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.

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

Woman Grieves Over Death of a Baby 35 Years Ago

From Open to Hope: Ask The Authors, December 10, 2008

Tammy writes in with a question: My friend who is 52 is grieving over a baby she lost when she was 17. She has 2 other children, both adults now. But she is suddenly feeling this loss, feeling like she was supposed to have 3 children. Is it possible to grieve this far from the death?

Doris Jeanette, Psy.D., author of Opening the Heart, an emotional guide into feelings and emotions.  responds:

It is not only possible, but helpful, to grieve any loss that has not been fully experienced.  It does not matter how many years ago the original loss occurred.  As a young mother, your friend may not have been able to fully grieve the loss. She may have blamed herself and as a result shut off her feelings and emotions. Now she may be ready to feel the loss and express her emotions. This is wonderful. You can be a helpful friend by supporting her in expressing her feelings and emotions in healthy ways. You can also encourage her to seek professional help, if needed.  She will be a stronger and healthier person after she processes the loss of her child. Opening the heart is a life-long process and how it unfolds is how it unfolds. Honor her and her healing process.

Tom Zuba, author, inspirational speaker, and workshop facilitator, responds:

Yes, it is possible to grieve many years after a death has occurred. 

Many of us think, and probably secretly hope, that grief has a limited shelf life.  I don’t believe that’s true.  It certainly hasn’t been my experience.  I think we’ll always be grieving the great losses of our life, and the death of your friend’s baby when she was only 17 is certainly a great loss.  Often the grief changes though.  For many, it softens and the underlying love we feel for the person who has died rises to the surface quicker.  The pain is not as intense nor does it last as long as it once did. But I think we will always experience moments of grief.  It’s one of the ways we stay connected. 

I believe that the relationship we have with a loved one, and certainly with our children, continues even after they die.  It’s up to us to determine if that relationship will be healthy or unhealthy. 

I’d like to suggest to you that your friend does indeed still have three children.  One happened to die as a baby.  But your friend is still that child’s mother.  Nothing can change that.  Now that her other two children have grown and are perhaps out of the house, there may be some space available for the grief that is rooted in the baby’s death to rise up.  It sounds like that may be happening.  It’s healthy and brings with it great opportunity for growth.

I hope you will accompany your friend as she feels every feeling and emotion that rises to the surface - emotions and feelings that may have been stuffed deep for a long time.  Perhaps you can encourage her to examine and maybe even redefine the relationship she has with her child that died.  Does she have a picture of that baby displayed in a special place in her home?  Does she honor her baby’s birth in a unique way? 

She might consider writing a letter to the baby.  What would she like this baby to know?  Or she might find comfort in writing a letter to herself from the baby.  If the baby could talk to her mom, all these years later, what would the baby say?  If your friend celebrates Christmas, she could buy a special ornament this year in memory of her baby.  This could become her annual tradition.

The relationship continues.  It’s worth taking the time to make sure it’s a healthy one.

Growing Together

By Chuck and Cathi Lammert -

Over the many years of working with bereaved parents, my husband, Chuck and I have had many questions asked of us about coping and growing together as a couple after the loss of one’s baby(ies). Interestingly, when we were running support groups, many women in the group would line up to ask Chuck more questions about their partner’s issues than their own dealings with the loss. It is common in relationships to have a need to understand and attempt to fix the other person. One of the biggest worries after the death of a baby is the fear of separation or divorce. I can honestly say those couples we supported who truly worked on their grief issues were less likely to face this challenge.

Following are some suggestions for dealing with your own issues, and solid advice for a couple’s dealings on this difficult journey. Chuck and I hope that by sharing these coping strategies, we might help your relationship not only survive this tragedy, but become stronger and happier.

• Your relationship as a couple is the most important relationship. Let it take precedence over all others.

• When a baby dies, the grief affects both of you at the same time. Other stresses in a relationship usually do not impact both individuals simultaneously. Therefore, your closest support is not always able to respond to you because he/she is trying to cope with his/her own grief.

• Each person in the relationship will grieve in individual ways. Learning to understand your partner’s ways may take some time and may be difficult.

• Sometimes words are not needed; just your listening ear may help.

• Difficulties may arise in the best of relationships. This may be the first time you may struggle with major differences of opinions. Keep working at communicating your emotional and physical needs.

• Your partner does not have to be your sole supporter. It is OK to share with someone close to you or a support group during this difficult time.

• Reading bereavement materials may help validate your feelings. In addition, you can point out in your reading, your parallel feelings to your partner. It is also a great source to initiate a discussion.

• It is OK to reach out for professional help, it is not a sign of weakness.

• There may be stresses on your sexual relationship. Communicate your intimate feelings openly. Remember, human touch and hugs can be healing.

• Each of you may need some privacy with your feelings. Respect and give each other that space.

• You may feel differently about the choices regarding memorializing your child. Talk about your differences and try to work out a compromise.

• Each of you experienced the death of your baby but you may have had different hopes and dreams for your baby. Sharing your lost dreams can give you some insight into each other’s feelings.

