The 'Secret' World of a Bereaved Parent by Emalynne

My husband and I lost our first born daughter, Annabelle on 10 August 2012. She was stillborn, something that you just can not believe actually still happens in this day and age. You realise though as you learn of the secret world of bereaved parents that it happens much more often than you care to believe. It was a difficult and dark time when Annabelle passed and continued to be difficult and dark for many days, weeks and months afterwards. 

Coming out of that haze, I realised that life continued for those around me. As I began to go back to “life”, it was hard to work out what to say to people when you saw them again. It was especially hard with those who expected me to have a baby in my arms and they are unaware of what tragically had happened. It’s that difficult circle of people: colleagues and acquaintances that aren’t close enough to be those friends who learnt straight away of our baby’s death, but were well aware that you were pregnant. Going back to “normal life”, meant having to interact with them and explain to them the trauma of our loss. As I found myself repeating the story of the lost of my beloved Annabelle that soothed me but brought such sorrow, I could not bring myself, at times, most times, to do it again tomorrow. 

Although blessed with a subsequent pregnancy, it brought such anxiety as innocent questions from strangers abound about the number of children I had and what number pregnancy this might be. I might give an answer that doesn’t sit quite right, so the next time I gave another. As an overthinker, there is a whole lot of mental gymnastics to work out what to say. I wanted to make sure that I respected and honoured my child while managing the emotional turmoil and anxiety I had inside about what further questions may ensue from the answers that I gave.

In the end, I decided whatever answer I gave, they don’t remember it and I sit with the answer for what feels like forever because it doesn’t matter as much to them as it does to me and it just doesn’t seem to do my child justice. 

But you know what? 

As bereaved parents, we just do what we feel comfortable. There is no right or wrong way to answer such questions as time and life continues following the lost of our children. You navigate life as well as you can and do what you feel right to live and breathe the new normal that is your life without your beloved child. For me, to respect and honour my child, Annabelle is to continue to live my life and what it stands for.

Emalynne

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 1300 072 637

Emalynne So

I am a mother to Annabelle, stillborn on 10 August 2012, BabySo, miscarried at 12 weeks on 20 June 2013 and Jema who was born in July 2014. I share my family's story to help honour the memory of Annabelle and BabySo so they can still make a difference to another family's journey on this path despite not having stepped a single foot on this earth.

Losing a Lifetime of Dreams by Mel

On the 28th of September, 2014 at 10:15am, I welcomed & said goodbye to my daughter Lacey. She was stillborn at 30 weeks gestation. The pregnancy had been normal, with just the usual morning sickness. The morning of the 27th of September I had woken up & noticed a lack of movement.  Having had my first daughter delivered at 33 weeks by emergency c section, I was pretty certain things weren't right. I had to work that day:  I am a hairdresser & was doing a wedding up at Noosa.   I couldn't get to the hospital straight away, so went against my instincts & drove to Noosa. I thought Lacey was still moving a little bit, just not a lot. I called my obstetrician & told him she wasn't moving as much & I felt like I was in the early stages of labour. I was told to go home & rest. My gut instinct told me something was definitely wrong, I drove to the hospital to be checked. I can remember every detail of that night. The Doppler placed on my belly, the deafening silence. The midwife trying her best to reassure me that everything would be ok.   I knew she was gone.  My obstetrician came & scanned me.  I saw her little chest where her heart should be beating. 

His words .. "I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat." 

In that exact moment I could feel myself breaking from the inside out.  I immediately went into survival mode. I contacted everyone I needed to & prepared myself mentally for what I was about to endure. I was induced 3 times. I felt as though I had left my body & was watching this nightmare unfold. My midwife, Carla, was absolutely amazing.

When it came time to push, I panicked & said I couldn't do it. She held my hand tight. "You're not alone, I am here & I will help you"; 3 pushes & my beautiful daughter was  born & placed on my chest. She was perfect, silent, still. I remember praying so hard that she would cry, I held her tightly, please wake up.  I kissed her little face & perfect fingers. I rocked her & hugged her. I was able to spend the night with her, in her cold little cot. I remember just staring at her & thinking to myself that this couldn't be real. 

