In the Land of Broken Hearts

Eight Years Without You

2011-12-30T08:52:00.000-05:00

Every year since 2003, at 11:34 am on the 30th of December, I have looked at the clock and thought, "And now I knew." Ben was gone but the long process of labor and delivery loomed, phoning my husband to tell him the terrible news, alerting families and friends.

In the space of a moment, a life changed, a life ended. A lifetime of things not done, words not said, plans and hopes and memories never made.

Eight years. Unimaginable that anyone can live that long without something--someone--so important. But live you do, because there is no other choice.

Grateful

2011-12-20T06:20:00.000-05:00

Grateful for those who aren't afraid to say his name. (Ben.)

Grateful for those who try to understand that he is still my son, that I miss him every moment of every day. Grateful for those who realize I miss all the things that could have been. Grateful for those who understand you don't "move on" but you incorporate the grief into your life.

Grateful to those who aren't afraid to tell me they remember him and can only imagine how much it hurts.

Grateful that he is not, just yet, forgotten.

End-of-Year Charity Requests

2011-12-14T08:29:00.000-05:00

One request comes from the MISS Foundation, with this:

"2011 has been a tremendous year of growth for the MISS Foundation. A new board of directors, a new executive director, a new national office, a new accounting system, new database, new interns, new policies, new procedures, new volunteers, and sadly, and most importantly many, many, many new MISS Families needing support after the death of their beloved child....

The MISS Foundation serves these families and thousands of other bereaved families around the world without the help of federal funding or grants. The MISS Foundation is able to care for its families from individual and corporate donations. Not unlike many nonprofits in this depressed economy, donations have not kept pace with the need for services, so much so, that in 2012 some of our programs are at risk of being discontinued because of the extreme lack of funding. We desperately need your help! Remember: No one does what we do to help families facing infant and child death: counseling, advocacy, research, education, and support.

In the spirit of holiday giving, gratitude, and loving precious children gone too soon, please help save MISS Foundation programs and consider a $100, a $50 or a $20 donation. Every dollar helps the MISS Foundation save families, families like yours, on the most unthinkable journey...

We can’t save every child. Please help us save their families…"

*Donations can be made online here.

Another funding request comes from Big Buddha films, which is working on an independent film about a couple who lose three children. The trailer is powerful and a bit heartbreaking. Imagine something like this being screened at one of the big film festivals, like Sundance. For more info, see here.

Say His Name

2011-12-12T11:52:00.000-05:00

Ben.

That's all. Just Ben. It's not hard. It won't hurt to say, it won't hurt for me to hear. It will be sweet, in fact, to hear you say his name for what may be the first time ever. (How can you not say his name to me? He was a real child, after all.)

Ben.

That's all.

For Thanksgiving, a Poem

2011-11-23T15:24:00.000-05:00

Because I am thankful for, among many, many other things, poetry, I give you this, by Mary Oliver.

Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

Still Life 365 Spoken Word Blog Round Up

2011-11-04T08:01:00.000-04:00

Angie, over at Still Life With Circles, suggested this blog round up of videos. I'm a bit late chiming in, but better late than never.

This Looks Like Progress

2011-10-17T08:10:00.000-04:00

I'm hesitant to say it, simply because I'm a cynic and because the issue of stillbirth, and raising awareness and working towards prevention of stillbirth, is so dear to my heart. However, I've been impressed and surprised to see a little more awareness of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month in more traditional media venues, acknowledged by people and groups we've actually heard of.

For example, on Facebook, as well as on their website, the natural cleaning products company Seventh Generation posted a note about Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, October 15th, in recognition of the millions of women who lose a baby every year. Would we have seen that a year or two ago? I think not, though I am curious as to what, if anything, prompted the company to add such a post to their wall. I am both surprised and very grateful to them for mentioning the day itself. It gives me hope and makes me feel proud that I have used their products in the past. Not sure if they are here in England, but if they are, I will be supporting them as a customer again.

The Washington Post included a blog post about October 15th in their online forums in a column by Janice D'Arcy. I can't say if this ran in the print version of the paper, but I'm pleased that it ran in online under the headline of one of the US's larger papers (so many notices are in small venues; this one is likely to pick up more notice).

If you get a chance and feel so moved, thank the people and companies you see making an effort to acknowledge stillbirth. These are small but positive steps in the right direction, and they deserve our thanks if we are to continue making strides in education about grieving and loss.

Stillbirth Statistics

2011-10-05T14:15:00.000-04:00

From the recent series of articles printed in the British medical journal The Lancet, which coordinated a study with the World Health Organization:

2.6 million third-trimester stillbirths worldwide each year;
1.1 million could be prevented, The Lancet estimates, with simple interventions like folic acid supplements before conception, diabetes management in the mother, and detection of hypertension, among others;

Stillbirths are an invisible public health epidemic, with no national or global initiative to track or prevent.

I don't speak out because I am grieving, or because I am depressed, or because I am dwelling on the fact that Ben is dead. I speak out because I love him, and because if more people know that almost 50% of stillbirths can be prevented, if society has the will to research, fund, and educate the population, (as with SIDS research and education), we can make a huge difference in many, many lives. We can spare parents the sorrow my family has experienced.

Let me make it clear: yes, I still grieve for my son, it's only natural. There are a lifetime of moments I will never experience with him. I miss him, always, every day. I'm here now because I want to make a difference, not because I am dwelling in my loss. You don't get over it, but you learn to incorporate it into your life. That's what I've done.

I can make a difference. That's why I'm here.

Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month

2011-10-01T14:40:00.000-04:00

It's that time again...October. I wasn't going to bring it up, much, over here, but today I was reminded, yet again, that I am supposed to be over losing Ben.

And so, let me ask you this, those of you who think I should be "over" it. If your husband of 40 years died tomorrow, how soon would you be over it? If your 3-year-old grandchild died next week, how soon would you be over it? If your 35-year-old son died today, how soon would you be over it? Do you not think you would carry it with you for the rest of your days? Do you think you would not think about that particular beloved every day?

I lost one of the three best things I have ever done. And I will talk about him (though I barely talk about him I know you think I dwell on his absence far too much) because I love him. And he is my child every bit as much as the two I have here, living and breathing. And if talking about Ben, and advocating for stillbirth research and support can change the outcome positively for that 50% of babies whose lives might be saved, then no, I will never get over it.

The Story of Ben

2011-09-19T06:18:00.000-04:00

I make the mistake, all too frequently, of thinking that Ben's story belongs only to me. Yes, I cling to it, to him, possessively, a mother bear ready to fight for her cub. I think that he is solely mine because I carried him in my womb, because he spent all of his life, his living, within me. I want him to be all mine because I have so little to show he was ever here.

There are other stories of his life and death that I forget. His father's story. His grandparents' and aunts', uncles', cousins' stories. His brother's and sister's stories.

All of these stories are incomplete, just like mine, but no less valid, no less real. I was reminded this morning of that reality by James, who cried in bed as I prodded him to get up, get ready for school. "I miss my brother," he said, as a tear rolled down his cheek. And while I don't think he was crying because he misses the brother who lived and died before he came to be, I could only think of how different our lives would be had Ben lived. That James and Charlotte will have their own stories to tell one day of how they think their lives changed because one of us is gone.

I want Ben's story to be mine only, because I am selfish, because I miss him, because I am his mother. But all of us lost something the day he died. All of us, whether we acknowledge it or not.

Sedona Grief Retreat

2011-09-14T08:00:00.000-04:00

This retreat has me wishing I still lived in the U.S. for many reasons. One of them is Kara Jones, aka Mother Henna.....she is an awesome creative, bereaved mother, teacher, coach and all-around cool person. She, as well as the amazing Joanne Cacciatore, bereaved mother, professor, and founder of the MISS Foundation, are putting on a grief retreat in beautiful Sedona, Arizona on October 15th, which Infant Loss & Remembrance Day.

This retreat is open to anyone grieving a loss and not limited to infant bereavement. I would love to go and learn from these wise women, not to mention spend a weekend in Sedona--my husband and I traveled there for a wedding anniversary many years ago and I would love to get back to the breathtaking scenery and wide-open skies we found there.

If you're able to attend, I'd love to hear about it afterwards.

May Your Love Bring Us Love

2011-09-11T03:54:00.000-04:00

There is nothing I can say about the events of 10 years ago that someone else hasn't said better, with more wisdom, more insight. When I remember that day, I think of the silence, after the towers fell, stepping outside on a beautiful, glorious September day, and there were no cars moving past, no airplanes flying overhead, no schoolchildren calling.

Only silence.

And today I give you Bruce Springsteen singing a song from his 9/11 album, The Rising, Into the Fire.

Well the sky was falling and streaked with blood
I heard you calling me, then you disappeared into dust
Up the stairs, into the fire
Up the stairs, into the fire
I need your kiss, but love and duty called you someplace higher
Somewhere up the stairs, into the fire

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love bring us love

Cleveland, OH Fundraising Concert

2011-09-06T14:18:00.000-04:00

Until 5 weeks ago, I was a resident of a Cleveland suburb, and I met Norine Tuck-Ringwalt, also a suburban Cleveland mom, as a volunteer for the Star Legacy Foundation. Norine lost her daughter Areila this past May. Unfortunately we never had a chance to meet in real life, but only know one another through the wonders of the internet.

Norine has organized a concert this Sunday, September 11th, to benefit the foundation, at Brother's Lounge, 11609 Detroit Ave., Cleveland, from 5:00 to 9:00 pm.

If you can, please attend. It's a long flight for me, but I will be there in spirit. For more information, go here. And thanks.

An Article on Stillbirth from the NY Times

2011-08-23T04:48:00.000-04:00

Mainstream press about stillbirth is always a welcome surprise, and though I'm a bit late to pointing this out, the NY Times published a piece about stillbirth on August 15th. I'm happy to see it, though I have to take issue with some of the language used, like this paragraph:

"It often is a devastating experience. “As soon as they learn they are pregnant, most women consider their unborn baby their child, and for many a stillbirth is like the death of a child,” said Dr. Robert Goldenberg, an obstetrician-gynecologist at Drexel University College of Medicine."

It isn't often a devastating experience, it is a devastating experience. And a stillbirth is not "like" the death of a child, it is the death of a child! My son was full-term, full-size, perfect and ready to go home, except that he was dead. He was a perfect child who happened to die three days before he was due.

