Things I Wish I'd Known - Ally

Never did we expect the outcome of our blissful pregnancy to end with the beautiful and short life of our only daughter. After a devastating six weeks of scans and tests, solemn news and flowing tears, at 24 weeks, you graced us at 1:08am on January 12 2017. It was surreal, the sound of an empty room after the midwife informed me that I was about to meet my daughter. I would never be prepared for what came next, the smallest, most fragile and precious baby that I would ever lay my eyes on. 

After an emotionally draining and exhausting 16 hour labour, you were wheeled away for more tests while I briefly slept, only to return wrapped in your angel gown, resting peacefully with your head on your hands, as if you were merely sleeping. 

Of course, was born asleep, and would stay that way, no crying, no feeding, no laughter. The hardest moment of all would be leaving her, walking away from that hospital room, a mother and father leaving the hospital, without the baby they came with. I still will never know how I put one foot in front of the other and was able to walk away from her. The hardest thing I'll ever do.

It was, but then I would never know that the grief of losing a baby never really leaves you. You just find ways of coping. But you'll never forget that you left the hospital, with an empty heart, that of a mother without a child. 

Looking back, my favourite pastime was listening to her speedy little heartbeat every morning and evening. I had hired a heartbeat monitor for peace of mind. I kept thinking while her heart was strong, surely she could overcome anything else. I would send positive thoughts, my steely determination pushing her to survive. But it wasn't enough, and she couldn't fight it. Knowing how sick she was now, I know she was incredibly strong to have survived that long.

I had to stop listening to the recordings to try to distance myself from those happy memories. I thought if I could busy myself, throwing myself into my work, I could get some distance from the pain. Distance from the hurt, from the emptiness. I would never know how it feels to be alone in this world, until the one person I had the closest possible human connection with, is gone. Only one person knows what my heartbeat sounds like from inside the womb. I frequently heard hers but she lived only ever hearing mine. 

What I would never know is that there is no distancing oneself. From the moment I could feel her, the moment that I knew of her existence, there would be no way of distancing myself. Especially after she's gone. Instead, I am left only with these regrets. 

Edie,

I regret not listening to your little heartbeat until the very moment that your little heart stopped beating.

I regret not lying there absorbing your every movement so that I could look back and remember it as some of the best moments of my life. 

I regret not taking photos of myself, through every happy and terrifying moment of my pregnancy, proud of my pregnant belly and the gorgeous baby inside me.

I regret not filming myself while you twisted and turned, so that I could look back and try to recall that feeling.

I regret that I don't have a smell that reminds me of you. No new baby smell, no talcum powder or baby wipes. New mums would take this for granted I'm sure, all I want, is to hear you cry just once and smell a gorgeous newborn baby smell.

I regret that I don't have a song, which makes me happy, thinking of the joy you brought to our lives. 

I regret that I can't recall your warm body when you joined this world. My brief time with you, the one time I held you, I no longer remember. 

I regret that pain medication I took to try to make your birth easier, instead robbed me of my memories and time with you as I slept, exhausted from the morphine I had asked for.

Instead I can only recall my last moments with you, touching your cold skin as I said my last goodbye to your tiny, fragile body. It breaks my heart how small you were, only 320 grams at 5 months pregnant.

I regret that I was so tired after such a long day that my only memories are fading and it hurts my heart that I may only be left with photos of you, photos that do not do your beauty justice. Photos that cannot describe the honour I have of being your mummy.

There are fleeting memories and photos, sad songs and no smells. All that we are left with now is a tiny box of ashes, which fail to acknowledge to the world that she was born, and was a child of ours. 

We will love you endlessly, Edie Grace. You were and will be loved beyond measure. 

- -

Ally Downing, mother to Edie Grace Downing

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Ally Downing

Ally is a first time mother whose daughter Edie Grace was stillborn on January 12, 2017. Three months on, Ally and her husband Greg still have no medical diagnosis for Edie's death as they await genetic testing to shed some light on her illness.

As a publicist, she felt it was beneficial to share her story for other grieving mothers, to raise awareness about loss in pregnancy, particularly for first time parents. As the joys of motherhood still await Ally, in the meantime Ally and Greg are supporting each other, frequently speaking of their beautiful daughter they were so blessed to meet, to honor her memory. 

