were excerpted from The Good Grief Club: A True Story About the Power of Friendship and French Toast.

Monica Novak is the author of The Good Grief Club, a memoir about her friendships with six other women that carried them through the ups and downs of grief following the loss of their babies in miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death.  She also serves as editor of Open to Hope’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss page at www.opentohopepregnancyloss.com .  For more information about her book, and for pregnancy loss and infant death resources, please visit her website at www.thegoodgriefclub.com or e-mail her at monica@thegoodgriefclub.com.

Welcome to My New Column and First Posting

Dear Friends,

Welcome to the first post of my new weekly column, A Mother’s Thoughts. I’ll be sharing stories from my own experience, stories told to me by others, and any topics I come across that are relevant to pregnancy loss and infant death. I welcome your comments, questions, and your own personal experiences, for it is in sharing that we find healing and meaning in our own lives.  Blessings, Monica

 

Choosing to Live

By Monica Novak

Three weeks after our daughter Miranda was stillborn, shattering my Marsha-Brady-like-existence, my husband Al and I attended a Share pregnancy and infant loss support group meeting. I came home that night with a book from the lending library called Dear Parents. It was a collection of letters written by real-life bereaved parents to poor souls like me. I sat in my bed crying, page after page, but when I finished reading, I realized that for the first time since Miranda’s death, I felt a thread of hope weaving its way through my soul. These parents, and the “veteran” members of the support group, gave me an inkling of belief in the idea that I might one day actually be capable of happiness again.

Well, here I am fourteen years later writing to tell you the same thing. I can’t pinpoint one moment in time when I realized I had become happy again, or even when I was no longer mad as hell at the unfairness of losing my baby. It was a gradual process, a journey, made possible in large part by the friendships I discovered in six other women from my Share group. Together, we laughed and cried (often over French toast and beer), got pissed off, got pregnant again, held cemetery picnics, held Walks to Remember. What we were doing, although we didn’t realize it then, was making conscious choices to keep living life. We were telling the universe, “we aren’t done yet, we aren’t going to let this break us, our babies’ lives must have meaning, and we’re going to figure out how to absorb them into who we are now becoming.”

The Good Grief Club is the book I wrote to share our story with you. For Dawn, Beth, Heidi, Darlene, Tracy, Wendy and me-in the wake of the babies we lost, in the face of the babies who were yet to come-life went on. It can for you, too. But you must choose.

Monica Novak is the author of The Good Grief Club and the editor of Open to Hope’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss page (www.opentohopepregnancyloss.com). Visit her website at www.thegoodgriefclub.com or e-mail her at monica@thegoodgriefclub.com.

GRIEF SUPPORT 101: How to Help a Bereaved Friend or Loved One

By Fran Dorf -

Thirty years after her son’s death, my friend still smarts when she remembers all the people who pointed out how lucky she was to have two other children. Another friend, whose brother recently died, grumbles that everyone keeps telling her it will get better with time. Another, whom I originally met in a grief support group, for years avoided anyone who hadn’t also lost a child. Having received my share of insensitive, even hurtful, comments after I lost my son, Michael, thirteen years ago, I certainly understand. Why do people so often say and do the wrong thing? And why do the bereaved often feel stabbed by well-intentioned comments that would normally roll right off our backs?

For all the violence and death Americans see in our “entertainment,” we want our real pain shrink-wrapped, bloodless, and over fast. Unfortunately, there is no quick fix to alleviate the volatile, long-lasting, often ugly emotional stew that is grief; no magic potion to lessen the pain, despair, resentment, jealousy, shock, guilt, anger, numbness, ambivalence, bitterness, and anxiety. Let’s face it, grief can be messy. There can be appetite, sleep, and concentration issues; feelings of isolation and rejection; even fear of going crazy or losing control. All this makes most people uncomfortable.

If you want to comfort a grieving friend or relative, your primary task is to validate his/her feelings. Don’t say anything that minimizes those feelings-which, in effect, de-legitimizes them.

WHAT NOT TO DO

I’ve found that de-legitimizers can be divided into six categories:

Babblers: These people chatter on about the weather, a friend who had a heart attack, and so on. The bereaved can’t be distracted. Ignoring an elephant in the room just makes it bigger. Be self-aware. Maybe you’re chattering because you do so characteristically, or because you feel nervous and vulnerable. This isn’t about you.

Advice-givers: People often give advice such as, Start dating again, Have another child; Take a long vacation; Concentrate on your other children; It’s time to get over it; Remember the good times. But when we hear this advice, we may interpret it as, “What’s wrong with you? If only you’d take my wise counsel, you’d feel better.” I remember people advised me to take a sedative, but somehow I knew I needed to shed a certain number of tears (more than I could ever have imagined) and that it would be counterproductive to try to mask my pain with medication.