While this article is welcome and necessary, we still, as a society, need to work on the language we use to describe stillbirth. But maybe we are starting to get there.

This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)

2011-08-07T15:00:00.000-04:00

Home. It's where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there.

Right Where I Am: An Update

2011-07-26T09:26:00.000-04:00

Over 160 parents have taken part in Angie's Right Where I Am project, and Angie recently shared Jack at Random's amazing blog post where he compiled a line from every single one of the Right Where I Am posts (Every. Single. One. As of July 18.) into a kind of poem which he calls Right Where We Are. Then, at the bottom, he included all of our baby's names.

It's beautiful. Go take a look.

PS: We leave the country tomorrow; I'm glad to know that, wherever I am, you'll still be here. I've needed you on this journey, and I hope I've helped you too.

Hard to Say Goodbye

2011-07-16T09:47:00.000-04:00

I've never liked goodbyes, since long before Ben died. But in the seven years since he died, goodbyes have gotten a lot harder to say because they bring back his life, and death, the first and only moments we had with him to tell him hello and goodbye all at once.

My family and I are in Pennsylvania right now, getting ready to have a party for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary. This weekend also marks the last time we'll be seeing my family for quite a while, for in 11 days we are moving to England to begin a new life. In some ways an old life, too, as my husband is British, and we met, and were married, there nearly 15 years ago. We spent the first year of our marriage living and working in England until my husband was transferred to Ohio by his company. Thirteen years later, we are going back.

And tomorrow I have to say goodbye to my family, to our cats, who will be moving to Massachusetts to live with my sister, say goodbye to another chapter of my life. In a way, I feel I am leaving Ben behind too, for the only place I ever knew him was in Ohio, in the hospital where I delivered him and kissed him goodbye. I know I am not leaving him, but thoughts of pulling away from the hospital doors on the afternoon of the day he was born haunt me. They always have. I left him, not because I wanted to, not because I had any choice. Those moments ripped me apart and I've never been the same since.

And I wonder where I'll find him now, for this is where Ben is, where I feel him with me on those few occasions when I do feel him. I hope I'll find him again, 3,500 miles away, that those feelings won't be left behind.

But today, I just don't know.

The House I Keep

2011-07-10T21:53:00.000-04:00

Jhene Erwin, writer/director/producer/actor, wrote and filmed a short movie, "The House I Keep," about overcoming the loss of a child to stillbirth or miscarriage. In her particular case, she lost two children to miscarriage. Trying to heal after those experiences led her to create "The House I Keep."

At The Gates Foundation blog, Jhene writes of trying to overcome the tension between grief and the outward, socially expected appearance of "normal." When there is no such thing as normal. She talks also about the stigma of losing a child, the very necessary work of talking about our lost children, of allowing women and men the space to grieve. To know that we did nothing wrong. To know that our babies are not forgotten.

Talking about our babies heals. Not ignoring them.

Wow

2011-06-27T19:01:00.000-04:00

I'm a bit speechless after reading this on a UK website:

'Rennie Gibbs is accused of murder, but the crime she is alleged to have committed does not sound like an ordinary killing. Yet she faces life in prison in Mississippi over the death of her unborn child.

Gibbs became pregnant aged 15, but lost the baby in December 2006 in a stillbirth when she was 36 weeks into the pregnancy. When prosecutors discovered that she had a cocaine habit – though there is no evidence that drug abuse had anything to do with the baby's death – they charged her with the "depraved-heart murder" of her child, which carries a mandatory life sentence."

How can she be charged with murder when, as thousands of us know in the U.S., her baby was never really born? My son was never born, he was only ever dead--for all I have to prove his existence is a death certificate, not a birth certificate--and no, I've never been able to wrap my head around that.

While I will be the first to tell you that doing cocaine during pregnancy is one of the stupidest things ever, I'd also like to see some evidence that it contributed to her baby's death.

The article goes on to tell the story of another woman:

"Amanda Kimbrough is one of the women who have been ensnared as a result of the law being applied in a wholly different way. During her pregnancy her foetus was diagnosed with possible Down's syndrome and doctors suggested she consider a termination, which Kimbrough declined as she is not in favour of abortion.

The baby was delivered by caesarean section prematurely in April 2008 and died 19 minutes after birth.

Six months later Kimbrough was arrested at home and charged with "chemical endangerment" of her unborn child on the grounds that she had taken drugs during the pregnancy – a claim she has denied.
"That shocked me, it really did," Kimbrough said. "I had lost a child, that was enough."

I realize there is more to both of these stories than any article can relay, but really? I'm aghast.

Right Where I Am: Seven Years, 5 Months

2011-05-26T15:04:00.000-04:00

*I'm writing this post as suggested by Angie at still life 365.

Seven years. Five months. A lifetime. One little lifetime, to be exact, seven years and 5 months of missing a small boy who would be in first grade now, but is not. Who would be tormenting his big sister just like his little brother does, but is not. Who would be one of the great joys of my life. (Who is.)

Where am I on this journey of missing Ben? Ah. I am accepting. I am sad. I miss him with every breath that flows in and out of my lungs. The story of my life started the day he died: I don't think that's a sentiment you can understand unless you've been in these shoes. (But maybe not.) All that came before him--or much of it--was ordinary, unexceptional. And then Ben died. That is the beginning of my story.

I am better than ok. But the hole in my heart does not go away, does not fill in. It has scabbed over, there is a scar, and if you probe it too hard the hole might open again. But this is how grief is. I want Ben back with every part of my being but I have also accepted that this will not be. For if I had him back, I might have to give up James, and I could not lose him too. Yet I cannot have all three of my children, here and now, alive and well. And so there is a shadow, ever present, marking what was.

I am afraid of pregnant women; I'd prefer all pregnancies were kept secret until the baby arrives. I know all too well what there is to lose. My innocence is gone, never to return. But there is also a joy I thought was lost to me forever; it springs up like a tenacious flower after the lawnmower has passed overtop: nothing will hold it down, cut it off. It disappeared for a time but has returned, changed.

People told me losing Ben would make me stronger, make me better--but I dispute that. It changed me, certainly. I am more sorrowful, more introspective, more aware that all of us--the whole world--suffers from a broken heart, and that the pain manifests itself in different ways. Sometimes in anger, hatred, silence, or compassion.

I hate that people will still not acknowledge what we've lost, will stand in my house on the anniversary of his death and see my tears and say nothing. I more than hate it; it infuriates me, drives me to a rage beyond... reason? Or maybe just beyond. I want to say his name every day but know this will not happen; for some, silence is the only response they can manage, for reasons known only to themselves. And I try to accept that, knowing that some days I simply can't.

What I have: my living children, my life, they are good. Incomplete, but happy. I am lucky, and I know it, every day. I am so, so very lucky.

Apoca-Wha?

2011-05-21T14:52:00.000-04:00

Just in case the rapture occurs at 6:00 p.m. EST tonight, I'm posting this link to the Center for Disease Control's blog post on dealing with a zombie apocalypse.

If you're really worried, I'd suggest doing what I'm doing right now: finishing off the chocolate.

For Mother's Day

2011-05-07T13:17:00.000-04:00

I posted this prayer last year for Mother's Day and like it so much I decided to post it again.

Wherever you are in your mothering journey, I wish you peace on Mother's Day.

Today we bless mothers who sat up all night with sick toddlers saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here.

Today we bless mothers who gave birth to babies they may never see. And the mothers who took those babies forever to be their own children.

Today we bless mothers who attended ball games, recitals, rehearsals, etc. etc. and said, "I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and meant it.

Today we bless mothers who show up for work with milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

Today we bless mothers who put pinwheels, teddy bears, or flowers on children's graves.

Today we bless mothers whose children have gone astray, who haven't the words to reach them, and yet have never put them from their heart.

Today we bless new mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And today we bless mature mothers who are learning to let go.

Today we bless all mothers: working mothers, stay-at-home mothers, single mothers, and married mothers. We also bless all women in life giving and nurturing roles. We thank you. We honor you. We bless you. Amen.
- adapted from a prayer of Dan Bottorff

An Interview

2011-05-05T14:59:00.000-04:00

Thank you to all who read my essay "Ashes" over at r.kv.r.y. and left me kind comments about the work. I really do appreciate it.

If you are interested, the editors of r.kv.r.y. interviewed me about my writing and how loss is incorporated into my work. The link is here, if you want to read it (you will have to scroll down the page a bit).

(Self-promotion does not come naturally to me, so thanks.)

"Stillbirths Matter to People"

2011-05-02T11:20:00.000-04:00

I'm sharing this video from Lancet TV, an arm of the British medical journal The Lancet, which published the study about stillbirth I mentioned in my last post. Richard Horton, editor-in-chief of that journal, made some wonderful remarks about stillbirth and how the tragedy of stillbirth has yet to become an important issue in maternal/fetal health today.

Please watch it, and pass it on. Knowledge begets understanding, and people need to know.

Richard Horton on Stillbirths » Maternal Health Task Force

Stillbirth Study Released from The Lancet

2011-04-14T21:23:00.000-04:00

The Lancet, a UK-based medical journal, released a new study today, done in conjunction with Save the Children, about stillbirth on a global scale.

According to The Lancet, 2.6 million women suffer a stillbirth every year, with 98% of those women living in developing countries. Worldwide, the rate of stillbirth has dropped only 1.1% per year since 1995.

Dr. Carole Presern, Director of The Partnership for Maternal, Newborn and Child Health, said: “Stillbirths need to be an integral part of the maternal, newborn and child health agenda."

From the World Health Organization website: “Almost no burden affecting families is so big and yet so invisible both in society and on the global public health agenda.” Joy Lawn, M.D., PhD, Director of Global Evidence and Policy, Saving Newborn Lives/Save the Children, and a lead author of this study.

Ashes

2011-04-03T21:24:00.000-04:00

My essay, "Ashes," is featured in this month's online literary journal r.kv.r.y.

Please check it out; I'd love to know what you think.

All I Need

2011-03-24T20:59:00.000-04:00

Some days, all I need is a space to say I miss you.

I miss you, little one. I miss you.

What If They Come For Me?

2011-03-16T17:07:00.000-04:00

If you live in the States, you've likely seen the news that Bobby Franklin, a House Republican in Georgia, has introduced a bill in that state that would nullify Roe v. Wade and require law enforcement to investigate miscarriages as suspected acts of "prenatal murder."

Because a miscarriage itself isn't traumatic enough.