• You are not the same person you were before your baby died. It may take time to accept and understand the new person.

• Each of you will search for a meaning of your loss; one or both may turn to faith or spirituality, one or both may not.

• Your baby has given you many gifts, exploring those gifts may warm your heart. Your priorities in life may change for the better.

• It is okay to enjoy life again. Your baby does not expect you to be sad all of the time. Sharing laughter and tears together helps you to heal. Search for some relaxing things to do; it may help give you a new perspective.

• This is a difficult time for both of you. Remember that if your relationship was secure prior to your loss, it can become a deeper relationship during and after your healing.

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

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.

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

‘Don’t Ever Doubt You Are a Mother’

By Nina Bennett -

In a monumental moment of synchronicity, I was present the night my beloved granddaughter was born still. She slid into this world without drawing a breath, following a full-term, healthy pregnancy and normal, though long, labor. In a poignant moment, Jennifer, my daughter-in-law, looked at me and quietly asked, “So am I a mother or aren’t I?” With her question, my heart broke all over again. Later, Jenn told me how she resented not having the chance to parent her daughter.

Oh, but Jenn, you did parent your daughter. Not in the way you dreamed of, certainly. The act of parenting involves nurturing your child and tending to her needs.

Your daughter received unconditional love from the very first moment. You tended to her needs throughout your pregnancy. You carefully researched your prenatal care options, choosing a practice with nurse midwives because of their philosophy toward pregnancy and birth. You were actively involved in your pregnancy, taking yoga classes to deal with stress and physical discomforts. You read everything you could get your hands on about fetal development. You paid attention to your changing body and respected the fact that these changes were in response to your baby’s growth. A vegetarian, you were vigilant about ensuring that your baby received the proper nutrients for her development.

Together, you and Tim selected the birthing suite where you wanted to welcome your child. The plans for the birth were made with love. Every step of the way, each decision you made was based on love and concern for your baby-the absolute hallmarks of parenting. You chose a car seat after examining safety ratings. The furniture you selected for the nursery was not only lovely, it was useful-the crib would convert into a single bed, so the furniture would transition as your child grew older. In every decision you made, your baby came first.

I believe that the ultimate goal of parenting is to prepare your child to leave the protection of her home. While we never expected this to occur in the manner it did, you accomplished this with an amazing show of grace. As she left your body you touched her, not knowing that the guidance you were providing was all the guidance she would ever need.

Maddy knew the certainty and warmth of unconditional love throughout your pregnancy with her. Your daughter knew the intensity and depth of your love during her delivery and for the hours afterward, when you held and rocked and talked to her.  Although the atmosphere of serenity you had planned was temporarily abandoned when it was discovered that Maddy had no heartbeat, the quiet and dignity you desired returned once the medical necessities were completed.

Please don’t ever doubt that you are a mother. You are a mother in the truest, most selfless sense. Bereft, yes, but truly a mother. Your arms may be empty but your heart is overflowing. The love you have for your daughter lives on in your actions and your determination that she not be forgotten. You approach relationships with increased warmth and a heightened sense of connection.  So much was taken from you on November 12, 2003, but one fact will never change - forever and always, you will be Maddy’s Mommy.

© copyright 2006 Nina Bennett

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

Mother’s Day Flowers

By Beth Seyda -

It was back in 1998 that I was finally eligible to celebrate my first Mother’s Day.  Our first child, Dylan, had been born in the fall of 1997 after many years of fertility issues.  But when that May holiday came around, one that I had longed to be a part of, it was a bitter-sweet day.  Yes, I was a mother, but now without a child.  Our sweet baby lived for only two weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit and died peacefully in our arms. 

I struggled that first Mother’s Day - I wanted to celebrate, I had been so happy being a mom to Dylan while I was pregnant with him and during his brief life.  I wanted to honor our mother-son relationship, even though the pain from the loss was still palpable. 

I recalled how others had supported us and what I found comforting.  Family and friends had given us numerous plants, bushes, and flowers in memory of Dylan which were growing outside in our front and back yards.  It’s an understatement that I do not have a green thumb, so I welcomed the beautiful daffodils, crocus, azalea and butterfly bushes that were now blooming.  I loved being outdoors and admiring Mother Nature’s miracles.  With Dylan’s birth and death occurring only weeks from each other, being reminded of the circle of life connected with me.

So, on my first Mother’s Day I started what has become an annual ritual: planting flowers (usually hardy geraniums) in clay pots that adorn our back deck.  Getting my hands into the dirt and helping these flowers take root and thrive continue to be healing as I reflect upon how Dylan nourished my soul and helped me become a mom. 

There were many tears as I planted flowers those first Mother’s Days.  But it always brought me such joy to see the fruits of my labors as the spring unfolded into summer and fall, and as I watched hummingbirds gather nectar from these flowers. 

Now, many years later and mother to 7-year old Tyler, this Mother’s Day I will once again be out on our deck planting flowers - proudly and gratefully remembering all our children. 

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

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