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.

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.

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.

‘Grief is an Illness’ and Other Myths Surrounding Loss

By David Daniels, M.D. -

Destructive myths abound concerning the loss and grief process. First, contrary to some views, there is no one “right” way to die or grieve; our personality type makes a difference. Some of us go in peace and some screaming.

Many people don’t go through all the steps in the dying process outlined by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross (On Death and Dying) or in the order she states. She lists in order: shock; denial; anger; bargaining; depression; and acceptance/resignation. By bargaining, she means asking for a favor or another chance, often based on the promise of good behavior. Depression is not inevitable, and some people don’t feel angry.

With loving care and the receptive awareness and acceptance that go with presence, many people realize that life is each day, that wholeness is the goal, not postponing death. We can heal the heart while the body is dying.

There are myths about the grieving process as well. The main ones are that grief is an illness, something to get better from, and that you grieve first and then come back to live life as though grief and life are linear processes.

In truth, grief is a natural process. It lets us know that we care/love. The natural sadness of grief often comes in waves, unexpectedly. Trying not to grieve often causes persistent distress and even depression.

The natural process involves leaning into pain, not away from it and releasing through the pain into love and life in each moment. Life and grief go hand in hand in a natural co-existence. These realizations, when truly lived, make both the death and grief process transformative rather than transfixing. These best or healthy principles about the dying and the grief processes have been honored in both hospice and Anamcara (soul friend) care that goes back over 1000 years.

Dr. David Daniels, MD is clinical professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Stanford Medical School, a leading developer of the Enneagram system of nine personality styles, and co-author of The Essential Enneagram (Harper Collins). 

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.

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