As wild and outrageous as I think Mr. Franklin's bill is, it makes me wonder: how far might this go? I don't believe this bill will pass (please God) but if it did, what about mothers like me who give birth to a dead baby who appears outwardly normal? What if you are among the 50-60% of parents whose baby is stillborn for reasons unknown?

Will they come for you?

Ben died because of a knot in his umbilical cord, and I was so strangely grateful that I knew why he died. I can only imagine how much worse it would have been to not know the cause of his death. And I can only imagine how very, very much worse it would be if some legislator got the idea that maybe my child's stillbirth was prenatal murder and I needed to be investigated, maybe even charged with murder.

Sound far fetched? Yes, I think so too. But this legislation in Georgia is outrageous enough to make me believe it could happen. Or be considered. As Americans, can we accept this? As bereaved parents?

I can only assume Mr. Franklin has no idea what it means to have a miscarriage. I wonder if he has experienced real loss. I could rant about politics here, but I won't. But I wonder, whatever happened to compassion?

You Don't Get Over Love

2011-03-09T20:06:00.000-05:00

Mother Henna's website pointed me in the direction of this video, and it is so powerful for those of us in the land of the babylost, whether we are parents or caring friends and family. "You don't get over love."

No. You don't.

Loss Isn't Science

2011-03-06T21:31:00.000-05:00

The New York Times published an article recently, "Why We Write About Grief," a conversation between two authors who have written memoirs about grief: Joyce Carol Oates ("A Widow's Story") and Meghan O'Rourke ("The Long Goodbye") about the death of her mother. Something O'Rourke said about the passage of time in this conversation resonated with me and I thought I'd share it here:

"As for time passing: It’s been two years since my mother died. I — like my entire family, I think — am certainly less in grief’s grips than I was a year ago. But it’s not gone. I’m changed by it, the way a tree is changed by having to grow around an obstacle. Every now and then I see article by journalists or scientists who say studies show grief should pass in “six months” or what have you. But loss isn’t science; it’s a human reckoning."

What those who haven't suffered profound grief have yet to learn is that the anguish doesn't "go away." That those suffering don't "get over it." Grief stays, weaves its way into your DNA and is carried along with you, changing as the days march on, ebbing and flowing like the tides.

There are no absolutes in grief, no timelines, no maps. No day when you are "over it." It is not a malady which can be cured with pills or potions or the passing of days and years. I'd like to live in a world where there is more compassion for the bereaved, more understanding, less trying to hurry through. Less quantification by scientists and therapists and researchers, and more human understanding. Is that too much to ask?

Depression After Stillbirth Can Last Years

2011-03-03T16:06:00.000-05:00

Doctors in England and the US recently completed a long-term study on depression in women after the loss of a baby, says an article from the BBC. The study shows that women who lost a baby experienced significant levels of anxiety and depression in subsequent pregnancies, which continued for about three years after the baby's death.

Said Prof. Jean Golding of the Avon Longitudinal Study of Parents and Children, "This study is important to the families of women who have lost a baby, since it is so often assumed that they get over the event quickly, yet as shown here, many do not.

This has implications for the medical profession as well as the woman and her family."

No. We don't get over the "event" quickly. As a matter of fact, we never get over it.

Wordless Wednesday - Ice Storm

2011-02-23T13:48:00.000-05:00

No Focus Friday

2011-02-04T15:01:00.000-05:00

It might be the below freezing temperatures, snow and ice we've been experiencing that have frozen my brain, or it might be a late case of the January blahs. But I'm feeling unfocused, unmotivated and probably any other "un" word you can think of. (Though if you are my 5-year-old, no, "underwear," which would be your most favorite word ever, does not count.)

Uninspired? Underwhelmed?

Yep, that's me.

It's one of those days when, despite my best intentions, not much is happening. Sure, I have some beef stew in the crock pot, have washed several loads of laundry, even worked out. But: the papers on the coffee table and kitchen table? Still there, despite telling myself I would sort them out all week. The dishes piled in the sink? Um, yeah, I'll get to them.

I'd much rather curl up on the sofa with a blanket and hibernate.

Funnily enough, I had to wash the pillows on my bed today. I do this about once a year, and it never goes well--the washer never spins them long enough, and I can never figure out how to program the washer to give them extra spin time, and I end up with a sodden mess that takes days to dry out. (Though I do think I may have figured out the extra spin time problem today.) But could I let that random project go today? Oh no. Had to get it done. Go figure.

And now, to save you from the boring life I lead, I offer a random selection of my favorite quotes. There is no common thread running between them; some inspire, some make me laugh. I'm sure you can figure out which is which.

"Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." - Albert Einstein (I believe I am the perfect embodiment of this quote after the week I've had.)

"The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt." - Bertrand Russell

"You must do the thing you think you cannot do." - Eleanor Roosevelt (Ah, but this week I am tired of doing the thing I think I cannot do.)

"You must be the change you wish to see in the world." - Gandhi

"Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'" - The Talmud

Any quotes or other bit of inspiration you might like to share?

Proposed Amendment to the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA)

2011-01-26T10:40:00.000-05:00

Kelly Farley of the Grieving Dads Project has started an online petition to amend the Family and Medical Leave Act of 1993 (FMLA) to include the death of a child as part of allowable reasons to ask for leave from work. Currently in the US, grieving parents receive whatever time off their company will allow them after the death of a child, normally only a few days. In my husband's case, he was granted two.

Two days.

I was a stay-at-home/work-at-home parent at the time, so the FMLA did not apply to me. The FMLA allows 12 weeks of time off to take care of an ill spouse or family member without fear that you will lose your job because of your absence.

From Kelly's blog:

"It is my opinion that the death of a child is one of the worst experiences that anyone can endure. Many employers allow for bereavement leave up to 2-3 days. Employees are expected to use their available vacation time after the 2-3 days of bereavement leave have been expended. If the employee exhausts both of these benefits and still requires additional time off the employer has grounds to terminate the employee.

I find it unacceptable that the death of a child is not included as a protected reason to qualify for 12 weeks of unpaid leave as part of the FMLA. If you agree with me, I ask you to do two things: 1) Click on the link below and sign the e-petition and 2) Share this link with people you know by emails it to your contacts."

If you agree, go here, and sign the petition.

"A Part of Us Died With Our Kids"

2011-01-24T20:29:00.000-05:00

I just came across this article (thanks to Kelly Farley) about three men, friends, athletes, basketball coaches, who all lost a baby. It's on the Yahoo! Sports page online, not a place I normally go, but it's worth reading because it's true (though you may not agree with their religious understanding of why their children died, it's refreshing to read male perspectives on baby loss).

Billy Donovan. John Pelphrey. Anthony Grant. NCAA coaches. Grieving fathers supporting each other, and reminding us that it never gets easier. But at least we're not alone.

A Quote

2011-01-19T17:27:00.000-05:00

"That was and still is the great disaster of my life - that lovely, lovely little boy. . . There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were."

-- Dwight D. Eisenhower, via BabyLoss Mamas & Maggie, on Facebook

How It Is Now

2011-01-14T12:04:00.001-05:00

I'm thinking about how to change this blog, but I'm really not sure what to do, or if it's the right thing for me to do right now. I started this blog as a place for other parents who are newer to this journey than I am to find some support and believe they can survive.

A place to find what I needed after Ben died.

So how is it, for me, after seven years?

I have incorporated loss into my daily life, though some days I find myself whispering in a quiet moment, while doing dishes or folding laundry, "Don't go." In the first month after his death, I begged him, every day, to please, please come back. Now, though I hate that he is gone, that desperate longing for his return has waned.

But I still tell him I miss him, daily. I suspect I always will, even when I think I should stop because maybe I am holding on too hard.

I didn't think I could keep living after losing him, but I did, and I am. There are times when the pain returns, mostly around his anniversary, when I cry and rage and hate just how unfair it is to be here without Ben.

Seven years later, I am happy, but the sadness is always there, to some degree. I try to focus on the love he left behind, the love we have for Ben. I have carried on without him, at times reluctantly, at times because I am still here and need--want--to live my life. A good life, even a beautiful life.

A life still worth living. Never the same as before, but lovely nonetheless.

Seven Years Without You

2010-12-30T17:47:00.000-05:00

There's little to say today, seven years on. Ben is missed, and thought of, as he is every day. Have I healed? Yes, as much as anyone could. I am happy, despite missing Ben, despite loving him fiercely and desperately wanting to know who he would be today.

Seven years. Hard to believe.

That's 2,557 days that he's been gone. 61,368 hours. Seven birthdays. A new baby brother, now in kindergarten, two new cats, plans to move next summer. A big sister nearly 10 years old. Me, on the other side of 40. Lifetimes.

Lifetimes.

I think it's time for this blog to change, but I don't know how it will. I am no longer living so deeply in the land of broken hearts, but I still want to be here to help others, offer support to those for whom this is a new and terrible way of life. Because there is hope, there is life on the other side of grief.

Life. Never the same, but life nonetheless.

I love you, my baby boy. I always, always loved you.

December 25th

2010-12-25T18:19:00.002-05:00

Dear Ben,

I want to wish you Merry Christmas, and this is all I have.

Ben, I miss you.

Love,

Mama

Wintersong

2010-12-23T11:47:00.001-05:00

The Longest Night

2010-12-21T20:50:00.000-05:00

Winter Solstice. The Darkest Night.

Ten days away from seven years without him.

In the quiet I think of him, talk to him. Miss him.

In the bleak midwinter, long ago, he left, and I stayed, to forever wonder.

Where are you, Ben?

Can you hear me?

Are you here?

I Promised Myself

2010-12-12T13:24:00.000-05:00

This December, I promised myself I would not cry. I promised myself that I was going to be all right for the first time in the seven years since Ben left us.

I promised myself, and I really believed it.

But I was wrong.

We put up the Christmas tree yesterday and James pulled out an ornament from our box of decorations, with Ben's name on it. "This was for my brother," he said, "but he died. I wish he didn't die."

Ah. Me too, baby. Me too.

And so I find myself today, feeling emotional and not wanting to. Thinking of my friend Elizabeth, whose birthday is today, only she, too, is gone, and her absence is one of two gaping holes in my life that will never be filled again.

No, I don't want to cry. I promised myself.

But I lied.

John Lennon - Imagine

2010-12-08T14:59:00.000-05:00

And the Winner Is...

