By Elana Ilott, Board of Directors
Certifying Bereavement Doula

If you have a friend or loved one who has experienced pregnancy or infant loss, you might be unsure of how to best provide comfort on Mothers Day.  You might be wondering: Should I say anything? If so, what? Is a gift appropriate? Should I just avoid bringing up Mothers Day altogether?

Here are four ways to support your loved one this Mothers Day:

1. Acknowledge her motherhood and the difficulty of this day. For loss moms, Mothers day brings up all kinds of challenges around identity.  Many women who experience early pregnancy loss might feel unacknowledged on this holiday. Those who have no living children may wonder if their empty arms make them less of a mother than those who have gone on to have a rainbow baby.  Reach out to your loved one and acknowledge that this day is hard for them, and that you see them in the full light of their motherhood (whatever that means to them). This provides much appreciated validation that yes, today and every day, your loved one who lost a baby is indeed a mother and has every right to claim that title. 
2. Say her baby's name. The single most simple yet meaningful thing you could do for a loss mom is to  say her baby’s name. Think about all of the love and thought that goes into naming a baby. I have yet to meet a parent, loss or otherwise, who didn’t labour over the name to give their child. Now imagine choosing the perfect name, one imbued with meaning and significance – and very rarely ever getting to hear that name in regards to your own child. A simple phone or text that says says ”Hi mama, I’m thinking about Sierra/Valley/Jacob/ today and sending you hugs" goes a long way. We love to hear our baby’s names spoken aloud.
3. Be present to her experience.  This is not the time to offer advice or platitudes. Simply be with her, and be present to her experience.  Ask her how she is feeling. Ask her what Mothers Day means to her. Active listening is a gift. 
4. Honor her baby. Help your loved one keep her baby's memory alive. Some ideas: buy flowers for mom that represent the baby’s birth month, make a donation to a loss organization in her baby’s name, light a candle and send a picture to mom, visit the baby's grave or memorial site, send a picture of something that makes you think of the baby to mom, send a thoughtful note card. 

Above all else, just show up. Imperfectly, as you are. Your presence matters. 

Charlene Chambers

Room 7. The dreaded room 7. You may not know when they check you in there, but it means there is very little hope for your baby to survive. The looks of sympathy as you enter and exit don’t register, because you try to hold hope. But this is the room where pregnancies end. Where your baby is born yet dies. This is a room of complete devastation.

I birthed my daughter in room 7. I have been at the feet of the exact same bed as others lost their babies. The room is filled with so much energy it is palpable. I cannot even pass by the room without feeling the emotion of every parent before me, and every parent after me.

Stillbirth. A word no one wants to utter.

But room 7 is so much more than that. It’s a room of love, of laughter. Of what could have been, hopes, and dreams. Of families coming together.

We are not the sum of that room. Room 7 does not define us. We are parents who have to parent a child no longer with us. We support each other on a level no one else can understand. Our children did not cease to exist in that room.

We are not room 7. But room 7 is all of us. All of our love, and all of our spirits. Room 7 is the power of grief, the power of healing, the power of love. Room 7 is room 7.

By Guest Blogger  Meika Kiven
​
Just over three and a half years ago, time stood still. The sound of a thousand horses hooves beating against the ground came to a sudden halt. The silence was deafening. My life changed forever. The lives of my partner, of our family and friends changed too.

We didn't enter into the journey of parenthood with the expectation that death will preceed birth, but for too many of us that is the reality. After previous early term losses as well, the depth of this loss took on an even heavier weight. We wouldn't get to meet our son alive.

Keenan's death has affected my parenting, my confidence, my hopes and dreams. It has affected my sleep, my sense of self, tested my strength, resilience and how easily I let my emotions flow...oftentimes for fear that freedom to 'feel outwardly' may give way to a torrent of feelings I'm unable to comfortably navigate, just yet. 

I cannot say that the entire experience has been negative, dark or depressing. Aspects of the journey have been empowering and enlightening. Making the decision to share with other's about our losses, most notably Keenan's - online through our photographer, a memorial picnic table and trees planted in his name - we created a circle of security, a new community, a conduit for support. These give way to a opportunities for conversation, questions, understanding, hope, silence and love which gives ongoing peace to my soul and brings warmth to my heart. 

Looking ahead, I am glad to hear Keenan's name often, have his image alongside our other children's in the gallery on our wall and to have him continue to be recognized and included as a child in our family. I would never wish the loss of a child on anyone but I hold dear the continual blessings that come from our loss. I have been enriched in ways I could never have imagined.

I embrace the hard days as much as the everyday because its all valid. All of my feelings are real and must be honored for just what they are, however they present themselves. Not all of the hard days stem from my losses, some of it is aggregated over time and exhaustion coupled with the stressors of life. I take each day as it comes... grieving never really stops, it just changes form. My losses don't define who I am anymore than any other aspect of my life. Rather they are part of a bigger picture that makes up my story. I take time everyday to remember because one of my biggest fears is forgetting. Not that it happened but for some of the small details, the little memories that I associate with Keenan. Those memories keep me feeling...