Her death still consumes me, she is missed so much. I have had 2 more miscarriages since losing her. One at 11 weeks & my most recent one in March 2017 at 12 weeks, another girl. Another sister for oldest daughter Scarlett, who is now 4. My miracle. As someone who has suffered a stillbirth & 3 miscarriages, I can say all pregnancy loss is traumatic & devastating. 

You lose a lifetime of dreams. Losing Lacey changed me as a mother & a person. I dream of her & think of what should have been. Each year on her birthday we release yellow balloons. I feel her presence everywhere. She is loved, she is missed & she is remembered.                                                                   

Mel

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 13000 72637

Mel Tauletta

Hi my name is Mel, mother to Scarlett, aged 4 , my miracle born at 33 weeks, Lacey, born sleeping at 30 weeks & 3 other angel babies lost through miscarriage at 12 weeks. I lost Lacey due to a placental abruption, other miscarriages are unexplained. It's been 3 years since I lost Lacey & I can only now speak about her without crying, although a piece of my heart will always remain with her. I will keep trying for my rainbow baby. I hope sharing my story will help others learn to speak about their children who didn't make it earth side. We are not alone.

28 Years Today (30/8/2017) by Kathy

Kathy wished to share a poem that she wrote  after their son Anthony was still born many years ago. He was their first born.

28 years ago today

I was getting ready to say "gidday"

And welcome you to our family

Our first born child named Anthony

But your life was cut so short

And now I sit here deep in thought

What would you have grown up to be

A butcher a baker or joined the Army

But the answer I will never know

Because it was your time to go

The tears I cry for you today

Will never ever go away

From the time I rise to the time I sleep Your photo I will always keep Safe in a locket dad gave to me My darling son Anthony

 Kathryn©

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 13000 72637

Things I Wish People Understood - Part Two by Suzanna

This is the second installment of an article I wrote. It discusses the things I have learnt – and wish others understood – about losing a child.

It is written in loving memory of our baby, Ella Rose Argyle (stillborn on 21 January 2017).

Death changes your relationships with the living

With every major loss I have endured, some relationships have developed or flourished, while others have perished.

In the weeks immediately following Ella’s death, I met a wise and compassionate mother who told me about losing her baby to SIDS. She spoke frankly of her experiences saying: People will surprise you, in both directions. You’ll experience amazing kindness, but you can also expect to lose some people from your life.

She was right. Despite the haze of my grief, some things have come sharply into focus. Grief strengthens and affirms some bonds. It destroys others. Sometimes, the parting of company has evoked fierce anger and bitter disappointment. At other times, it’s involved a gentle resignation and letting go.

You can’t humour people out of grief

It’s often said that ‘laughter is the best medicine’. Even in our darkest hour, it’s important to laugh – if only briefly and at the most absurd things. In saying that, you can’t humour people out of their grief. Several well-meaning friends have cracked jokes and offered cheerful, vapid remarks. They miss the mark – by a mile. They trivialise our loss, compound our suffering and demean our child. Sitting with us in our grief is the most powerful and generous thing you can do. Honour this moment; it is real and cannot be hurried.

It hurts to be excluded (when you have no living children)

A friend once observed that the hardest thing about being gay was the fact that he was excluded from the world’s largest club – the Married-With-Kids Club. While I can’t speak to being a persecuted minority, I certainly know about the pain which comes from loss and exclusion. Whenever my husband and I encounter a happy family, he says that ‘it feels like the whole world is having a party that we are not invited to.’

I haven’t forgotten

Sometimes, people avoid talking about children who have died because they don’t want to remind the parents. Let me tell you this: I forget all kinds of things, from where I left my keys to whether I’ve taken my vitamins. At my lowest, I shuffle from room to room, forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing. But I don’t ever forget my child. I think about Ella all the time – when I’m scanning my groceries, brushing my teeth, making small talk with the neighbours. Most parents love talking about their children because their children are the most special and amazing part of their lives. Bereaved parents are equally passionate about their kids. We want the chance to talk about them, albeit in an appropriate and supportive environment. 