2010-12-06T19:51:00.000-05:00

The winner of the anthology They Were Still Born: Personal Stories About Stillbirth is...

Ceil.

Please contact me at virginiawilliams(at)yahoo(dot)com with your full name and mailing address and I will put the book in the mail to you.

Watch this Video; Help People Living with HIV

2010-12-02T14:51:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was World AIDS Day. In recognition of that, Starbucks has a music video on their site by the musical group The Killers. For every view of the video, Starbucks will donate 5 cents to the Global Fund to Fight AIDS in Africa.

Click, watch, and when you're done, pass it on. http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid609428906001?bctid=691378821001

*Don't forget, tomorrow is the last day to enter the drawing to win the book They Were Still Born: Personal Stories About Stillbirth.

Happy Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T15:41:00.000-05:00

"It is literally true, as the thankless say, that they have nothing to be thankful for. He who sits by the fire, thankless for the fire, is just as if he had no fire. Nothing is possessed save in appreciation, of which thankfulness is the indispensable ingredient. But a thankful heart hath a continual feast." ~ W. J. Cameron

Mundane Monday

2010-11-22T18:44:00.000-05:00

My local newspaper runs a column each week called "Monday Moaning." Readers can write in with whatever it is they want to complain about, and the paper runs it. This really bugs me, though the paper tries to counter it with a "Thankful Thursday."

I think we've got enough complaining in this world without giving it a forum. But then again, I have been known to use this space to do a little complaining of
my own.

So today I was running around doing errands, thinking about "Monday Moaning" and just how mundane today is...hence, Mundane Monday. Here's what I did:

1. Laundry. 4 loads.
2. Trip to Target for necessities and Christmas presents.
3. Grocery store run.
4. Exercised despite not feeling like it.
5. Listened to a podcast.
6. Did the school run, times two.
7. Tidied up, but not very much.
8. Phoned a friend.
9. Got caught in the rain.
10. Did a lot of dishes.
11. Made dinner.

So you see, yes, it was a very Mundane Monday. How about you?

*And don't forget to enter the giveaway for the book They Were Still Born: Personal Stories About Stillbirth, below.

They Were Still Born: New Book Givewaway

2010-11-18T12:38:00.000-05:00

I received my long-awaited copy of the new stillbirth anthology They Were Still Born: Personal Stories about Stillbirth on Saturday.

Yes, I'm a contributing writer, and I'm pleased to say my chapter, What No One Tells You is the first chapter in the book. Contributors include Kara L.C. Jones (aka, Mother Henna), Angie Yingst (still life 365), Joanne Cacciatore (the MISS Foundation), and Sherokee Ilse (Wintergreen Press), among others. The book is edited by the fabulous Janel Atlas who lost her daughter Bea, and has a foreword by Elizabeth McCracken (An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination).

If you'd like to receive a copy of this book, leave your name in the comments section below, as well as the name of the baby in your life who was still born. Contest will remain open until December 3rd, when I will draw one winner's name out of a hat.

Holiday Ornament Swap

2010-11-12T09:10:00.000-05:00

Jumping in at the last minute here with news of this holiday ornament swap for babyloss parents. Jenni, of Demeter's Feet, is organizing this swap of handmade holiday ornaments, made by a babyloss parent for a babyloss parent.

Here's what Jenni wrote on the website, Remembering Together Swap: "Sometimes our “in real life” people don’t understand how much extra TLC we need at this season, or they fail to remember our missing children at those holiday gatherings. The gift-giving, child-centric nature of Christmas and Hanukkah can be particularly painful when you are missing a little one. Marking the end of the year and the passage of time without your baby can also be incredibly difficult. For some, the spiritual or religious elements of this season can be trying, when struggling with faith in the face of tragedy.

Our ornament swap is one way for babyloss families to give and receive support during this tough time of year."

Head on over to her site by THIS Monday, November 15th, to sign up to receive, and create, an ornament.

Funny How Things Haunt You

2010-11-05T11:35:00.000-04:00

I am sitting in my favorite coffeeshop as I type this, working on a book I am writing, about Ben.

As I started packing up to leave just now, a song came on the radio: "Life for Rent" by Dido.

That's the song I was listening to as I pulled into a parking space at the hospital the morning Ben died. The last song I listened to before I knew he was gone.

I haven't liked Dido since.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-11-03T10:25:00.001-04:00

Day of the Dead

2010-10-31T09:39:00.000-04:00

It's the last day of my 31 days of posting for stillbirth awareness. I am both relieved and torn: some days I feel as if I dwell in this land of broken hearts far too much, while on others I simply acknowledge that this is my life. Or part of it, anyway.

Today is also All Saint's Day, tomorrow is the Day of the Dead. I don't know much about the Day of the Dead, but it seems a fitting time to end my month of blogging. I follow no rituals for this day, or tomorrow, other than tonight's trick-or-treating, handing out candy to little goblins, princesses, and skeletons. But I remember the ones I miss, who are no longer here, who have changed me.

I don't have an altar for Ben, though sometimes I wish I did. Other days I think no, it would be too much for me.

Nor do I have a place to go, to pay homage to him, to sit by his grave and offer him food and drink, candles and light. What is left of him is in my bedroom, in a wooden box sealed shut.

We have it all wrong here in America: bury the dead or scatter their ashes and do our best to forget. How do you forget the child you carried inside you, who kicked you and hiccuped and kept you awake at night, then slipped from your body silently, never to take a breath?

Yes, I want an altar, a gravestone, an offering. A way to honor one of the loves of my life.

Stillbirth--We Need to Know More

2010-10-30T14:05:00.000-04:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: we don't know enough about why stillbirth occurs, and how to cut down the numbers. People are speaking up about the lack of research, the dismissal of our grief, trying to make a difference.

Kate Greenwood, a research fellow at Seton Hall's Center for Health & Pharmaceutical Law & Policy, posted on the Seton Hall Health Reform Watch blog about this very issue. Here's an excerpt of what she says; here's the link to the full post.

"While the ubiquitous pink ribbons (and pink everything else) ensure that everyone knows that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, less well known is that it is also Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month[1], proclaimed so by President Ronald Reagan in 1988. As I wrote last October, about 1 in every 160 deliveries in this country ends in a stillbirth, and all too frequently no one can say why. Stillbirth is a “largely unstudied … problem in obstetrics.”

Encouragingly, the work of the physicians and scientists participating in the National Institute of Health’s Stillbirth Collaborative Research Network (SCRN) is beginning to bear fruit. The August 2010 issue of the journal Obstetrics & Gynecology included an important article in which the SCRN investigators presented their “standardized method to assign probable and possible causes of death of stillbirths based on information routinely collected during prenatal care and the clinical evaluation of fetal death.” Rigorously defining and more accurately determining causes of fetal death will both facilitate research and have useful clinical implications. As the authors note, “[a]ccurately assigning a cause of fetal death is critically important for counseling grieving families.”

Poetry for the Grieving

2010-10-29T13:23:00.000-04:00

The Five Stages of Grief

The night I lost you
someone pointed me towards
the Five Stages of Grief.
Go that way, they said,
it's easy, like learning to climb
stairs after the amputation.
And so I climbed.
Denial was first.
I sat down at breakfast
carefully setting the table
for two. I passed you the toast -
you sat there. I passed
you the paper - you hid behind it.
Anger seemed more familiar.
I burned the toast, snatched
the paper and read the headlines myself.
But they mentioned your departure,
and so I moved on to
Bargaining. What can I exchange
for you? The silence
after storms? My typing fingers?
Before I could decide, Depression
came puffing up, a poor relation
its suitcase tied together
with string. In the suitcase
were bandages for the eyes
and bottles of sleep. I slid
all the way down the stairs
feeling nothing.
And all the time Hope
flashed on and off
in defective neon.
Hope was a signpost pointing
straight in the air.
Hope was my uncle's middle name,
he died of it.
After a year I am still climbing,
though my feet slip
on your stone face.
The treeline
has long since disappeared;
green is a color
I have forgotten.
But now I see what I am climbing
towards: Acceptance
written in capital letters,
a special headline:
Acceptance,
its name is in lights.
I struggle on,
waving and shouting.
Below, my whole life spreads its surf,
all the landscapes I've ever known
or dreamed of. Below
a fish jumps; the pulse
in your neck.
Acceptance: I finally reached it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircase.
I have lost you.

--Linda Pastan

A Letter to Family and Friends: What Not to Say after a Stillbirth

2010-10-28T10:39:00.000-04:00

*I've written on this topic before, but it's an important one, so I'm doing it again in the hope that families and friends of couples who have a stillbirth will find it and educate themselves on what not to say to those who have suffered a loss.

Dear Family and Friends,

     Please don't tell me that my baby's death was for the best. I miss that child more than I could ever say, and the death of a much loved, much wanted child is never for the best.
     Please don't tell me I have an angel watching over me. I don't want an angel, I want my son. If I have living children, please, please don't say, "Well, at least you have your other child(ren)." Children aren't interchangeable, and though I know how lucky I am--and I am so very grateful for those children--my heart is permanently broken because my new baby is gone. You wouldn't tell me, if a sibling died but I still have living brothers and sisters, "Oh well, you still have your other siblings." Would you? People are not interchangeable.
     Please don't tell me I can always have another. You don't know that, for sure. Another pregnancy may not be possible for me, and even if it is, another child will never take away the hole in my heart left by this baby's passing.
     Please, don't tell me my child died "for a reason." What possible reason could he had died for? There is no reason on earth that could make his death feel better for me, ever. Babies aren't supposed to die.
     If you don't know what to say, simply say "I'm sorry. I'm thinking of you and I hate that this happened."Don't be frightened of my tears, and don't think that if I cry you have brought up the sorrow--it is always there, and I am most likely crying every day. I need to cry. It's part of my healing. Allow me that.
     I will never get over this. I will survive the intense sorrow and pain, but I will carry my child's death with me all my life. Every Mother's Day, every Father's Day, the holidays, the anniversaries and birthdays not shared will hurt. Please remember them, and remember my child. Speak his name. Saying my child's name is one of the greatest gifts you could give me, for I don't want him to be forgotten.
     I am not going to be the same person you knew before. Respect that. In the first year, I will not want to attend baby showers, see babies, see pregnant women, will not return to life "as normal." Give me time and space to return to the world as I am able.
     Let me know that you are thinking of me, with phone calls, cards, even e-mails. Understand I may not feel up to replying but I appreciate knowing I have not been forgotten.
     There is no timeline for grief, no magic day when I will be "over it." Please don't tell me to move on; I need time to look to the future, but how much time I do not know.
     Remember this: my child was real; I held him in my arms, took his pictures, kissed his head. I will miss him every day of my life.