 By Guest Blogger Samantha Jenkins
“I’m Sorry, But You Need to Let Me Go.”

I was approached by someone very close to me who experienced a loss in their younger years with a partner who many years later turned into a good friend. She never really took the time to analyze their friendship and how the loss of her child would affect who they would become. Now is her opportunity to speak out about her experience, and I am so happy to share her feelings. It is hard to lose a child, especially when you were so young. It is even harder to carry that weight for so long and feel like you couldn’t talk about it. Thank you for opening up—I want to validate you and let you know you are loved.

With Love, From Ficus.
www.ficusdoula.com

“I’m Sorry, But You Need to Let Me Go.”
– an anonymous letter to the man I once almost had a child with.

I know that years have passed, and we have grown a friendship that is much different than back then, but you need to let me go. I know that we have both become different people, you following your career and me following mine. We have gone on many adventures since the days we were dating, since the days we altered who we would be to each other, but you need to let me go.

I know that you don’t think about what happened when we were dating, but I do.

I know that you didn’t create the space for me to talk about losing my baby—our baby back then, but I need it now. I needed it then and you asked me not to talk about it. Maybe that was your way of dealing with it, was pretending that it never happened.

But I needed that closure; I needed that time to talk to someone because it affects me every day.

Every time I see you, I think about it.
Not because I love you and I wonder what our life would be like together, because I don’t, but because you never acknowledged what I needed. You never acknowledged that we could have brought a baby into this world—A real human into this world who would be someone and mean something to someone. It makes me question our friendship and how I can sustain it while trying to heal from an experience you disregarded.

I’m sorry, but you need to let me go.

You need to let me go because even to this day, you are still selfish. You need to let me go because to this day, I need to be selfish and speak to you about what happened because you never ever gave me more than a few minutes to be vocal about it. Yes, we have been great friends but I can’t give any longer. I’ve been so supportive for so long about all the passions you have but you have failed to give me the time to talk about mine:

 My passion of being a mother one day, my passions about relearning everything through the eyes of someone who lived inside of my womb.

I’m sorry, but you need to let me go.

Because I’ve written endless diary entries, seen endless counsellors and therapists to try and deal with this heartache, not because I think the right decision would have been to keep our child, but because you never let me tell you about how it hurts that my body didn’t have the ability to work with our child to stabilize that first trimester.


I’m sorry, but you need let me go.

Because your language and actions have impacted how I feel about a romantic partner and being able to become a mother in the future so much that I am afraid of telling my current partner the details. I don’t want to blame you for my dishonesty with this subject, but your treatment towards me to this day has caused enough shame and anxiety that I now suppress my memories during that time. And I don’t want that. I want to honour what memories I have of that child: the rush of hormones, the dreams I created.
I’m sorry, but you need to let me go.
Because I can’t hold onto our friendship any longer and act like part of the gang.
Because I am not just a friend or an ex-girlfriend.
I was the mother of our child.
You were the father of our child.
And you needed to focus on where you were going in life. I understand that too, but a child would have made an impact on your plan.
More than anything, I wish that it would have made an impact on where you were going.
But I am trying to grow, come around in circles from that day where I found out our child didn’t make it so I can grow, I can become a mother and I can rid my cells of the shame you helped me create around the loss of our baby, my baby.

I’m sorry, but you need to let me go.

Because I need that room to grow into a mother, and I can’t help but see you as the same person you were so many years ago.

With this letter is my release of all that I can expect from you, my opportunity to make something for who I want to be with someone I want to be with.

So I’m sorry that I couldn’t say this sooner,

But you need to let me go.

Original Blog Post Found Here on Sam's website

BY GUEST BLOGGER DEBBIE KEE BALINO

So it happened again.

And again.

And.

Again.

And here I am, trying to wrap my head around the fact that in a span of 2 years, I have lost 4 babies, in utero, 3 of them almost at the very same time around halfway through my pregnancy. Since my last post, after losing both Tory and William – both late into my 2nd trimester, I thought I experienced the worst of it. But then Lucy came. A pregnancy I was certain would take. A pregnancy that was carefully followed by 3 specialists, and a group of midwives, a lot of prayer, and baby aspirin (which was what my doctors believed was going to be the miracle pill that would save this pregnancy).

I was extra careful. I read all the right books, ate all the right foods (although, these days… what IS right?), felt all the right things. THIS TIME, it was going to be ALL RIGHT… Right?

Wrong.

When my ultrasound at 13 weeks detected that the Nuchal Translucency fluid behind my baby’s neck was slightly larger than what was deemed as “normal”, and only millimeters less than Billy‘s fluid – that was the beginning of my sleepless nights. Something was wrong. Something is GOING to go wrong.