It’s better to be awkward than absent

My husband and I feel sorry for people who encounter us. In fact, we often remark that ‘we wouldn’t know what to say to us’. Our culture offers no clear template for dealing with grief, or helping people through it. But here’s the thing: you don’t have to say anything amazingly profound or insightful. You just have to say you’re sorry for our loss and, if the relationship warrants it, offer your support. If there were ‘right words’ to offer the grieving, our poets and scholars and philosophers and clergymen would have found them by now. To my knowledge, they haven’t. For the record, I wrote the book on being socially awkward. I understand that there are few situations more uncomfortable than addressing a grieving parent. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. 

I recently saw an acquaintance who declared that she’d thought of me and prayed for me almost every day. All I could think was ‘that’s nice, but it doesn’t help me in any way’. If you don’t express your care, it does nothing for the person who’s suffering.  Sorrow tests our patience, but a bereaved parent will ultimately forgive a clumsy, awkward, ill-timed remark. They are less likely to forgive someone who is entirely absent in their darkest hour. 

Suzanna

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Suzi Maxwell-Wright

  

My name is Suzi. My husband, Ted, and I are trying to heal after losing our baby Ella Rose Argyle (21 January 2017). Ella was stillborn at 34 weeks, after what appeared to be a healthy pregnancy. As we declared on her headstone, Ella is ‘beautiful, longed for and eternally loved’. She is, and always will be, a part of us. My hope is that this blog will honour her precious life and help other bereaved parents feel less alone as they navigate their grief.

Watching the Calendar Tick Over - Stevie

Our second son Elliott was born sleeping on 28/10/16 at 21 weeks gestation. My membranes ruptured and I went into labour. Our perfectly healthy baby just wasn't strong or old enough to make it through. Now I find I'm in this huge space between his birth and his due date that feels like limbo. A space between the ‘was’ and the ‘might have been’. It’s a space filled with watching the calendar tick over, day after day towards what should have been a joyous time filled with exciting anticipation, waiting for our baby to arrive safety into the world. Instead the anticipation is rife with stress and sorrow. Although he has already been born, that date, his due date, hasn't gone away.

When I woke up on New Year’s Day I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want it to be a new year, I didn't want a reminder that time truly does go on. Days, weeks and months had passed and now a new year. I felt like he'll be forever left in 2016, never to grow up through the years. I felt like the new year reflected how I was further away from him yet closer towards the cruelty of what was meant to be. I was supposed to be big and waddling by now like I was with my other two by this stage. I was supposed to wear that maternity dress I bought on sale. Instead the night before I could have a few drinks because I wasn't carrying a baby safely inside and I could wear my pre-pregnancy jeans because he had already been born when we were just over half way there. Having a cocktail and wearing my jeans were things I looked forward to doing again, but now both just reminded me of what I no longer had. 

I never cared for dates and now they meant everything to me. Every Friday echoes the day he was born and died, the 28th of every month tells me how old he would have been if he survived. And that date, the date that he was meant to be born healthy and alive is looming. I won't ever happily prepare a birthday party for him like I do for my other two. Instead we prepare ourselves emotionally for certain dates which bring a gutting ache of milestones we'll never get to witness. I see photos of friends who were due within weeks of Elliott’s due date and know that was meant to be me. I can't let my husband put his hand on my belly when we cuddle because it reminds me how he would rub my belly feeling the baby kick. Now there's just emptiness when there shouldn't be and it feels taunting to have his hand on it.

I had a great week last week- I felt productive, useful, purposeful. Then I woke up one day and couldn’t get out of bed. For three days, I didn't get out of bed until late in the afternoon and when I got up I felt like I had absolutely nothing left. Out of nowhere my grief had smacked me right in my face. I couldn’t stop thinking that we would be counting down the weeks now, preparing for his arrival. That if he was born now, even this early, chances are he'd be fine. It feels like every week that passes closer to his due date intensifies the thought of our baby whom we should have taken home. I began looking for answers to my grief, to solve it, to let me pass over the thoughts of "if only". I tried to be positive and held back from crying. Then I came to the realisation, with help from friends including other bereaved mums, that there are no answers and no ‘solving’ my grief. That no matter which way you looked at it, it was cruel, terrible, awful and unfair. I broke down to my husband and told him the things I couldn't stop thinking about. I cried that mournful cry you can’t fake, I curled in a ball and clutched at my stomach. When I woke up the next morning it was easier to get out of bed.