U.S. News & World Report - Stillbirth Can Be Devastating, Unpredictable

2010-10-27T10:36:00.000-04:00

Despite the rather obvious title of the article, I'm still impressed that U.S. News & World Report posted an article about stillbirth on their website.

The article references Dr. Alexander Heazell (mentioned in a post two weeks ago, Words from a Doctor About Stillbirth), who lost his first child, Jack, to stillbirth at 26 weeks.

The article states this:

"What is known is that stillbirths that occur before 32 weeks tend to result from different causes than those that occur later in pregnancy, said Dr. Alan Fleischman, medical director for the March of Dimes Foundation.

Factors that contribute to stillbirths earlier than 32 weeks are often similar to those that raise the risk of premature birth: smoking, alcohol use, obesity, clotting or metabolic problems and kidney or liver disease in the mother, Fleischman said.

During the final weeks of pregnancy, stillbirth is often due to a catastrophic problem with the placenta or the umbilical cord, including placental abruption, when the placenta sheers off the uterine wall, leaving the baby without oxygen and nutrients.

Little can be done to prevent these types of stillbirths, Fleischman said. But some obstetricians recommend mothers "count kicks" at the same time every day to monitor how often the fetus moves. If movement drops off noticeably, mothers should seek medical attention in the hopes of delivering a baby in distress before it's too late."

Even if I had gone into labor with Ben before he died, that knot in his umbilical cord would probably have killed him. He may have already experienced oxygen deprivation because of that knot, meaning brain damage. I will never know. So far as anyone could tell, he was normal, perfect. Even with vast quantities of research into umbilical cord knots, nothing may have saved him. Perhaps nothing would have changed his outcome, but I dearly wish I could change the outcome for someone else.

After a Stillbirth: How Did Your Marriage Survive?

2010-10-26T14:08:00.000-04:00

I'm working on an article on couple communication after a stillbirth for Babies Remembered magazine. It's hard to look back on the two years after Ben died and remember how ineffectively my husband and I communicated. We were both so lost in our grief and unsure how to help each other. Too tired, too worn, sometimes, to even begin to think of helping the other. I'm not proud of that time, not at all.

I stopped speaking to him, other than to say those things truly necessary. I didn't talk to him about how I felt, ask him how he felt: I simply tried to keep moving, to find the future, to stop hurting. I only wanted to stop hurting. Little did I know that by not talking to him, I was making the hurt worse for both of us.

I referenced this study a few months ago, which stated that couples who experience a miscarriage have a 22% higher risk of breaking up over a 15-year period, while those who experienced a stillbirth had a 40% higher risk of breaking up. My reaction to it was: no kidding. But when someone told us something similar 7 years ago, neither one of us believed Ben's death would harm our marriage.

We were so wrong. We've repaired the damage now, but it took a long, long time. Some days the trouble rears its ugly head, the same things we experienced then, and we are thrust back into those dark days of being unable to communicate, if only for a few hours. It's damn hard work, fixing a broken marriage, healing a broken heart.

I wish I had fully realized that men and women grieve differently, I wish I had fully acknowledged that my husband and I were going to go about mourning Ben differently. That his way was not wrong, any more than my way was right. I wish I'd known to keep talking to him, I wish I'd been able to let him break down when he needed to.

Looking back, what do you wish you had known about keeping your partnership intact?

No Psychological Risk in Children Born After a Stillbirth

2010-10-25T13:12:00.000-04:00

This study on children (and their mothers) born after a stillbirth, is from July 2009 (hmm...am I a little behind? Yes.), but it's still interesting.

When I was pregnant with James, I (and my husband) was terrified that, among many other things, we would view the new baby as a replacement, or that we wouldn't be able to love him as much as we loved Ben, that my anxiety during the pregnancy would have a negative effect on him.

None of that came true: James is his own, unique individual, happy-go-lucky, sweet, funny, and one of the loves of my life. I can't imagine not having him here.

So I was interested in reading about this study, from The Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, of mothers who experience a stillbirth and go on to have another child. It states that "There is no evidence that children next-born after stillbirth are clinically at risk compared to children of non-bereaved mothers."

But it goes on to say:

"However, the study did find evidence of less optimal mother-child interaction. Stillbirth can be a major psychological trauma to parents. Anecdotal accounts have suggested that children born subsequent to stillbirth of a sibling may be psychologically vulnerable. . . .
The researchers found no significant between-group differences in child cognitive or health assessments, or in teacher-rated child difficulties. However, mothers in the index group reported increased child difficulties, in particular peer problems, and there were higher levels of maternal criticism of the child's actions."

I'm not sure I understand why a mother would be overly critical of her rainbow baby, but perhaps it's not for me to understand. All I know is I adore my rainbow baby, I'm no more critical of him than his sister, and that James has brought me more joy than I could have ever dreamed of after Ben died.

I know, without a doubt, just how damn lucky I am to have him. I wouldn't change him if I could and every day I say a prayer of gratitude to whatever gods there be that I have all of my children in my life.

For those of you who have had a rainbow baby, how do you feel about what this study says? Does any of it resonate with you?

1,200 or 10,958

2010-10-24T17:32:00.000-04:00

My husband and I started to watch a movie last night, and during the previews, an ad came on about the number of deaths each day in the U.S. due to cancer from cigarette smoking. Perhaps you've seen it.

1,200.

I remarked to my husband, "That really isn't very many."

For something self-inflicted, he replied, it really is. And I suppose he's right, but you know where I'm going with this.

10,958 babies stillborn every day.

Why does no one make a commercial about that?

Traumatic Experiences and Resiliency Study (T.E.A.R.S.)

2010-10-23T10:28:00.000-04:00

Joanne Cacciatore, a leading advocate for stillbirth families and founder of the MISS foundation, is looking for individuals who have experienced the loss of a child, whether they be parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, or friends, to participate in a study about resiliency.

From the T.E.A.R.S. website:

"We are a team of researchers from Arizona State University, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, and Austin College. We are exploring the experiences of those aged 18 and older who have experienced the death of a child. The second wave of the study will explore the experiences of those who have experienced the deaths of other significant people such as partners, parents, siblings, grandchildren, and others.

The purpose of this study is to determine the individual, familial, and societal effects of significant loss and to improve standards of care to the bereaved and a model of compassionate caregiving and intervention that fosters resiliency at every level.

You can now participate in the T.E.A.R. Study here!"

From Rory's Garden

2010-10-22T10:57:00.000-04:00

The Grief Blog

2010-10-21T10:40:00.000-04:00

A new-to-me resource for all who grieve the loss of anyone they love. Run by a mother-daughter team of psychotherapists, Gloria and Heidi Horsley. They have a blog, answer questions, run a weekly radio show and have all sorts of articles for dealing with the grief of losing a stillborn child, a parent, sibling, spouse, and more.

We can use all the help we can get as we travel this bumpy road.

Causes of Stillbirth

2010-10-20T13:30:00.000-04:00

The causes of stillbirth are many. For some, like me, their baby will die because of a knot in the umbilical cord, or a cord wrapped around the neck.

For others, they will never know what happened, why their baby died.

If you look into it, do a Google search on stillbirth, you will find articles on an increased risk of stillbirth after IVF, after chemotherapy for childhood cancer, chromosomal abnormalities, gestation growth problems, placental abruption, on and on and on.

And as mothers, we blame ourselves. For not paying enough attention, for not knowing when our baby died, for not knowing something was wrong. But all of these things were out of our control. No blame required.

I know, without doubt, that we need to know more, have more research done, more studies, more warning signs identified. Until we have national momentum to eradicate stillbirth, we will never decrease these numbers. Until we have enough people who care, who call attention to the numbers, it will never change.

Sometimes

2010-10-19T10:36:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, there is nothing to say, even when the grief is fresh and raw.

Some days, it is enough to sit with sorrow, let it wash over you until it smooths the rough places, much as the ocean does to the rocks and shells it pushes up on shore.

Some days, the sorrow is more of an ache, a presence, always there, but manageable, while other days it is a sharp blow to the gut causing you to double over with pain so intense you feel you might not manage it.

It can take years to process the grief, years to learn to live with it, years to realize that though it is part of you every day, not every day will be like the early months of learning to be without. The days when the sorrow was so intense it carved your insides out of your body, leaving you a hollow, aching shell collapsing inward.

It gets better, I promise you. The grief will lessen, and you will learn to keep moving despite it. You will begin to see the flowers again, notice the warmth of the sunshine on your skin. Even the guilt you feel for noticing the flowers and the sun will subside as you learn that life is still beautiful, still worth living for.

Yes, it gets better. But it will never be the same.

One Day

2010-10-18T10:22:00.000-04:00

One day, you will wake up and realize you are still breathing, though moments before it seemed impossible.

One day, you will hear yourself laugh, then catch yourself, stopping short, gasping in sorrow. How could you laugh, after this? But laugh you will, and you will say a silent thank you to whatever gods there be, that such a thing is still possible.

One day, you will make a decision about the future of your life and know that it includes the sorrow you feel now, not that you have moved through, moved on, or gotten over it--simply that life includes all that you now know. That happiness and missing someone aren't mutually exclusive. The two can be combined, bittersweet, the knowledge of one tamping down the vitality of the other.

One day, you will realize that you have done the impossible: you have survived, simply because you are still here.

Perhaps They are Not Stars

2010-10-17T13:58:00.000-04:00

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.

- Eskimo Proverb

A Leave Taking*

2010-10-16T10:59:00.000-04:00

I, who never kissed your head,

Lay these ashes in their bed;
That which I could do have done.
Now farewell, my newborn son.

- by Yvor Winters

*Found on the website MoreShortPoems.

Bitter and Sweet

2010-10-15T13:16:00.000-04:00

This morning I had coffee with a friend who lost her son a year ago tomorrow. R. was stillborn at full-term, and they don't know why. My friend blames herself for his death, thinks she did too much in the last few months, didn't rest enough, didn't pay enough attention.

She is learning to live with a broken heart.

And though I can tell her it gets easier, there is only so much I can do, for until you arrive at "easier," it is only . . . hard. Some days are better, some days are worse, but one day you find you are still alive, still here, you haven't quite survived it--not so you could leave it in the past--but you are surviving it, here and now, moment by moment.