In Loving Memory of Jeremy

This was the poem that Alisha wrote for Jeremy's funeral.  On August 31st it will be 3 years since he was stillborn, and though in general it gets easier each day, nothing can take away the raw emotion whenever she thinks of him and what could have been.  He was conceived after 3 years of infertility and finally a successful round of IVF.  

Jeremy, my son,

You were my everything,

The miracle I dreamed of

My future in your being.

I couldn’t wait to meet you,

And see who you took after,

Whose eyes you had, whose height,

Whose personality and laughter.

I was going to guide you,

Teach, and watch you grow.

Play with you, and tickle you,

And teach you how to throw.

You would explore and build forts,

Take after Dad and be good at sports.

You’d be handsome, and oh so smart,

But probably not so good at art.

We’d shoot hoops ‘til dark,

Play catch and picnic in the park.

Feed the ducks, go to the zoo,

Have awesome birthday parties, just for you.

I’d make you the coolest wardrobe,

Bake you cookies and treats,

You’d be best friends with Rodrigo,

And Cleo who we’re yet to meet.

We were going to Disneyland,

We’d laugh while waiting in line.

I was going to share my world with you,

As you’re the gift that completed mine.

We built you a beautiful nursery,

Just perfect for my son,

How was I to know,

Your time would never come.

My dreams have been ripped out of me,

You took them when you left,

I’m sure you left for good reason 

And now you are at rest.

All I have is tiny handprints,

And memories in my mind

Of the dreams I’ll never fulfil,

Since you’ll never truly be mine.

My heart will always bleed

For the son I never knew

My Jeremy, my everything

Taken far too soon.

Alisha

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637


Alisha Burns

Alisha is a 35 year old kiwi marketer living in Melbourne and mother of one angel, Jeremy, who was stillborn at 21 weeks in 2012.  Alisha loves exploring the world, impressing people with her ability to walk in 6 inch stilettos, anything Disney, experimenting in the kitchen, pretending she can sing at karaoke. One day she would love a French Bulldog to complete her menagerie if she isn't lucky enough to have children of her own.

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY GIRL

Rashida's precious daughter turned two during March.  In this blog she reflects back to the time her daughter was born.

     "On her birthday, I sat on the bed by myself and I took out the special 

keepsake box that we got from the hospital. " 

I’m a busy woman. As a business owner I’m always on the go and I also have an 11 month old baby girl who keeps me going, but on March 19th, the day my angel was born sleeping, I slow everything down a little bit. That day brings about a time of reflection and remembrance for me.  Setting aside that time is important to me because the reality is as time goes by and you begin to heal from the heartbreak of loss, have more children, and juggle everything from chores to your career, the details tend to fade with time; and I don’t ever want to forget. 

This year my baby girl would have been two years old.

On her birthday, I sat on the bed by myself and I took out the special keepsake box that we got from the hospital. The box itself has a special place with her name and details of her birthday including the time she was born, how much she weighed and her length. In the box there is a journal and little momentous like her blanket, baby bracelets, and a picture of just her tiny little toes (because I knew that would be all that I could ever handle and the memory of her beautiful face as I held her is forever etched in my mind), and a postcard of a teardrop on a leaf symbolizing both the intense suffering of loss and hope for the future.  

This time of reflection not only serves as a remembrance of my baby, but is also a reminder of how strong I am and what I have the ability to deal with. At times when life feels overwhelming or I’m afraid, I look at that box; especially on her birthday. I realize that I no longer have anything to fear and there are bigger issues than the little nuances that plague us all day to day. It shows me that because I’ve already been through one of the worst things that can ever happen I will get through whatever I am going through. Her memory reminds me that I am a survivor (of preeclampsia/HELLP Syndrome) and I’m still alive and thriving.  

Her memory also makes me grateful for the child I have now because I know that I would not have my experience now as a mother without the one I experienced with her. I’m so appreciative of my angel for making space for her sister to come into this world.

That is why I celebrate her and commemorate her. Whether that means just spending some quiet time alone in prayer and appreciation, releasing a balloon or lighting a candle I make sure that I take a little bit of time out of my busy schedule.  

We do it for every other holiday. In my house, holidays are a big deal and birthdays are no different. By definition a holiday is simply a day set aside by custom or by law on which normal activities, especially business or work, are suspended or reduced. Generally, holidays are intended to allow individuals to celebrate or commemorate an event or tradition of significance.