I'm now trying to accept my grief as part of who I now am. I’m trying to understand, live with and around it. I'm accepting that the time between now and that date will likely have many terrible days where I am temporarily consumed by those "if" thoughts. I'm going to let myself have those days, so the next ones are easier. I'm accepting that sometimes its ok to not be ok and that its normal to be angry and upset, feeling that it’s all so unfair. Because you know what, it is unfair-completely and utterly unfair. At my worst times, I do my best to bring myself back to the moments where I held him and remember that warm feeling of protective love. I do something to celebrate him and his life, because he deserves to be celebrated like every other baby. I’ve decided that on his due date we'll fly kites for him and write on more stones to put around his tree we have for him, like we did on a day we held for him after he was born. I know I'll count down the days until his due date, and have no idea what will happen after that, but I know every day before and every day after I’ll love him.                                                                                        

Stevie

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Stevie Vowles

Stevie Vowles has a 7 year old daughter, 4 year old son and a son who was born sleeping on 28/10/16.  Her journey led her to the upsetting discovery that there is often a great lack of understanding and awareness of pregnancy and infant loss. She has started an open and honest blog sharing her journey of Elliott's birth and the life that leads after for herself, her husband and her two other children, who also grieve greatly, as the first step in wanting to spread awareness and help other bereaved parents the blog can be found here https://elliottsstardust.family.blog/blog/

Christmas is fast approaching - Barry

Following on from my previous entry:  life had started to get back to some degree of normality. Life will never be the same again, but Sarah and I had started to come to terms as best we can and we both were back at work. Some days were still too much, however we start to spend more time at work and less time away. I start to feel useful at work once more not just showing up.

Then I started to think about Christmas. Phoenix was due in early January, so if everything had gone to plan he may have come early,  or if not Sarah would have been heavily pregnant during Christmas celebrations. Either way he would have been a part of our celebrations and I am sure he would have got lots of presents.

Unfortunately Phoenix will not make it with us to Christmas in person, we will remember him and think of him in spirit. One night I was thinking about this and feeling down: I took some time to grieve and thought I had processed it by the next morning.  Sarah suggested we take the day off anyway just to be sure, but I think if I take a day off work every time I am feeling a bit blue I will never be at work. So off I went to work, thinking everything was good and dealt with last night.

As I prepared for my day as a school teacher, all is going well until the first bell for home group and I feel the grief rising but it is too late to deal with. I go in thinking I only have 20 minutes to deal with then I have a free lesson and can manage my grief then.  As I enter the class it must have been written on my face a student asks me “Are you OK?” I believe in being honest with my students and I shake my head but I don’t have the words and that’s it - I break down.

Luckily there is an office to the side of my classroom filled with teachers and I take refuge in there and a teacher kindly offers to take over. I spend most of the home group time in there to compose myself and worry what will happen when I have to show myself to my students. However I realise I have some important information to relay to my students and decide to face the music. The students don’t say a word about what has happened and take the information in as normal as I take over the class for the remaining 5 minutes. Some students even come up to me throughout the day to check that I am ok. It’s funny, I teach in a pretty rough school but the students constantly surprise you with kindness and compassion, I think some may relate to grief and loss.  I take my free lesson to compose myself and continue to teach for the rest of the day. It certainly was not the most successful day, I still feel raw all day but I manage to get through. After a stressful day I decide to take the next day off to recover. 

I recover and go back to work for another week and all is well until again the thought of Christmas surfaces in the car on the way to work and I think the 25th of December will be the 4 month anniversary of Phoenix’s short time on this earth.   The grief starts to swell again but I think I have it under control again. Unbeknownst to me it is just building and biding its time. I manage to get through homegroup, however in the grief and confusion I have confused my days and planned a lesson for a different class. I get to my actual class after a short detour to tomorrow’s class and start to madly think of what I can do with this science class that was supposed to be PE.

I stand in front of the class (most of whom are socialising waiting for me to call their attention), and I realise the grief is about to explode once more in front of a class.

