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.

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.

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.

A Stillborn Baby and the Fathers in Her Life

By Monica Novak -

When I was a child, I prided myself on making the best homemade cards to show my parents how important they were to me.  Father’s Day was probably the Big Kahuna of cardmaking for me because in the eyes of this little girl, Daddy was king.  He was the one whose side I sat by for all those workbench projects, eagerly waiting to hand over a tool.  And he was the one whose shoulder I cried on during the disappointments and heartbreaks of life.  Somehow, Dad was always able to make it feel better and bring a smile to my face.

But 1995 would demand something different from all the fathers in my life.  Just one day after a large family Father’s Day celebration which included my husband, Al-the father of our 2-year-old and another baby due that same week-my father, Terry, and my grandfather, “Papa”, our daughter Miranda was delivered stillborn, suddenly throwing the order of life upside down.  How would these men respond to something so tragic and so completely out of their control?

In the hours surrounding the news of our baby’s in-utero death and her delivery, Al and I clung to each other sobbing and saying goodbye to Miranda.  I had never seen him cry before and have never seen him cry since her memorial service held four days later.  Although I carried her for nine months, I knew he loved her just as deeply as I did, writing this poem for Alex, our 2-year-old daughter, (something I had never known him to do) as one of the ways he struggled to come to terms with what was happening.

Usually when I walk into a room, everyone calls my name and wants to play.

            Not today.

            Everyone is sad.

Why is everyone so sad?

Did everyone get an “owie”?

            Or maybe they have to go to bed early.

            Now, that is sad.

Mommy is in a funny bed and will not hold me.

            She’s not talking very loud.

            She’s sad.

                        Why is everyone so sad?

I woke up today at Grandma & Grandpa’s house.

            That was nice, but why am I here?

            They’re sad.

Why is everyone so sad?

Daddy holds me extra tight and kisses me a lot.

            His tears fall into my hair.

            He is sad.

Why is everyone so sad?

Mommy’s tummy is not big anymore.

            Where’s the baby she said was in there?

            Now I’m sad.

I guess it’s okay to be sad.

My father and mother were there with me in the hospital at a critical moment as I made the difficult decision to ask for Miranda’s body to be brought to me again.  “I really miss her.  I didn’t get to spend enough time with her,” I cried.  “Why don’t you call Candy to bring her up?” Dad said.  “This might be your last chance.  We’ll be here with you.”

A few minutes later, nurse Candy came in pushing a bassinet.  Trembling, I watched the small round figure move towards me, wrapped in a receiving blanket and wearing a tiny white hat with a pink ball on top, just like the one Alex wore the day she was born.  She warned me that Miranda was still cold, but would warm up a bit.  She carefully picked her up, laid her in my arms and then slipped out of the room. 

“Oh, my poor baby.  Why couldn’t you have held on a little longer?” I asked her, rocking back and forth.  My mom and dad sat on each side of my bed, wrapping their arms around me and Miranda.  “It hurts so much,” I cried out loud.  My dad hugged me tighter.  “I wish I could take the hurt away, but I can’t, so I’ll just cry with you,” he said in my ear.

My Papa, always a source of upliftment and joy, was there for me at the memorial service with a smile on his face, one of his special hugs, and a twinkle in his blue eyes.  After the service, as we walked down the stairs and headed for our cars, I was unaware that my 89-year-old grandfather had walked out behind me, crying uncontrollably.  I had never seen Papa cry and I suppose he wanted to keep it that way.

Papa was a veteran of this thing called death.  His mother died when he was six, he lived through the Great Depression, countless wars, and at his age, had buried enough family and friends to fill a cemetery; attending a funeral was a weekly event for him, yet here he was sobbing for a little baby girl he’d never laid eyes on.

Miranda would be turning fourteen this June 20^th, one day before Father’s Day.  Through the years, these three fathers haven’t talked about her as much as I, my daughters, and the women in my life have, but I know they hold her in their hearts.