Losing my child is one of the most significant events that has occurred in my life to date and for me that means setting aside some special time to remember her and show appreciate for what her short presence in my life has helped me to become.

Happy, Happy Birthday baby girl!

Rashida

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Rashida McKenzie

Rashida McKenzie is the Founder of High-Risk Helpers, a maternity concierge service for expectant mother's experiencing high-risk pregnancies that result in bed rest. She is also the mother of a baby girl named Maya (who was born after 22 weeks of bed rest) and an angel who inspired her to advocate for pregnancy loss awareness. To learn more about Rashida or High-Risk Helpers, visit http://highriskhelpers.com/

A Letter to My Daughter

Genevieve shares with us the letter she wrote to her daughter, Amalie.

"You are my rose, Amalie. My perfect little daughter. You made me feel whole… complete… for the first time in my life.  You were the piece of the puzzle I didn't fully understand how much I was missing having - the piece that rendered almost everything else in my life insignificant in comparison."

A letter to my daughter (read aloud as we planted a tree in her memory)

My darling daughter Amalie,

Thank you.  Thank you for coming into my life and bringing me more joy, peace and fulfilment than I thought possible, albeit only for six short months.

I felt you move inside me, and part of me wished I could kept you there, protected, forever.  I would have done anything, anything at all if it meant harm did not befall you.

But alas your life journey was tragically short, nipped in the bud.  I was lucky. We spent several months together. The rest of the world only knew you for a few short days.  But the ripples from your arrival and departure are still being felt, by so very many people.

There have been trees and flowers planted in your name all over Australia and beyond. Like this one. They will grow and flower, celebrating your life. And my hope is that as they are tended, they will not induce sadness in those gardening, but instead, gratitude and wonder at the blessings your short life has reminded us we have.

Your Dad, Nanna, Granddad and I will feel pain too, that is inevitable. Pain that we will never get to see your first steps, your first day at school, your first love, your first heartbreak. Pain that you will never know much love you can feel for a child growing inside you.

But pain is not only inevitable but invaluable for a full and fulfilling life.  The lows give life contrast and context.  They help breed resilience, empathy and humility, and these are some of life’s most important skills. So much comes down to attitude.

I won't complain because roses have thorns, but instead rejoice because thorns have roses.

You are my rose, Amalie. My perfect little daughter. You made me feel whole… complete… for the first time in my life.  You were the piece of the puzzle I didn't fully understand how much I was missing having - the piece that rendered almost everything else in my life insignificant in comparison.

I understand so much more now- about myself, about motherhood, about the world.

And for this, I will be eternally grateful.

All my love,

Mummy.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Genevieve Yates

Genevieve is a GP, medical educator, medical writer and musician from the Northern Rivers region of NSW. After a long and difficult road to motherhood, her beautiful daughter, Amalie Ella, was born in December, 2014.  Tragically, Amalie died of neonatal sepsis after only four days.

Through her clinical work, teaching and writing, she hopes to she can use her experiences to help support both patients and other doctors in managing the complex emotions surrounding fertility issues and perinatal loss, and also encourage more open discussion in the general community.

Her website can be found at: http://genevieveyates.com

What Happens Next????

Readers of the Sands blog will remember Jess's story of the birth of her daughter Emma.  This blog, as the title suggests, describes Jess's own brush with death in the weeks after Emma's birth. It is a salutary reminder that, even in the 21st century, birth can (albeit rarely)  be risky for mothers as well as babies. 

After the death of a child, I think at any age, your life is transformed completely. In our case she was never home with us, we never got to experience her personality, never got to complain about lack of sleep or the amount of nappies we were changing and yet I still occasionally walk into the nursery and expect her to be there.

Once you arrive home from the hospital, devastated and empty handed you realise life must resume and you need to find your new ‘normal’.

For me, my re-entry into the real world wasn’t as straight forward as trying to cope with our loss. In the days after Emma’s birth I became increasingly ill. My husband had been suffering a chest infection so coupled with my grief I assumed it was just that and attempted to press on.

One week after discovering our beautiful little girl’s heart had stopped beating I found myself unable to breathe, unable to even get out of bed! My husband somehow managed to get me up, into the car and straight to Emergency.