I went in for the harmony test that would supersede the results of the U/S and bloodtests (although I continued to take all the right tests – remember, my vow to do all things “right” in my power?). This non invasive prenatal test was going to analyze my blood to determine if my baby was at a high or low risk of having trisomy 21 (down syndrome), trisomy 18 (Edwards syndrome, and trisomy 13 (Patau syndrome). This was supposed to give me peace of mind, as apparently, it delivers the lowest false-positive rate of any of the known trisomy blood tests.

And to my surprise and joy – weeks later … my results came back negative. My baby was low risk of at least these three detectable disorders, and my baby was in fact – a baby girl.


Names started popping into my head like cannonballs and my smile was so obscenely wide, that even my 3 year old daughter who’s lifelong wish, specifically aimed at the big guy in red, was to become a big sister to a beautiful, baby boy or baby girl – could immediately identify as if I actually sat down and spelled it out for her. It was a day like no other. After all my previous losses, disappointments, moments of deep deep sorrow, months of bitterness and anger – THIS was the day I was waiting for. A positive NEGATIVE outcome.

No one could stop the bounce in my step. My little Lucy was going to be in my arms this week – due March 30th, 2015 – only weeks after LD was going to celebrate her 4th birthday. And what a birthday present that would have been for big sis.

I finally felt that amazing sensation of sleep, rest, calm.


Until I went in for a routine fetal heart check. I brought Grammy in there to hear it for the first time and share that amazing joy with her only daughter, who she has known only too well to suffer only too much. It was my gift to her.

But just like that – my tears of joy were quickly replaced with tears of fear and worry. There was no heart beat. There was nothing. WHY was there nothing!?!? Because of my previous two late losses, I have already been regarded as high risk, so I was immediately sent in to the hospital for an ultrasound appointment. LD‘s Grammy had the torturous decision to make between staying close to her 3 year old lighthearted granddaughter or her 30-something year old heavy-hearted daughter – and ultimately chose to take LD away from me for both our sakes. And it was in that moment – when I realized that my baby girl was no longer thriving. She was no longer moving, kicking around, or checking out all the neighboring organs in her mommy’s cozy womb. She was no longer listening to my conversations, and dancing along to daddy’s rendition of Meghan Trainor’s All About That Bass (Since we have planned meticulously that, every inch of her, and all of our kids, “is perfect from the bottom to the top” – gotta love Meghan and her wise mama). She was no longer alive, no longer a possibility, and no longer coming on March 30th, 2015.

My baby was gone. Just like that. Just like how Billy was ripped out of me viciously like a nightmare and later placed still in my arms, just like how Tory was taken from me and was so incredibly damaged, she was thrown out as surgical waste. Once again, Lucy was no longer going to be a living, breathing being that I could call my own. And once again – I had to surrender another child at the foot of heaven’s gateway.

The rest of that day at the hospital was a blur. I remember a lot of doctors coming in and out trying to explain in different ways that there was nothing I did, and nothing we could do at this point except to decide on how we were going to terminate this pregnancy. I had medical genetics specialists who have been feverishly analyzing my files since losing William at such a mysterious point in my pregnancy, coming in and out talking to me about sending samples of my baby immediately out of country for analysis. I remember both of my hands trembling and drenched with salty tears while dialing my already hopeful husband (who, up until this point, was rather reserved with his expression of excitement and joy due to his past experiences of losing 2 other babies late into our pregnancy). I remember hyperventilating while my best friend cried with me on the other side of the phone thousands of miles away. And I remember touching my belly… and feeling… nothing.

Nothing.

Without getting into the medical jargon that, thanks to the specialists I spoke to throughout the grieving process and good ol’ Dr. Google, I have become only too familiar with – I can honestly say that this experience was life changing. Not any MORE or any LESS life changing than the others. But if my life had any ounce left in it TO change – the moment my daughter was removed from me… was THAT moment. That very moment I lost so much. I lost hope. I lost faith. I lost a lot of blood. I lost my mind. And I lost the daughter I felt so strongly would not be lost.

And then I became angry. I hated everything. I would look at my couch where I sat after losing all three of my babies, which has now taken on the notoriety of being the “miscarriage chair”, and I wanted to set it on fire. I hated my beautiful blessing of a home. I hated the city I lived in and all the bubbly, beautiful, happy, worry-free (is there such thing?) pregnant women in it. (Sorry to all my friends who were pregnant at the time… don’t worry – I didn’t hate you). I was filled with this debilitating sense of hatred and bitterness that I could not even function. And then, the anger was replaced by sorrow. I would wake up in the morning with such resistance, that my 3 year old potty-regressed love-of-my-life (and I take all the blame for those 10 steps back in potty training), would have to pour her own milk and cereal, read her own books, and choose her own clothes for the day.