Platitude-offerers: When you spout clichés like, God must have wanted him, He’s in a better place, You did everything you could, the bereaved may feel offended. You may prefer to believe God must have wanted him, but the bereaved person may hate God at the moment, and thus feel de-legitimized for feeling what she feels.

Pseudo-empathizers: It’s particularly distressing for those experiencing “high grief” as from child loss to hear that you know just how we feel. If you haven’t experienced the same loss, you have no idea how we feel-and maybe not even then.

Lesson-Learners: There may be profound lessons to be learned from tragedy, but it’s best to let others learn them in our own time and way. Don’t tell us, Everything happens for a reason, You never know, We must learn to appreciate our lives, or Life is short.

Abandoners: Whatever the conscious or unconscious rationalizations-fear of saying the wrong thing, or feeling uncomfortable in the face of grief-if you walk away from a friend who needs you, you’re probably walking away from the friendship permanently.

HOW TO HELP

Take your cues from the bereaved person. If she’s sitting quietly, sit beside her. If he’s using humor to cope, laugh a little. Offer a hug or hold a hand.

Let us tell our story, in as much detail as we want, even if we repeat it, even if it’s horrific and hard to hear. It actually helps people to tell the story.

Read about grief, or search online under “grief” or “bereavement.” You honor your bereaved friend by learning all you can. Good books include, A Good Friend for Bad Times (Augsburg Fortress) by Deborah Bowen and Susan Strickler, and, I Wasn’t Ready to Say Goodbye (Sourcebooks) by Pamela Blair and Brook Noel. I also recommend my own novel, Saving Elijah, which was praised by the “Washington Post” for its “tough minded interrogative approach to grief, and which for all its supernatural trappings and its wise talking, spectral literary device, is essentially an extended metaphor for the psychological process of grief.”

Acknowledge the deceased person. Tell a wonderful anecdote. Even now, I am grateful when someone mentions Michael. Just saying his name aloud brings him back into the world.

Offer practical and specific support. Make calls, pick up the kids from school, cook a meal, mow the lawn. Don’t say, “Is there anything I can do?” Or, “Call me if you need me.” The fog of bereavement is thick. Decide what you can do, given our relationship and appropriate cultural/religious considerations, and then do it.

Stay in touch. Remember that when the formal mourning period is over and the last casserole is gone, we’re still here, alone and grieving. Now is the time to show up.

Contact the bereaved on significant days-birthdays, death days, anniversaries. These are difficult, especially “firsts.” Don’t avoid, ignore, or forget them. We haven’t.

Banish the word closure from your vocabulary. There is no such thing, and who would want it, anyway? We incorporate our losses into our lives. I’m a different person than I was before I lost Michael, and my loss informs every day of my life. Psychologists have proposed many ways to describe how we find a way to live with loss, but the one I find most useful is that we must “reinvest” in a new reality without the lost one. I eventually wrote a novel and my husband and I established an educational program for toddlers with special needs, in memory of our son, but reinvestment can be small and private too, revealed in a change in priorities, attitudes, interests or goals.

Meet us where we are. Don’t have expectations. Don’t compare one grief to another. Remember that grief may take years to work through. Be prepared for tears, moaning, sighing, wailing, trembling, even screaming. Don’t take anger personally. Remember that Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief-denial, bargaining, anger, despair, acceptance-come not in stages but in circles and waves like a roller coaster.

The best definition of compassion I’ve ever found is a Buddhist one: “Compassion is willingness to be close to suffering.” It takes work, stamina, and commitment to support the bereaved. Be present. Be humble. Observe. Reflect. Allow silence. Don’t judge. Accept.

Listen. .
* * *

Fran Dorf is the author of the novels A Reasonable Madness (Birch Lane, Signet, Vivisphere); Flight (Dutton, Signet, Vivisphere) and Saving Elijah (Putnam), which a starred PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY review called, “a stunning novel that crackles with suspense, dark humor, and provocative questions.” Part ghost story, part family drama, and part thriller, Saving Elijah was inspired by the loss of Fran’s son, Michael. Fran also holds a master’s degree in psychology and conducts “Write-to-heal” workshops to help people cope with grief, trauma, and/or loss.

Her website/blog is http://www.frandorf.com . (THE BRUISED MUSE).

A version of this article originally appeared in Bottom Line/Personal, June 1, 2008

Death of a Child: ‘Unfinished Motherhood’

By Clara Hinton -

When child-loss occurs, a mother goes through a difficult time of emotional turmoil and questioning. “Am I still a mother?” “Does my child still have a birthday each year, or does time stand still?” “Can the mother/child relationship continue to grow, or am I now an ‘unfinished mother’?”

Losing a child often places a mother on a road that begins a lonelier journey than ever expected-one that can never really be explained. There was a beginning, but with the death of the child, there is no middle and no end. Everything seems so unfinished. Hopes and dreams were stopped far too soon. Joy was snatched away so suddenly. A mother is left with empty arms and an empty heart. Nothing can ever be complete when a child’s life ends.