I try deep breathing to calm myself however another kind and thoughtful student asks again “Are you ok?” and it breaks me once more. I rush out of the class luckily again another teacher is nearby to relieve me for a few moments.  I compose myself again and retake my class a short while later. On this day I have no free lessons to calm myself just recess and lunch. Again it is not the best day but I get through. I notice myself being snappy with the students and I have to apologise on more than one occasion. My students know my story and they are mostly kind and compassionate.

I decide I need to take action to try and prevent future outbursts in class. I call Dorothy from Red Nose and we discuss some strategies around preempting those bad days and using music to bring the grief on early before work. We discuss using a phrase like “thank you for asking” as a shield if someone asks “Are you OK?”. I also discuss with my partner Sarah and she tells me she talks to Phoenix every morning and that helps her.

The next morning I try many of these strategies. I feel I want to get back on the horse again immediately unlike last week when I took the day off. I think everything is working fine until I am about to leave and I realise everything is not fine. Now I know this will be a huge disruption and it will be difficult to cover my lessons but I feel I have no choice but to call in sick.  I apologise profusely and explain the circumstances of why I am calling in so late.

After another interaction at work I fall into a deep depression for most of the weekend. I was able to function:  I went Christmas shopping with Sarah but the usually joy I felt around Christmas and buying presents was not there. This felt different to the grief I had experienced up until that point. I decided I need to discuss this with a professional although admitting to potential mental health issues was not something I wanted to do. There is still a stigma attached to such an admission. However after talking to supportive friends and family I decided it is better to check it out rather than wait for it to get worse, so I set an appointment for early next week.

During the weekend however I talked about it more and discovered there are other things I could be doing for my mental health. By the end of the weekend I was feeling much better however I decide to keep my doctor’s appointment just to keep everything in check. We discuss the differences between grief and depression. I know I want to try and avoid at all costs some of the feelings of that weekend just gone. I want to be able to recognise if I am going to that place and to develop strategies to get out.

On a lighter note Sarah and I found out on Monday we are expecting twins. This delightful if slightly terrifying news has brightened our lives. As for Christmas I am sure there are ups and downs to come. We will take time to remember Phoenix on the day. Like Sarah I have been talking to him every day, and our family brought us a wonderful Christmas Tree Bauble to remember Phoenix. Next Christmas we will have two little ones to share Christmas with Sarah, Phoenix and me. One day when they grow older we will tell them the story of Phoenix on our tree. 

Barry  

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 14 000 72637

Keeping Charlie’s Memory Alive by Anita

Anita Marshall shares Charlie’s story and how running has become a special time for her; ‘Charlie time’ and a way to keep his memory alive. It has also allowed her to raise funds for Sands and help other parents in a similar situation.

Sands Australia has become an integral part of mine and my family’s life since Charlie was stillborn on July 30, 2002. 

Thirteen and a half years seems like a long time and it is, but Charlie is always with us as are the memories of the day life changed forever. 

My husband and I had been trying to have a baby and after a bit of help, became pregnant for the first time.  At the time, I worked in a maternity hospital and was also a trained nurse so was surrounded by the healthcare system and babies.  The pregnancy was smooth with no hiccups and everyone at home and work were excited to meet our little boy Charlie.  We knew it was a boy and his name was Charlie.  I had just finished working with the plan of having a few weeks off to rest and nest at home.  I saw my obstetrician in the afternoon of July 29 and heard Charlie’s heartbeat and all was fine “see you next week for your delivery” he said as I left the clinic. 

That night I felt uncomfortable but I was 37 weeks pregnant so naively went about my business. As the night progressed, I started to feel unwell and had what I thought must be contractions, so off to the hospital we drove, excited that this might be it. On arrival we were placed in a room to be checked and see what was going on.  Like so many before us, Charlie’s heartbeat could not be found and in that moment I knew enough to know something was wrong.  None of the nursing staff could find his heartbeat and our obstetrician had been contacted.  We were moved to our obstetrician’s rooms for an ultrasound, just him and us, where it was confirmed that Charlie had died.  We had only heard his heartbeat that afternoon….what could possibly have gone wrong? 