Every year when we would sing Happy Birthday to Miranda with our three daughters, I never really knew what Al was thinking or feeling as his face intently watched the girls, but suspected he was silently communing with his fourth daughter who never got to call him Daddy or make him a Father’s Day card.

Then, a few years ago I came across a copy of a letter Al had written to a group of men he had just befriended on a Christian men’s retreat.  He talked about losing his daughter Miranda, and how he never doubted that God was with him during that time, and that somehow he kept his faith.  He felt that he was being called to be a strong-willed man who could offer comfort to others in need.  I think he was, in his own way, acknowledging that Miranda had helped her Dad to grow and realize what he was capable of.

Sometime shortly after Miranda’s death, my dad put together a framed copy of a quote he had read in When Hello Means Goodbye, the booklet I was given in the hospital.  Amidst the photos on his desk of all his grandkids sits a black 8×10 framed print that reads:

Miranda Blair Novak

June 20^th 1995

Hold Close These Moments For We Shall Always Live By Remembering

He later told me that he realized early on he could not let this little girl get out of his mind and has looked at her name every day for fourteen years.  Just this weekend it occurred to him to ask me for her picture so his collection of the grandkid photos would be complete.

Two years after Miranda died, my Papa made his transition from this life.  Since then, several spiritual teachers have told me and my mother on separate occasions that they see a man fitting the description of my Papa holding hands with a young brown-haired girl wearing a dress.  My mother has had the same dream about Papa and Miranda.  And in both the visions and the dreams, the two are smiling and dancing joyfully.

Though Miranda’s physical presence was here for but a moment, the spirit of a daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter lives on in the hearts of the dads who love her, and through them makes this world a better place.

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.

Blogger’s Baby Hoax Stemmed From Real-Life Grief and Loss

By Monica Novak -

As I walked into the house Friday morning, my husband, Al, handed me the front page of the Chicago Tribune.  “I think you should read this,” he said.  The headline story read “Blogger’s baby a hoax.”  An unmarried Chicago suburban woman named Beccah, also known as “April’s mom”, had been blogging for two months about her pregnancy with a terminally ill baby, gaining support from thousands of people nationwide who encouraged her to continue the pregnancy.  By the time Beccah claimed to have given birth at home to a girl named April Rose who died hours later, even posting a photo of her alleged baby wrapped in a white blanket, her blogsite had one million hits.  The photo tipped people off.  The “baby” was actually a lifelike doll, and followers who recognized the doll realized the truth, which Beccah later admitted.

There was no baby.  At least not this time.  But as Beccah apologized and tried to explain her actions, she confided that she had indeed lost a son shortly after birth in 2005.  Her blog, she said, was in part an attempt to help her deal with that loss.

The personal irony of the story’s timing was not lost on me.  I had just come from Advocate Good Samaritan Hospital where I had been invited to speak before a national nursing review board about the community outreach of the hospital’s Share pregnancy and infant loss support program.  When my daughter, Miranda, was stillborn there 14 years earlier, we were given immediate support-physical, emotional, and spiritual-helping us to say hello and goodbye to our baby.  After we went home, the Share program walked alongside us on the grief journey by way of support group meetings, memorial services, and personal one-on-one counseling when needed. 

Those services are provided free of charge to anyone in the community, regardless of where you delivered your baby.  Hospitals, churches, and communities all over the United States offer Share or similar support programs.  For those who don’t have a group in their immediate area, help is available by phone or online from national organizations like Share, Compassionate Friends, Miss Foundation, and many others.

Beccah’s fabricated story greatly angered her followers who had formed an emotional connection to her.  But I feel like the real victim here is Beccah.  I’m not excusing her actions, but I can’t help but feel a certain amount of sympathy and compassion for a mother who experienced the death of her son and four years later still seems to be struggling to come to terms with her loss.  I can’t help but wonder, did she hold her son, name him, get a photo of him?  Did she have any emotional support in the hospital or at home in the days, months, and years that followed?  If the answers to those questions are no, how might this story have been different if the answers to those questions had been yes?

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.

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.