As she learns to live with her broken heart, she is trying to look forward, to believe that the child she now carries will be born, alive and healthy, in about six more weeks. I remember the terror she feels now, the guilt for having another child, the longing for both of her sons to be healthy and strong and alive. Knowing that will never be possible.

While I sat with her I thought of an acquaintance, in labor today, right now, at this very moment. Hoping that her innocence will not be shattered today, that her boy goes home, alive and well.

How hard it is, some days, being alive, knowing too much, fearing the worst, wanting the best.

For 10,958 mothers in the world, today will be the worst day of their lives. And for them, my heart is breaking even as I continue to hope for the women I know waiting to deliver their own healthy miracles.

This is life: the bitter and the sweet, sometimes so closely intermingled as to be indistinguishable one from the other. This is what it means to be alive.

Stillbirth Outnumbers SIDS By 10 to 1

2010-10-14T10:41:00.000-04:00

Midwifery Today has an article excerpt on their home page from Issue 74 of the journal of the same name. The article, written by Jeska Vannoy, discusses stillbirth, the lack of research into its causes, and the fact that the numbers of stillbirths are rising.

I find it so hard to accept that so little is being done to prevent and research stillbirth and its causes. Actually, I find it horrifying.

From the article:

"Unexplained stillbirth in late pregnancy is the single largest cause of perinatal death in the Western world. In the United States alone, approximately 39,000 babies of 20 weeks gestation or more died last year. Globally, 4.5 million babies never took their first breath. Sudden Antenatal Death Syndrome (SADS) has risen 20% in the last 10 years, despite "advancements" like 3-D ultrasound, increasing rates of labor induction and a rising cesarean section rate. These death tolls are estimates because stillborn babies aren't counted in any data on child death. Infant mortality rates in the US do not include stillbirth rates. Statistically, stillborn babies are not considered infants or children."

I also find it unfathomable that the 7 lb, 10 oz, 19.5" brown-haired baby boy who looked so much like my husband is not considered a real child. But I know that, for many people, Ben is simply a figment, a shadow, an almost.

But I did not feel him kick me for nine months, I did not hear his heartbeat, feel his hiccups, deliver him, to have someone tell me he was never real. I know differently. Had he not died, I would have carried him out into the world two days after his birth.

I wish the rest of the world knew that too.

Preventing Stillbirths

2010-10-13T14:37:00.000-04:00

Light a Candle on October 15th

2010-10-12T11:22:00.000-04:00

Friday is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day--sponsors encourage those who have lost an infant, or who know someone who lost an infant, to light a candle at 7:00 p.m. in their time zone to start a 24-hour wave of light.

I will be lighting a candle for Ben and Robertito, whose parents will be marking the first anniversary of his death the following day.

Who will you light a candle for?

How It Changed Me

2010-10-11T12:52:00.000-04:00

I couldn't begin to tell you how many times I have wondered if those who knew me before Ben's death have noticed the change in me since. I wonder if that change I feel is pronounced or subtle, for though I feel the change to my very core, I know I've tried to hide it, to pretend as if I am better than I am.

For that is what I was taught to do.

And then I wonder how anyone could not notice the change in me, if they are paying the slightest bit of attention. But I also know how few of us pay attention, really, instead rushing about in displays of busy-ness that make us feel important, needed, useful. That fend off the loneliness.

Though I cannot begin to guess if anyone sees that I am different, I am.

I am older now, more weary. I have been someplace many people never go, for until you lose a child, there is no comparison, I think: no way to say, oh, my father died, so I know just how you feel. I don't think you do. You expect to lose your parents, just as you expect your children will outlive you.

Part of me died when Ben did. There has been some regrowth in that dead tissue, but mostly it is brown and hard, a scab and scar, tissue that will not heal. Never regrow. I suspect that if you sliced through my skin, near my heart, you could see that brown, mottled place inside; proof of damage done.

I am far more fearful of accidents and illnesses, of losing another child. There is almost nothing I take for granted any longer; an innocence has been lost, and I don't like it.

I am full of doubt. About God, fate, faith, what I believe. I've become a skeptic and, though I don't much like it, see no way out of uncertainty. And while I have my fair share of doubts about any kind of afterlife, I admit to jealousy of those I know and love who have died: why is it, I wonder, that they get to be with my boy now and I don't? It isn't fair.

Though maybe heaven, if it exists, doesn't work that way.

All my life, the only thing I will ever want again, is to be with Ben.

Can they see it on my face, the changes losing my son, birthing a dead child into the world, has made? I don't know. But they are there.

Words From a Doctor about Stillbirth

2010-10-10T16:29:00.000-04:00

Dr. Alexander Heazell, a clinical lecturer in obstetrics in the U.K., is one of us. The father of a stillborn child. And he wants the medical community, society, the world, to end the silence about stillbirth.

In a recent edition of the British Medical Journal, Heazell writes about his son's stillbirth, noting that, in the UK, there is an average of 10 stillbirths daily, or 4,000 a year--which he points out is the number of babies one hospital might be expected to deliver in a year. He says such deaths are "under-researched and under-prioritized" because of society's reluctance to deal with stillbirth out in the open.

In an article I found on www.EmaxHealth.com, Heazell is quoted, “Thirty years ago, no one talked about cancer. Today the diagnosis and treatment of cancers is improving all the time. If parents are brave enough to speak, and doctors, midwives and policy makers courageous enough to listen to them, then the barriers to reducing the number of these deaths can be overcome. In time stillbirth, like cancer, will no longer be taboo, but a condition that’s openly debated, researched, treated, and prevented.”

A Film About Stillbirth

2010-10-09T14:14:00.000-04:00

I stumbled on information about a stillbirth film this week. The film, titled "Peekaboo," is in production in the UK. The production company, Big Buddha Films, bills itself as an "independent film company that focuses on making films with a strong female voice, that tackle human dilemmas, and show the vulnerabilities of human existence."

I'm not sure I can envision a film on stillbirth, and I'm not even sure I'd want to watch one. (Having lived through it is enough.) It's an interesting idea, however, and I think it might do some good to raise awareness.

Readers, what are your thoughts on a stillbirth film?

Babies Remembered

2010-10-08T12:27:00.000-04:00

Sherokee Ilse, who is one of the foremost authorities on stillbirth advocacy in the U.S. (co-chair of the International Stillbirth Alliance, author of books and articles on stillbirth, president of Wintergreen Press, and much more) offers a (fairly new) magazine for babyloss parents, Babies Remembered.

Some of the topics she has covered include hospital support, Mother's and Father's Day, and dealing with the holidays.

The first three issues of the magazine are available on her website for free download; all issues after that are available for $12 on her site.

These are excellent resources for parents and families and another valuable tool for anyone dealing with babyloss.

What If?

2010-10-07T10:13:00.000-04:00

What if 5,479 teenagers died suddenly every day, for no apparent reason?

That number is half of the approximately 10,958 infants who are stillborn every day in the world. Approximately 50% of stillborn babies die without any known cause.

Do you think the world would sit up and take notice? Do you think doctors, medical researchers, governments would take action? Do you think there would be an outcry?

I do.

I also think the world would demand answers.

We are losing 10,958 infants to stillbirth every day. When, I ask you, will someone take notice and do something?

Stillbirth by the Numbers

2010-10-06T14:34:00.000-04:00

If you're new to stillbirth issues, the numbers are shocking. To those of us who have traveled this road for far too long, the numbers no longer shock. They depress. They mystify--if the numbers are so high, why is there not more awareness, as there is for SIDS, for autism, for breast cancer? So here they are, the numbers of stillbirth, in black and white.

- there are 26,000 stillbirths in the U.S. each year
- there are 4 million stillbirths in the world every year
- there are 900,000 early pregnancy losses in the U.S. each year
- there are nearly 20,000 neonatal losses each year in the U.S.
- approximately 1 in 115 births will result in a stillbirth in the U.S.
- this equates to one stillbirth every 20 minutes
- in Australia, England, Wales, Northern Ireland, the rate of stillbirth is approximately 1 in every 200 births
- in Scotland the rate of stillbirth is approximately 1 in 167
- about 50-60% of stillbirths will never be explained

What Remains

2010-10-05T13:04:00.000-04:00

This is what I have of Ben. A small wooden box of ashes.

A box that, at some point in their lives, and more than once, both of my living children have picked up, shaken, and asked me what's inside.

When I don't reply with an answer to their question, they normally say, "Sand?"

And I say, "Yes, something like that."

The other day James asked if we could open it, and I said no. "Why not?" he asked.

I replied, "Because everything inside would spill out."

"But you could put it back in again," he said.

How do you explain that this mysterious little box, so fun to shake and hear the "sand" inside, is what remains of the brother he will never get to know? How do you explain that his parents chose to burn the body of that brother so that, when we move from this place, we could take him with us?

I don't know.

There are so few answers to the questions that remain forever.

Searching for the Answers to Stillbirth

2010-10-04T14:51:00.000-04:00

I came across an article written in March 2006 by journalist Suzanne Pullen of the San Francisco Chronicle and wanted to share some of it here with you. Ms. Pullen lost her son Avery in 2005 at 24 weeks.

She cites statistics I have mentioned in earlier posts and backs up my hope--the hope of stillbirth parents everywhere--that more research will be done into stillbirth. Here are a few excerpts from her article: (complete article can be accessed here)

"Searching for answers will provide little solace to many parents because so little research has been done on the causes of stillbirth -- classified by most in the medical community as the death of a fetus at or beyond 20 week's gestation. The efforts of many researchers have been stymied by the lack of standardized methods of reporting stillbirths and the collection of data from hospital to hospital, county to county, state to state. Fetal autopsies -- which are not covered by all insurance companies and have no national protocol -- are not required by law or hospital policy unless foul play is suspected."

And:

"Stillbirth has been an extremely under-researched area," said Dr. Uma Reddy, an OB/GYN with the National Institutes of Health. "There is a huge gap in information."

Why? Why is stillbirth so under-researched? When will people understand that something needs to be done?

I spoke this morning with the husband of a friend. He and his wife lost their second child, a son, at full-term just one year ago. They don't know why he died. She is now pregnant with another son and they are, of course, terrified. Neither of them hail from the U.S.; both come from different European countries. My friend's husband, a scientist and Ph.D., told me how shocked he was at the statistics for stillbirth in this country. In their native countries cases of stillbirth are much, much lower. Why? He thinks, perhaps, medical professionals in their native countries have more awareness of the issue, pay more attention to risk factors.