Grieving for our Emma had to very abruptly take a backseat that night and it wasn’t until weeks later that we were able to begin processing our loss again.

My memory of that time is fuzzy at best but I’m told that after I was admitted that night I was simply too tired to breathe on my own so was placed in an induced coma and intubated until they could figure out why I was fading before them.

Emma’s birth had been particularly traumatic and I had come away with an impressive number of stitches. To avoid infection they’d put me on antibiotics immediately. Because of this, when I was admitted, they were unable to detect exactly what was wrong because the antibiotics were killing every sample they took as soon as they had taken it.

Though it’s never been 100% confirmed, it’s suspected that the bug that took our little girls life almost took mine as well. As well as an extraordinary case of pneumonia.

For me it was a week of blissful nothingness until they finally figured out what the problem was and woke me up. For my husband it was days of doctors, nurses, specialists and for a time, trying to face the reality that he had lost his beautiful daughter and now might lose his wife too.

So a week after stumbling almost incoherently into ED, two weeks after losing our daughter, I woke up in ICU with little recollection of how I got there….then I got better.

I’m not sure if having that time of ‘distraction’ was a good thing or a bad thing for our grieving process but I do know one thing, while this has been the most horrifying experience of my life, I am so very fortunate to have such a rock solid partner in my hubby. He is my hero, the father of my 2 perfect children and my best friend.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Jessica Lawless

Jessica lives in Victoria. She is the wife to Shane and a Mum to 2 beautiful kids - Adam, nearly 2 and Emma, born sleeping August 2014.
I like to practice yoga, cook, read and spend all my time being a SAHM with Adam. My family and friends are my whole world, there is barley a distinction between the two.
I hope by being so open and honest about my experiences I can help raise awareness and provide support for others.

 

The Power of Time

When we have experienced a great loss, we live in the realms of past, present, and future all at the same time.

"You will have the family you always wanted. You will have lots of healthy babies. I promise you that this is the worst thing you will ever have to go through, it will never happen again." These were the words whispered to me by my loving sister on the day we said goodbye to our daughter Isobel. In her comforting manner, my sister was doing her best to convince me that I was going to live the life I always wanted, and to not be afraid to try again. But the thought of trying again seemed unbearable, how could we survive this again, and how could we go through another pregnancy without knowing what fate has installed for us next. It seemed like torture, a whole 9 months of it. That was the moment I suddenly feared the future.

Rewind to a week earlier, and I was sitting in the same seat wondering when our baby was going to enter the world. She was due the next day, and I was anxiously thinking of how much our lives were about to change forever. I remember sending a text to my friend, telling her that for the first time during my pregnancy, I was over the waiting game and more than ready for my baby to arrive. I was a patient pregnant woman up until that weekend, I had nothing but unashamed bliss during the 9 months and I had no reason to be impatient. As I sat in my sisters arms, all I wanted was to be pregnant again, back when Isobel was healthy and safe.

The moment my contractions started every minute was crucial. I hadn't experienced any Braxton Hicks during the pregnancy, but even so I still couldn't be sure whether what I was feeling were real contractions. I got my timer out and started counting. I rang the hospital and they told me to patiently wait, and get some rest, nothing will happen for at least 12 hours. The contractions suddenly leaped from 10 minute apart to 4 minutes, and became much more painful. I could feel something was wrong, but I also lacked confidence with what was normal. Then it happened, in one second it all changed. The cord had come out. Suddenly the timing of contractions was no longer relevant. Counting the minutes of waiting for the ambulance, counting the 45 minutes of restricted oxygen she had by the time we reached the hospital, counting the 8 minutes it took for her to be delivered naturally, that was all we could focus on. The pain, the heartache, the fear, they all had to take a step back to make room for the hope that it would all be okay.

Every minute of every hour during Izzy's life was significant to the fate of ours, and I was far from the impatient pregnant girl sitting and waiting on the couch only days earlier. Now all I wanted was for time to slow down, for the seconds to be hours, the hours to be weeks, and the weeks to be years. The world outside those hospital walls no longer existed, it was like we were on a different planet all together. A planet where healthy babies are not guaranteed, where a pregnancy does not equal a living baby at the end. As an expecting parent, you simply can't understand how such a place could exist. Cancer can be cured, immunisations created to fight disease, antibiotics to fight almost anything, but nowhere in modern medicine is there a guarantee that your baby will live. We are living in 2014, but it feels more like the world our grandmothers and great grandmothers lived in.