When the death of a child occurs, a mother may suddenly feel inadequate and incomplete. She wears a new name. She may feel an “unfinished mother,” never being able to see the rest of the picture. She will never be able to watch her child mature into a young adult. She will never be able to see all the pieces fit together. The picture will always have part of the scenery missing. It is so painful to be an unfinished mother! Child loss makes everything seem so empty and incomplete.

There will come a critical point in this journey of grief when a mother must reach deep into her inner resources and make a conscious decision to accept herself just as she is-a mother whose heart has been touched by the pain and grief of child-loss. Only then can she start to put together some of the broken pieces and begin to feel like there will be a day when she will feel more like a complete mother than an unfinished mother.

A mother is never “unfinished.” No matter how brief her time was with her child, the bond of love between mother and child was complete. A mother’s love for her child is unending. Dreams may shatter and circumstances may change, but a mother’s love remains strong. As a mother travels the path to healing, it is important for her to remind herself often that she is a mother forever. Her motherhood did not stop when her child died. This understanding of motherhood releases the feelings of guilt and failure and allows a mother to begin to see herself as a whole person again-a complete mother.

A mother is never an “unfinished mother.” A mother’s love runs far too deep for that!

While experiencing the blessing of living children, Clara has also felt the pain of losing six children due to miscarriage, and has delivered one stillborn son.  Knowing the grief of child loss first-hand prompted Clara to write a book, Silent Grief, as well as begin a grief support website, www.silentgrief.com, for parents seeking support while going through the pain of loss. Contact Clara at chinton@wpia.net or visit the Silent Grief website.

Suggestions for a Well-Deserved Mother’s and Father’s Day

By Cathi Lammert -

Often times Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are two of the most difficult days for bereaved parents. Some have told me that these days are so painful that they are not able to even acknowledge it for their own mom or dad, and they celebrate with their parents on a different day. Over the years, parents have looked at me with tear-filled eyes and asked me “Am I really a parent if my baby is not here with me?”

I equate parenthood with love; the greatest kind of love. Does love stop when a baby dies? Of course not! You will always be your child/ren’s parent. No one can take this role away from you.

You may question whether you have the right to celebrate or be remembered on these days, but a parent’s love needs to be acknowledged and celebrated. If you can’t imagine joining the rest of the world in the typical activities of celebration, do something different or not at all. But also know, that even without your precious baby in your arms, you are parents and parenthood can be celebrated as you choose. Whatever you choose to do on these days, know that it is okay if it feels right to you.

The following suggestions are some ways to celebrate your parenthood on these difficult days:

* Acknowledge that you are parents.

* Be gentle with yourselves. Do only what you can handle. 

*Acknowledge that this day could be difficult and determine how you can comfortably spend the day.

*Alert yourself to the most difficult challenges of the day, such as attention given to moms and dads at church. Some parents have talked to their clergy about the importance of recognizing all parents at these celebrations.

*Family gatherings may make you feel uncomfortable. Discuss this with your family and let them know that you appreciate their love and support, but that you may not be able to attend or manage your composure throughout the entire day. Assure them that these feelings will not be forever.

*Plan ahead. Waiting until the last minute can cause frustration and hurt feelings.

*Share with family and friends how they can help make your day a special one. Sometimes they need specific suggestions, such as sending you a card, flowers, or a donation to Share or another favorite charity in your baby’s name.

*Treat yourselves to a special gift, an outing, or flowers. Send each other cards for these special days.

*Remember your baby by lighting a candle, placing a rose on the alter or dinner table, or planting a tree or bush.

It is important to tell others what you need. Do not assume that everyone will be aware of how you are feeling on these days. Being aware in advance that certain situations may be difficult, such as family gatherings or church services, allows you the opportunity to plan accordingly. If you’ve been asked to do something that makes you uncomfortable, listen to your heart. For some, spending the day in bed with the covers pulled up, or on the couch watching movies, might be the right thing. Be sensitive to your own feelings and needs, and above all, know that you are parents.

Cathi Lammert, R.N., is Executive Director of the National Office of SHARE Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support, Inc. www.nationalshare.org.  As a bereaved parent, Cathi combines her personal experience with her education and professional background as an obstetrical nurse. Her son, Christopher Michael lived just 4 days and died due to Hydrops Fetalis, a complication of Rh sensitization.  Cathi was a guest on the radio show Healing the Grieving Heart with Dr. Gloria & Dr. Heidi Horsley, to discuss Finding Help and Hope After Pregnancy Loss.  To hear Cathi being interviewed on this show, click on the following link:  www.voiceamericapd.com/health/010157/horsley011509.mp3  For more information, you can e-mail Cathi at:  clammert@nationalshare.org

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