In the early hours of July 30, Charlie Marshall was born naturally and was 7.5 pounds and looked like nothing was wrong except everything was wrong as he did not take a breath. 

Apart from my brother, who was younger than us and had no children himself, we found ourselves on our own. We were living interstate so family and friends were contacted and were on the next planes to be by our side and meet and hold Charlie.

Life changed forever that day, not only for us but also our family and friends.  They surrounded us with love and support and following Charlie’s funeral, the first of what has now become a tradition ‘Charlie Party’ was held at my brother’s home.  All the food and drink had to start with ‘C’ and everyone there wrote their special note to Charlie on a balloon that were all released together.  This tradition has continued and has now also been embraced by Charlie’s brothers – Cooper, Archie and Parker! 

Charlie’s three brothers were all born prematurely which was certainly a highly stressful number of years. 

It was after having our four sons that I decided to take up running and it quickly became my ‘Charlie time’.  One thing led to another and I started entering fun runs and fundraising for Sands. Sands had allowed me to grieve at my own pace, feel normal around others and piece by piece put life back together.  It is a way I can help Sands and other families like ours. 

I wanted to mark Charlie’s 10^th birthday, so my close friends and I created Team Charlie and ran the Melbourne Half Marathon in 2012. We managed to raise $25,000 for Sands, it was such a fulfilling and meaningful achievement. Then in 2015, the year Charlie would have become a teenager, we decided to commemorate it by taking part in the ultimate run, the New York Marathon, raising over $9,500.  Running and raising money for Sands not only supports an organisation that gives so much to others but also keeps Charlie’s memory alive for all those around him. 

Losing your child leaves you in pieces but Sands is part of the team who help put you back together all be it in a different way and for that we will be forever grateful.

Anita Marshall 

If you are inspired by Anita and want to fundraise for Sands visit http://www.sands.org.au/get-involved/fundraise for ideas on how you can make a huge difference.

Dealing with Jealousyby Larissa

Lairssa again shares with us her thoughts on Dealing with Jealousy.

    'Jealousy is just one of a range of emotions that I’ve had to deal with more than 

    I expected after my baby died. It’s been over two years of struggling but I’ve 

    started to see a way through: recognise, accept and let go. It’s not always easy 

    but it is always worth it!'

When your baby dies, you lose so much more than just them. When my first baby, a daughter, was stillborn, I lost trust in my body and in my instincts, I lost the future I had planned and I lost my innocence. Pregnancy no longer holds the same certainty; there is no “when the baby comes home” but “if the baby comes home”. I’ve had two pregnancies since Ariella’s death and while I have been excited, I have also been hesitant. I know there are no guarantees so I simply cannot get as excited about pregnancy as I did the first time.

I feel like I have made peace with this new reality. I do feel saddened that I cannot be as excited about my pregnancies as I once was, but that’s just part of my new reality. I’m ok with that. What I’m not as ok with is the fact that this hesitation, this lack of excitement, also applies to my friends’ pregnancies. I watch them eagerly prepare for their new babies and I wish it was me. The joyful baby showers, happy glow, fully prepared nurseries… all things I once had but don’t know if I’ll have again. And that’s when it creeps in.

Jealousy.
What is it about that feeling that seems worse than others? Since Ariella died I have felt many of the harsher emotions, including anger and guilt. I’ve come to terms with them and know how to deal with them when they arise. But jealousy? I’m not used to that yet. I still feel so uncomfortable when the twinges begin. It’s been two and a half years and I am only just starting to work out how to handle this particular emotion: recognise, allow, let go.

Firstly, I recognise which situations are likely to cause jealousy. If I knew a friend was going to have a baby I prepared myself for the mix of emotions that would arrive along with the baby. I knew I would be happy for my friends and relieved for a safe arrival but I’ve also learned to expect a twinge of jealousy too. Recognising that it is likely to appear takes the sudden sting out of it and therefore makes it easier to handle.

Secondly, I allow myself to feel it. I used to suppress it whenever I could, thinking that it wasn’t something I was allowed to feel. After all, isn’t jealousy a bad thing? But all that did was make the jealousy linger and make me feel worse. It was very freeing when someone wise told me that it’s ok to feel jealousy, in our situation it is a normal response! When someone else has what I desperately wish for - a living baby - it’s only human to feel jealous. Allowing myself to feel whatever emotion pops up (including jealousy) frees me from feeling guilty about my natural reactions; this makes it easier to get to the final stage of handling my jealousy.