Yes, it's anecdotal, but--what if he's right?

We can cut the numbers of babies stillborn every year down dramatically, if we, as a nation, only have the will.

What will it take?

Shades of Gray

2010-10-03T14:50:00.000-04:00

A few days ago I put up a post about the difference between stillbirth and miscarriage, after I had a friend refer to Ben's death as a miscarriage.

Several readers commented that, technically, their losses were somewhere in between a miscarriage and a stillbirth, in a strange gray area where there are no appropriate words in the vernacular to describe what they endured. Even though they had vaginal deliveries and saw and held their children. One reader's sons were born at 17 weeks gestation, within those shades of gray.

Another reader's son was born at 16 weeks gestation and took one breath. Only one.

And yet another delivered her twins in the UK, where a miscarriage is classified as a loss before 24 weeks. Her girls were delivered at 23 weeks. One of them lived, one of them died.

What can we learn from all this, you ask? I think we learn that there are few areas of black and white in this world, that we need compassion more than we need absolutes. We learn that loss takes many forms and cuts far deeper than many of us can ever know.

We learn that numbers mean almost nothing at all when faced with unfathomable grief.

Online Advocacy for Stillbirth and SUID

2010-10-02T11:48:00.000-04:00

I have posted this before and I will keep posting it until something happens. First Candle and the CJ Foundation for SIDS are partnering to have House bills HR3212 and S1445 implemented into national law in the U.S.

This is the Stillbirth and SUID Prevention Education and Awareness Act. This bill would "standardize investigations of stillbirth and sudden unexpected infant/childhood deaths up to age 4, create a national registry for these tragedies, track risk factors, fund public health messages and provide grief support services for families affected." (from First Candle's website)

Please go to First Candle's site and use their Online Advocacy form to write letters to members of Congress who have the ability to pass this into law and make a difference for the thousands upon thousands of parents who will experience a stillbirth in years to come.

National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month

2010-10-01T13:13:00.000-04:00

October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It is overshadowed by Breast Cancer Awareness Month but, in my view (as the mother of a stillborn son and the friend, niece and daughter of breast cancer survivors--and victims), no less important.

In honor of Awareness Month, I am going to blog every day about stillbirth issues. (Although I might throw in a Wordless Wednesday photograph if I need a break from the sound of my own voice.)

I would love for my readers who have been hiding out to de-lurk, say hello, and tell me why you're here. Tell me who it is you are missing.

What You Should Know About Stillbirth and Miscarriage

2010-09-28T11:04:00.001-04:00

Because there is a difference, and yes, it matters. At least it matters to me, as someone referred to the loss of Ben yesterday, and the loss of a friend's full-term son, as "miscarriages."

And I am not here to talk about whose grief is worse, that of a mother who had a miscarriage or that of a mother who had a stillbirth. We get so competetive about grief: my loss was worse than yours, I lost more than you did.

That is not a place I want to go. But I do want to clarify, for any reader who may have come here not understanding that a miscarriage is not a stillbirth. Calling Ben's death a miscarriage takes away some of his reality--for he was a full-term child with a name, a weight (7 lbs, 10 ozs.), a height (19.5"), and hair (brown). I will never know the color of his eyes. He was long and lean, had long fingers like mine, narrow feet like his father's. I held him. My husband took pictures of him, we undressed him, we kissed him and rocked him. You cannot do this with a miscarriage.

So, what IS the difference, you ask? These are the basics:

* A miscarriage is the loss of a child before 20 weeks gestation. (This is the US definition; I realize in other countries, like the UK, a miscarriage is a pregnancy loss before 24 weeks.)
* More than 80% of miscarriages occur before 12 weeks gestation.
(For more info, go to BabyCenter.)

* A stillbirth is the loss of a pregnancy after 20 weeks, or 24 weeks in the UK.
* In a stillbirth, the baby has died in utero before delivery or during delivery.
* Yes, a woman who has a stillbirth has to deliver her child, most often vaginally as doctors prefer not to do a cesearean in these cases, if possible. (Did you get that? I went into labor and delivered my son just as if he were alive.)

Yesterday I also found an article online, from England's Daily Mail newspaper. This paper is not exactly, er, known for its journalistic integrity, and the article reflected that. A British actress, Kym Marsh, discussed the "stillbirth" of her son, Archie Jay, in the article.

The thing is, Archie Jay was BORN ALIVE. He died shortly after birth.

I believe accuracy matters. Perhaps I'm being ~~pedantic~~ ~~angry~~ anal, but that's who I am. Words matter. Accuracy matters. My son's life mattered.

Born HIV Free Campaign

2010-09-24T12:12:00.000-04:00

"Every minute of every day, a child is born with HIV."

This statistic is from The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.

There's a web campaign at their site going on right now, asking people to sign their petition, which will go to global leaders requesting support and money for the fund. Their goal is to end the mother-to-child transmission of HIV by 2015. Approximately 400,000 babies are born with HIV every year.

From their site: "The goal of an HIV-free generation by 2015 is a global commitment by dozens of international and non-governmental organizations, who have committed to work together to make this a reality. The Global Fund’s task is to provide countries with the funding they need to achieve this."

This is doable. Will you join me in signing?

Now We Are Alone

2010-09-20T13:37:00.000-04:00

I ran across this story on the NPR website a week or two ago. It's the heartbreaking and powerful story of a mom and dad, Jan and Linton Weeks, who lost both their adult sons in a car accident last year.

I realize none of us need more sorrow in our lives, but their story deserves to be shared.

Truth

2010-09-19T17:02:00.000-04:00

The truth is, we are all a little bit crazy, not just those of us who love dead children, who talk to them every day and wonder, for an eternity, why?

Truth is, sometimes we lose people not through death but through separation, through silences. Friends will not always stay -- and how I wish someone had told me that long ago, when I thought a friend was a friend for life. Experience taught me otherwise, painfully and slowly, and it's a lesson I am still trying to reconcile with my life experience. So many friends who disappeared, or cut me off, or drifted away. Friends I cut off, ran away from. People I never had a chance to tell goodbye, or people who said goodbye to me when I wasn't ready. Those I wanted, needed, to say goodbye to, but didn't have words gentle enough to do the job. Friends I no longer know if I can count on, the silences have been so great between us, are so great between us.

Truth is, others will die, others who may have long forgotten us, but meant a great deal to us once upon a time. Who changed our lives, briefly but permanently. Who we thought would be with us forever.

The world is so vast, and yet so small. Today I am thinking of several people I thought would be with me forever: one is gone, one is somewhere in between friend and stranger, and another is . . . I just don't know.

Truth is, the spaces in between us are sometimes all there is.

Over and Over Again

2010-09-15T14:34:00.000-04:00

You can't say goodbye to a memory.

I remind myself of that a lot these days as I begin to prepare for a huge change in my life, one I'm not sure I'm ready for.

I'm viewing my life a little differently right now, savoring the seasons and the moments a little more than maybe I otherwise would. Knowing that my future, for the next three-quarters of a year or so, will be more about saying goodbye, coping with leaving behind what I know here. Walking into the unknown.

I don't like to say goodbye.

The change has been in the planning stages for several years now; we've been waiting for 2011 to put those plans into action. Next year is year we decided, some time ago, that we would move our family back to England, to my husband's home, back to his people, his family, all the things he has missed so terribly over the last 13 years we have lived in the States. The plans were fine, so long as they were plans, so long as 2011 was in three years, or two. But now, it's next year. And I will admit to being a little bit scared, a little bit overwhelmed, and very uncertain if this is the right thing for us to do. I don't want to move away from my comfortable routine, the stability that four or five years ago my husband and I so desperately needed. The memories.

But you can't say goodbye to a memory.

(Or so I tell myself, not quite believing it's true.)

Today I went to my ob/gyn for my annual check, the same doctor I've had since I was 28 or 29, who saw me through all three pregnancies. I've read that many women fall a little bit in love with their obstetricians during a pregnancy, and I can see why. And I think I did a bit myself. I told my doctor that we are moving next summer, and at the end of my appointment he gave me a hug and wished me well. Which made me cry.

But you know as well as I do that isn't the only thing that made me cry. I will probably never walk the halls of that hospital again, where I was pregnant and in labor with each of my children. I will never enter the room where I first heard their heartbeats and saw them kick. I will never again enter the room where I found out that Ben was dead.

Saying goodbye is not leaving him behind. I know he's here with me, but walking away from those memories, the good ones and the nightmare ones, rips me to pieces. Part of him is in those rooms, as is part of me, part of my other two children.

And once again, it's like leaving Ben, walking out the L&D doors with empty arms and stinging eyes.

I know he's here, inside me wherever I go. But I still must say goodbye, over and over again.

No Rules for Grief

2010-09-14T14:10:00.002-04:00

Yahoo! Shine just posted an article titled "The Way We Grieve Now." The story opens with this: "Boarding a flight, Lisa Niemi pulled out her phone and texted "I love you” to her husband. It was a sentiment she'd often shared with her partner of 34 years, actor Patrick Swayze."

How. . . refreshing to read this. I'm a mother who has been without her second child for nearly seven years, and I still tell Ben, every day, how much I love and miss him.

Every. Day.

Every day.

For 2,447 days, I have said those words to my baby boy, even though he isn't here. And I have often thought that people would think I am crazy if they knew how often I talk to Ben. I've thought that perhaps I really am crazy, sometimes, maybe I am holding on too tight. This article put those feelings in perspective - maybe I'm not as nuts as I think I am.

The truth is, grief does make us crazy. Intensely, deeply, wildly insane. It changes us forever, and the craziness ebbs and flows and, eventually, tapers down like a candle melting, slowly burning the last of its wick. The flame is never quite extinguished but doesn't burn as brightly as it did when the match first struck the wick.

What's the thing you think people would not understand about your grief, might make them think you're crazy? Care to share?

Hole in My Heart Only You Can Fill

2010-09-11T17:59:00.001-04:00

* Photo from GeekPhilosopher.com.

For everyone who lost someone nine years ago today.

Some holes can never be filled.

Still Here

2010-09-08T11:03:00.000-04:00

One of my Facebook friends, Janel Atlas (editor of the anthology They Were Still Born: Personal Stories about Stillbirth, in which an essay about Ben's death will appear) (now available for pre-order on Amazon! And Barnes & Noble!) posted a link to this interesting article about how fetal cells remain in the mother's body for years after the baby's delivery.