It has been almost four months now, but it feels like that time has been lost forever. When I try and think back to yesterday, last week, or last month, it is mostly a hazy blur. We wake every morning and sleep every night, and in between we try and go about life. Our friends and family urge us to get out of the house, to attend their parties, join them for lunches and dinners, because they want to see us living life again. Each day has empowered us to heal, even if we didn't know it at the time. Every daunting kids birthday party, every anniversary of Isobel, every tear from the end of a hard day; they are all a step further out of darkness.

Even though it felt impossible at the beginning, we are surviving. The six days we had with Isobel are the memories that give us the energy to start and finish each day. The hope that our family and friends bestow upon us gives us the power to overcome fear of the future. The love that we have for each other is the essence of the family we so desperately want. On some days I imagine myself as a mother with a baby, instead of the lonely woman at the supermarket checkout. I think back to the care -free person I was four months ago, and I am full of hope that I will be that person again. That one day I will be a mother with a baby, and my husband will be a father with a son and daughter, maybe one or maybe five, but we will be a family.
                                                                                         Jess

If you require support after reading this blog 
please contact
Sands on 13 000 72637

Jess Schulz

Living in quiet beachside Adelaide, Jess is a fundraising officer for Motor Neurone Disease SA, freelance graphic designer, and social blogger. Married for 5 years (together for 12), Jess and her husband experienced the saddened loss of their first child in 2014 at 40 weeks. Their daughter Isobel Lola, passed away 6 days after she was born. A perfect pregnancy ended with a cord prolapse during labour, and now Jess and her husband are walking the road of grief while trying to survive each day without their Isobel. Love, hope and support are the essence of their survival, and Jess has chosen to share their story on Sands to hopefully support other bereaved parents walking this road too.

Clementine's First Birthday

When birth and death are so closely intertwined, how do you celebrate a birthday?

Our baby girl, Clementine, was stillborn on 29 July 2013, two weeks before her due date.

As a mum, I have many strengths, but birthday party planning is not one of them. Our first child, Eleanor, once attended a friend's birthday party on the weekend of her own birthday and declared her friend's cake the highlight of her birthday weekend (it was a great cake).

However, planning a birthday celebration for Eleanor is a piece of cake (ha!) when compared to surviving the anniversary of Clementine's birth and death. 

In early July, Clem's first anniversary - 29 July - could not have loomed larger. For me, it was like a dark shadow of fear, loss and self-blame that was cast over my days. 

One Saturday afternoon, Ben took Eleanor out to give me some quality time with my To Do list. "A big cry" must have been somewhere on that list because that is what I ended up doing. The uncontrollable, can't-really-speak sobbing is always a sign for me that I might need help. 

I called Sands. 

The parent supporter listened... and listened. And I listened. And she helped me:

         This day is between you and your baby 
         You don't need to do anything for other people
         Do what you need to do 

And I survived a bit more of July. 

But then, about a week before Clem's anniversary, my grief decided to hit me with a bit of anger. 

I say "a bit of anger" but let's be honest, it was a lot. I was enraged. My baby died. What do you do with anger? 

I called Sands again. 

We talked about anger and grief. When people picture a bereaved mother, they probably don't picture anger but, it can be there. Alongside the sobbing and self-blame and emotional eating. We don't often talk about anger. It helped me to talk about it. 

I am a part of a wonderful Pregnancy Loss Australia group on Facebook. After speaking with the Sands parent supporter, I shared my anger surrounding Clementine's anniversary with the group and asked if anyone else felt anger. I shared our plans for Clementine's day - to go to the park opposite the hospital where Clem was born and blow bubbles to her. 

Members of this supportive group offered to blow bubbles to Clem too. They knew I needed others to recognise my baby on this important day. My anger dissolved as their compassion and understanding reached me. 

I decided then to share our plans for Clem's day with all of my friends via Facebook. And I invited them to blow bubbles to Clem too. On Clem's day I just wanted to blow bubbles with Ben and Eleanor but I wanted others to know it was Clem's day - a special day. I needed others to remember Clem on her birthday. 

I was scared to ask others to remember - what if no one replied and everyone felt awkward? But, that didn't happen. People did respond. They wanted a way to support us and I had given it to them. And on Clem's birthday, people sent me beautiful photos of their bubbles for Clem. It made my day. 