The third thing I have learned to do is to let go. It’s so much easier said than done! I’ve done a lot of thinking about jealousy lately and I realised that while I accept it and allow myself to feel it, holding onto the feeling of jealousy only does harm. It impacts on my relationship with friends as it can hold me back from them and it steals my happiness. I’ve found the best way to deal with jealousy is the hardest: let it go. For me that means acknowledging that it’s there: naming it, sitting with it and accepting that is how I feel. And then I choose to set it aside, to look for the positives in the situation. As hard as it can be to see healthy, living babies, I have always loved babies and do see them as a blessing. So when a friend has a baby, I’ve learnt to move through the jealousy and find the positives. 

Jealousy is just one of a range of emotions that I’ve had to deal with more than I expected after my baby died. It’s been over two years of struggling but I’ve started to see a way through: recognise, accept and let go. It’s not always easy but it is always worth it!

Larissa

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Larissa Genat

Larissa is a wife to Marcus and a mother to two beautiful children – Ariella Jade in

Heaven and Levi William in her arms. She loves spaghetti bolognaise and the smell of rain, but neither of them could make her smile when, after a textbook pregnancy, Ariella unexpectedly died at 39 weeks gestation. No reason was ever found for her death. Soon after Ariella’s death Larissa began writing. You can find her posts at

Deeper Still (www.loveisdeeperstill.blogspot.com)  and on Still Standing Magazine (http://stillstandingmag.com/author/larissa).

Birth, Death and Beyond

Jackie Barreau, Adelaide author, shares with us an excerpt from her book 'Through a Mother's Eyes'

As I look back on my second pregnancy, and it’s unfortunate ending  - I am extremely thankful that I was able to carry my three other children to term. I also wish I could add they were in good health but that was not the case.  I do know that statistics show 6 babies are stillborn each day. These statistics are still high and yet we seem to avoid talking about child loss. Just like birth is a natural occurrence so too is death.  Elisabeth Kubler -Ross a Swiss-American psychiatrist and author of the book ‘On Death and Dying’ described her five stages of grief as; Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance, better known as the acronym DABDA. Kubler-Ross also suffered two miscarriages before giving birth to her two children. Her famous quotes are now shared around the world in social media circles and beyond. It is still a mystery to me that we can openly discuss acts of terrorism and the media can televise beheadings, but we can’t talk openly and honestly about child loss; that it is just to confronting.

Child loss can tear families and relationships apart or it can truly galvanise them. For my husband and I - our marriage has weathered the storm, where many have crumbled ours continues to strengthen. Child loss puts enormous strain and pressure on a relationship. I know so much has changed in the years since Cody died, and the bereavement support offered to families is readily available and accessible, it is so vitally important and necessary in the recovery process. I talk of the word ‘process’ and how grief is just that. We may be getting on with our lives but we will never get over the loss of our children.

In 2013 I published my first book of poetry ‘Through a Mother’s Eyes’ here is an excerpt.

           If the meaning of loss

           is measure by heartache

           and deep and overwhelming grief,

           then maybe we have already

           learnt one of life’s

           most difficult lessons.

           If we quantify each step taken

           forwards rather than backwards

           We will realise that the hardest

           part of the journey

           is already behind us

           It has no boundaries,

           The only ingredient

           being love.

Jackie

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Jackie Barreau

Jackie is a resident of Adelaide, South Australia and a published author. Happily married and a mother of four (two sons in heaven) she also has two teenage daughters. In 1998 her second son Cody was stillborn at 26 weeks, the cause of death an issue with the placenta. Some months later her first born Luke  just 2 yrs old whom was diagnosed with neuroblastoma (cancer) died after a short battle. Jackie's articles on child loss have appeared in www.stillstandingmag.com. She currently writes for www.myinvisiblelife.net a NFP blog for invisible illness and disability. You can also read her own musings at www.lovehopeandcourage.wordpress.com