Dr. Diana Bianchi (not to be confused with the Diana Bianchi who broke up Christie Brinkley's marriage to Peter Cook) is a pediatrician and researcher in fetal cell migration. She discovered, a decade ago, that fetal cells remain in a mother's body for many years, perhaps forever, after a pregnancy, whether that pregnancy is full-term or not. These cells somehow assist in healing the body, providing a therapeutic effect, migrating to the site of an injury or source of an illness, doing what they can to fix the problem.

Amazing, no?

They're still here, our babies. Still with us, still residing in our bodies. Not them, but part of them. And that makes me feel much differently about losing my son.

What I Did Not Do On My Summer "Vacation"

2010-09-06T09:48:00.000-04:00

Remember that post I wrote in early June, "School's (Almost) Out for the Summer"? Where I posted a list of what I hoped to achieve while my children were out of school and I became a stay-at-home, work-at-home, full-time semi-crazed mother?

Well, ha on me. Here's a list of what I didn't get done over the past three months.

1. Lose 10 lbs. I maintained. Which has to be seen as a plus, right? (Right?)

2. I did not get my children to put their dishes in the dishwasher. Well, maybe 25% of the time. That's an optimistic percentage.

3. I did not convince my children that bickering with a sibling is overrated. But boy, did I try.

4. I did not eliminate foods with high fructose corn syrup from the family's diet. I limited them, but when you've got two kiddos with you at the grocery store arguing and pleading, I've found I give in more than I should.

5. I did not win the lottery. No surprise there.

6. Nor did I deal with the piles and piles of kid artwork and other assorted schoolwork lying around the house. Let's just say I have a new plan for the fall.

I did have a lovely, relaxing vacation in Massachusetts with my family and my sister. Except for the bickering siblings part, it was terrific. And now, school is back in session, my children are doing well (so far), and James, though exhausted, has done great in all-day kindergarten. Leaving me to focus on those piles and tasks and 10 lbs for six hours each day, though I am desperate to run to school and bring him home at noon.

Catch me in December and I'll let you know how I've done on my summer "things to do" list.

And They're Off

2010-08-26T10:21:00.000-04:00

My baby started kindergarten this morning. He was up and dressed and had his backpack on 20 minutes early, stating, "I'm ready to go now!" We told him it wasn't time yet, and he said, "I want to go anyway!"

And I teared up all through breakfast and our short walk to school.

He's ready. And it's hard to let him go. James walked into the school door without a backward glance while all I could do was look back in time, remembering the day he was born, remembering the last five years, wondering why they went by so quickly.

He's ready. And I am not.

He saved my life, you know. James and his sister both did, after Ben died. Charlotte was my reason to get up in the morning when I wanted to stay in bed, covers pulled tight over my head, forever. Though I can't claim to have been a good parent to her in that year after her brother died, I showed up because I had to. Because she needed me. I needed her even more.

Unlike last year, when I lingered at school on the morning of the kindergartener's first day, remembering what might have been, I cried this morning in happiness and sorrow. The milestones I would have marked with Ben are becoming more nebulous now, smaller in significance. I will not know when he would have finished school, for he might have dropped out, or failed a year, or some other unfathomable thing. He may never have gone to college, or gotten married, or had children. I don't know, and I live with not knowing, having to accept it because that is all there is.

I will mark my life now with the two who lived. And it's ok. Though I can't pretend these milestones are normal, untinged with the pain of loss.

James was my second chance, my hope, my future, my joy. All through that long pregnancy filled with fear and expectation, I waited, and hoped, and feared the worst. Then he came and I can't imagine living without him.

He's ready. Ready to go off into the world, eager to learn, so excited to be big.

The past five years have been leading up to this, I know. James, and Charlotte, are both where they need to be. Exactly as it should be, exactly as I want it, except for the longing in my heart.

At 81, He Still Blames Himself

2010-08-22T17:01:00.001-04:00

I came across this article several weeks ago, "Hibakusha writes to his dead child," about an 81-year-old man in Japan, a survivor of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. In it, he speaks, through a letter written to his second child, a daughter who was stillborn, of his anguish that he may be responsible for her death.

"Is some bad blood flowing within me?" he writes. "Or, is this the payback for having survived?"

I already knew, and this only reaffirms, the guilt and sorrow never go away. But at least there will be others out there who feel just the same way.

It All Comes Down to This

2010-07-29T09:21:00.000-04:00

Summer is waning, much as I hate to admit it. I glanced at the calendar the other day and realized that, in four weeks, school begins. My daughter starts 4th grade on a Tuesday, and my son begins kindergarten two days later, a shortened week of two 1/2 days before beginning full days the following week.

And I was browsing our community magazine a day or two ago, looking at the library's offerings for children, preschool story times, baby sign classes, and realized: It's over. My boy is too old for story time now, we've left it behind. We've left behind the diapers, first steps, nap times, all those baby things I love.

This is what we work for, as parents, we work to leave behind the baby years, we nurture our children and encourage them to take risks, feed them their fruits and vegetables, push them out and away from our protecting arms because it is what we are supposed to do. They are supposed to grow and change and leave us.

But I don't want them to leave me.

I am just past 40 now, closing in on 41 -- my birthday is in just a few weeks. I spent the decade of my 30s focused on babies -- having them, wanting them, overcoming the grief of losing one, deciding whether or not to have anymore. We first started trying for a baby when I was 29, though didn't manage pregnancy for over a year, along with the help of medical intervention, and my first child was born when I was 31. Three years later, Ben. 20 months after that, James, just before I turned 36. Followed by four more years of wanting another, debating having another, knowing all the while that there would be no more babies for us. (I am not quite reconciled to this decision, nor do I think I will ever be.)

And though there are many years of parenting ahead of me, I am having trouble letting go of that baby-obsessed decade. I'm having trouble letting go of the best things I've ever done, trouble pushing them out of the nest. And this is what it comes down to: letting them go, when I will always want to hold them in my arms like I did when they were born.

There is so much I didn't know: how hard it would be, nor how wonderful. How fast they would grow and leave me behind.

A Baby Candle

2010-07-25T17:23:00.000-04:00

Some of you may recall that my husband and I light a special candle every year on the anniversary of Ben's birth. This candle was given to us by friends and used on the day of his memorial service; we light it only once each year.

Friends of mine started a company, Luna's Light (there's another link over there on the right), in memory of their sister Shannon, who died unexpectedly in her early 20s. They provide resources for grieving families. Recently (ok, not so recently; a few months ago - I am remiss in posting this) we met up for coffee and conversation, and they gave me one of their company's newest offerings, a baby candle. (And yes, I totally stole this image from their site...a better picture than I could do! Michele & Kelly, let me know if this is not ok!)

Go Read This Post

2010-07-20T10:08:00.000-04:00

... and see if it doesn't change how you feel about your day.

Jennifer Lawler's daughter Jessica has a seizure disorder. When she was 9 months old, surgeons removed half of Jessica's brain. Her daughter is 13 now and they just received the bad news that Jessica has a hole in her spine, which surgeons hope to fix on August 10th. Jennifer wrote this post over on her blog, Finding Your Voice, which might just rip your own heart to shreds.

Go read it, and send a prayer, or good thoughts, or whatever you believe in, their way.

A New Book About Stillbirth

2010-06-27T20:38:00.000-04:00

And this time, I'm in it.

Well, not exactly "in" it; I'm actually the author of one essay in a book slated to be published in November. It's called They Were Still Born: Personal Stories of Stillbirth. I was contacted by the book's editor, Janel Atlas, over a year ago to ask if I would be interested in contributing an essay to her proposed anthology, and I agreed. I'm very excited to hold a copy of the book in my hands.

It's available for pre-order now at Amazon.

Writing and Yoga

2010-06-18T16:13:00.000-04:00

So, I expect you've noticed the yellow icon over there about yoga and writing. I'm doing a yoga and writing challenge for 21 days, just because. I've got some lower back issues that like to crop up from time to time, and yoga helps alleviate some of the trouble. Yoga is also good for my mental health, which is more important to me at the moment, quite honestly. I'm little miss stressed, generally.

As far as the writing, well, I've been working on some things, and though I'm in the editing stage right now, a challenge is a useful thing for me. I don't have as much time as I'd like to be part of the community of individuals taking the challenge, but I'm there in spirit. So no, I'm not writing 800 words a day, but I'm editing that many most days, if not more. And getting in a few sun salutations or warrior poses too.

If you're curious about the challenge, click on over to Bindu Wiles's site. What are you challenging yourself to do these days by way of self-improvement?

Please

2010-06-11T08:47:00.002-04:00

If you're pregnant, don't send me an e-mail with the subject "Bad News." Because when I work up the courage to read it and discover there is NOTHING truly bad in the body of that message, I will spend the rest of the day trying not to weep.

School's (Almost) Out for the Summer

2010-06-04T08:44:00.002-04:00

With less than a week of school left for my 3rd grader, I thought I'd turn to the lighter side of life and list a few summer goals for my family. (A girl's gotta have a dream.)

This summer, I hope to convince my children of the following:

1. It only takes 5 steps to move from the left of the kitchen sink, where you normally place your dirty dishes, to directly in front of the dishwasher, where you can place them directly in said receptacle, freeing your mother up from an extra 15 seconds of work 36,322 times per day.

2. Bickering with your sibling may commence at 7:59 a.m., but not a moment before.

3. While the ice cream truck may pass by our house twice each day, you're not getting a treat any more than once a month. If you're lucky.

4. Foods with high fructose corn syrup, that are overly processed, or colored any kind of unnatural shade (I'm talkin' to you, Cheetos) are not a healthy part of anyone's diet.

5. TV is a privilege, not a right.

My personal summer goals:

1. Lose 10 lbs. (This has been a goal for the last, oh, 40 years of my life.)

2. Beat the overgrowth in my yard into submission, once and for all. (This has been in progress for 5 years.)

3. Maintain (some might say find) my sanity.

4. Organize the piles of papers, books and child artwork littering my house. Perhaps even unionize those dust bunnies.

5. Win the lottery. (But since you have to play to win, and the only time I've bought a lottery ticket was actually when my grandmother-in-law purchased one for me....well, you know.)

Anyone care to share summer goals, real or imagined?