And, with a friend's help, I even baked a cake. A Clementine cake, no less. It wasn't perfect, but I thought... If I can bake this cake, if I can ask for help, if I can find ways to be Clem's mum even when I can't see her, then... anything is possible. 

Happy first birthday Clementine. Thank you for all you give me. 

Susannah

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Susannah Aumann

Susannah lives in Melbourne with her husband, Ben, and daughter, Eleanor. Her youngest child, Clementine, was stillborn in July 2013 at 38 weeks gestation. Susannah is passionate about raising awareness to encourage research into stillbirth.

Remembering Stevie...

We are all in Sands because a precious baby has died.    Some of us have found it easy to talk about our experiences and our emotions.  Others have grieved in silence.    Some of us have the comfort of supportive partners, family and friends.  Some of us have felt very alone.  Some of us have felt judged -  our babies died in the early weeks of pregnancy - our babies had abnormalities incompatible with life - we shouldn't have been pregnant in the first place (too young, too old, too poor, unmarried ...)

Everyone in Sands has a  story .  "Stevie's Story" is about grieving a baby lost through termination.  It is a story full of pain and anguish, but also of support and hope. 

Stevie

6 December 1968, Parramatta

Remembering Stevie means different things to me at different times. Let me walk through it as (chrono)logically as I can.

Just after his birth I was confused, distressed, deeply shocked. Shocked to see a perfect, albeit small baby at 20 weeks. I knew immediately I hadn't terminated a blob of cells unrecognizable as human. I had to remember him – remember him as he was – translucent – beautiful – a perfect baby. I had to remember him. He had to be a thorn in my side to remind me of my failure as a mother – a failure as a human being. So I named him Steven, Steven to remind me that what I had done was unforgivable – there was no penance that could atone. Being told Stevie was hospital waste, not acknowledged by his father, not acknowledged by society served to reinforce by belief my life was to be a continuum of pain. That it was. Even as I write this my heart is breaking.

The next day I went back to work. Stevie was locked deep inside my heart. Life went on – somehow and I don’t remember how. We were married a month later and Stevie never mentioned. It was as though he had never been conceived; never been born. Stevie was locked deep in my heart – I remembered him day after day.

The years passed and I no longer conceived. Was it any wonder? I had killed Stevie – I did not deserve another child. In February 1977 I was diagnosed with cancer on the uterus, two days later I was in surgery; 2/3 pf the uterus were removed and I was receiving radiation therapy– I was to be punished by not being able to have children. Stevie was locked in my heart and he reminded me of my iniquity day after day.
In June 1977 when I was in hospital for radiation treatment it was confirmed I was pregnant and was told I needed to terminate the pregnancy immediately; the risk of the baby being deformed, retarded would be too great. Various tests confirmed the child would be severely disabled. Termination would be the only kind thing. Stevie was locked deep in my heart and reminded me what termination was and what it would be. Would I kill another child? Stevie was locked deep in my heart. I told no one of the risk and refused to have the child aborted. In January 1978 my daughter was born; she was healthy – she had no disabilities. The amniocentesis had given a wrong result. Stevie was locked in my heart and I was afraid I would forget him now.

Two and a half years later my second son was born. Stevie knocked on my heart’s door reminding me of all the experiences I had missed with him. My children were what I was living for. Without them I was less than nothing. I could never atone for taking a life.
My rainbow children grew up, flew the coop and with that my purpose for living. There was no point in continuing. I decided on exitus and began to plan and collect the tools I needed … and Stevie was locked deep inside my heart.

And this is where a good friend joined the story. He showed me I needed to liberate Stevie and he started by saying his name. He validated his existence by saying his name. By saying his name he could not be forgotten and he also introduced me to Sands. I can see it clearly now, how – starting with preparing for Stevie’s first memorial and chatting with a Sands supporter at the same time step by step Stevie was carried into my heart – precious and loved – no longer locked up in its deepest depths.
I feared Stevie would eclipse my living children; I learnt by dividing my love between the children it did not become less – it grew.

Lacking any mementos from the time Stevie was born I made memories and to my surprise the Sands community rallied around me when I was down, whenever I needed it. On 9 December last year, dozens of mums in the Sands community had changed their profile picture to honour Stevie and I was overwhelmed by their kindness. Stevie became a part of my family – there to see – embraced in my heart together with my living children. Whenever I think of Steven I also think of my unnamed brothers – brothers I have named in my heart.

In the meantime, I have a number of things to remind me of Stevie, beginning with the copy of the memorial service. There is the Phoenix Ben a young friend drew for me, there’s Harry a lovely peacock given to me for Stevie’s 45th birthday, a Christmas bauble with a peacock feather in it, there is the NameArt and the pencil drawing and a pendant with the names of all my children. With or without these things I shall always remember Stevie. Since I have a pencil sketch of Stevie I no longer see him in that hospital bed gasping for breath. In fact when I think of Stevie I don’t think of him as a baby at all any more – no, he’s grown up. I now visualise him as a man in his mid-forties. I feel I have reached a milestone. I certainly know I'm at peace with that part of my past.

                                                         Lana 

If you require support after reading this blog please contact Sands on 13 000 72637

The Birthday Dilemma

Lara Cain Gray shares her thoughts on how to manage your memories around significant dates:

Children’s birthdays can be emotional times for families in all kinds of circumstances.  Even for parents of active, healthy, noisy, kids, birthdays can bring with them a slight melancholy twinge as we recognise the all-too-fast passage of time and the awareness that our little ones are not so little anymore.   But one of the most challenging aspects of losing a baby is how to manage your memories around the dates that were significant to a child who’s no longer with you.   Do you celebrate a birthday that wasn’t to be?  If so, how?  

Just as there are a variety of opinions and beliefs around funerals and memorial services, there are many different ways in which birthdays are acknowledged after infant loss.  After I experienced a miscarriage, I chose not to ‘make a fuss’ and brushed the notion of ceremony under the carpet. In hindsight, I don’t think this was the healthiest response.  But it is such a fine line between what some may see as dwelling on the loss and acknowledging a life changing event such as a lost pregnancy or precious baby.  There is a lot of silence around pregnancy and infant loss, and this can leave us feeling self conscious, even indulgent, if we choose to commemorate significant memorial dates as the years go by.

I am now one of the lucky ones, with plenty of opportunities to whip out the bunting and pass-the-parcel games for my children.  The Internet is jam packed with printable invitations and charming matching napkins for children’s parties, but it falls terribly short of options when it comes to remembrance.  It’s peculiar, too, that some actions – like the lighting of a candle or playing a special song – have multiple significances.  It can be very difficult to create a meaningful, personal birthday ceremony that doesn’t somehow replicate a funeral.   But here are a few thoughts and ideas on ways to mark these difficult dates:

      Make or personalise a photo frame with design touches that help you feel positive: sunflowers, moons and stars, even party balloons.  Use it to keep a special photo of your baby, or your baby bump, that can be quietly added to your mantelpiece on special days – whether for public acknowledgement, or for your eyes only.   

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      Keep a piece of commemorative jewellery close to your heart.  Engrave it with dates of significance so that no matter how busy you get or how far you ‘move on’ in your grief journey, you can privately pay your respects on special days, anywhere, anytime.

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      Don’t be afraid to add your important dates to your calendars and diaries; even the public ones. 

      

      It may be painful at times, but when colleagues or family members are aware of your significant dates, they can provide you with space or support as required.  Some people may in fact be grateful that you have opened the door to a discussion they felt was taboo.

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      Don’t forget the siblings.  If you have other children who are aware of the loss, it can be very healthy for them to join in with commemorative occasions.  Consider helping them to write a birthday card, poem or prayer for their brother or sister, especially if they need a little help in expressing their feelings.

There is no right or wrong answer to the question of how to commemorate the loss of a child; everyone’s journey of grief is their own.   But we should never feel that it is somehow weak or overly sentimental to acknowledge the birthday or other significant dates of a lost pregnancy or infant who is no longer with us. 

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Lara Cain Gray

Lara Cain Gray (PhD) is a writer, academic, librarian, curator and mother-of-three.  The order depends on the day.  She enjoys writing social commentary, book reviews, travel tales and therapeutic ravings about being a parent.   Her words have appeared in a range of academic and popular publications, from the Queensland Historical Atlas to Brisbane’s Child.   She blogs as This Charming Mum - Books, Arts & Culture for the Sleep Deprived.