Slowly, I would inform my closest friends and even some not so close (in desperate search of answers) that I have lost yet again. Some would respond with tears, others with words of wisdom, and then there were the expected few that would tell me to smarten up, look at the little but gigantic blessing in front of me and my supportive and loving husband rubbing my back as it was turned towards him – and be grateful. The fact is, I am grateful EVERY. MOMENT. OF. MY. WAKING. EXISTENCE. I didn’t need to be any MORE grateful than I already was because it is ALL I had left: To be grateful for what I already have. But when you lose someone you love, someone that is growing inside of you, someone who you have called by name, someone whose dance moves and fluttering gave you all the proof you needed to know that they felt your love. When you lose that someone – it doesn’t matter if you have 300 other someones in your life that you love… you STILL lost that love. And Lucy. And Tory. And Billy were, and still are – my loves. I wanted to tell all my friends and colleagues who would say so freely that I’m forgetting how lucky I am – to dig deep into themselves and remember the time they lost their grandma or their close friend. Did they grieve any LESS because they had another grandma, or 10 other friends? No. They grieved because they lost. And I did too.

And as I began writing this, on January 30th, 2015 – the exact day 2 years later when I lost my sweet Tory, and the exact day 1 year later that my sweet boy, Billy, was due to be born – I was experiencing the loss of yet ANOTHER baby. My fourth baby, in 2 years – and only 2.5 months after that dreadful day I lost my Lucy. This time, unlike Tory, Billy, or Lucy – THIS baby was only in my first trimester, at 10 weeks ( I would be 20 weeks today), and was deemed a “typical” miscarriage by my doctors. My husband and I have chosen not to name this baby as the pain is still fresh, and may I add – just as profound of a loss as my other three. We thought it would be easier going through this, without the vested weeks of hope and confidence, and without the added mystery of uncertainty that my other 3 had in their untimely demise (I should mention that all tests results of my previous pregnancies suggested no chromosomal defects, and now we’re trying to figure out if there were hormonal issues, inflammation, or something in me that may have contributed to my losses). But we were wrong. Loss is loss is loss is loss. And nothing, and nobody, can say otherwise.

Speaking as a mother – I can honestly say that losing a child whether they’re in your belly, in your arms, away at college, or raising their own children – losing your own child is the most horrifying experience life has to offer. It is the closest thing to hell that I can imagine. When a family whose desire to grow in number is so strong, but more time is spent weeping, getting through the process, and planning memorial services – it just doesn’t seem fair. And it’s not.


Especially when one of those family members is barely 4 years old. A disappointed child who doesn’t truly understand why she is in fact, holding her sibling’s box of ashes in her hands, and not their living, breathing body in her arms. I think she is still waiting for Lucy to come. And she would have been in her arms for the very first time… today.

I wish I could end this post with some insight, and some answers – a happy ending of sorts. But my happy ending is this – I woke up today. I got out of bed. I wiped my tears. I fed my daughter. I changed my clothes and brushed my hair. I got down on my knees, I looked into the eyes of my sweet little girl – and I told her: I am grateful…

Because, I have you.



Original post found here on Debbie's website www.sassandsmalls.com

Last October I was invited by Little Spirits Garden to speak to a group of bereaved parents for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I struggled with what I wanted to share. I didn't want to just talk about my own experiences with pregnancy loss (two miscarriages and a stillbirth) but wanted everyone to take home the message that no matter what they were feeling, it was normal. It was okay. Here is my transcribed speech, as well as the video.

Good evening,

My name is Charlene, and I am a mother of loss.  I am also a full spectrum doula that specializes in pregnancy loss. Many do not understand my need to help others in the field of bereavement. But it all stems from my own losses.  

On August 3, 2011, by daughter was unexpectedly born sleeping. It had taken us four years to conceive her, and just like that, she was gone. I then suffered two miscarriages, and nearly lost my youngest son at 18 weeks. And here I am, pregnant again, being told I will likely lose another, or at best have another preterm delivery. Even worse, I have been told this is my last chance to have a baby.  

I could go into great detail about my losses. And I am sure much of what I say many of you can relate to. Our stories all have similar threads that wind in and out. Though different, the pain is the same. Instead, I want to get one message across.  That it’s okay. However you felt in the past, feel in the present or the future, it’s okay. You are allowed to hurt. You are allowed to laugh and be happy. This is your journey, and no one else’s.

I wrote the following letter to myself, and now, I read it to you, for you, with love.

 

It’s okay that when you said you only wanted what’s best for your daughter, you lied.  It’s okay that the truth was, you selfishly wanted to hold her in your arms and sing her to sleep at night. It’s okay.

It’s okay that you laughed during parts of her birth and find joy in life now. It does not mean you love her less, or don’t take the loss seriously. You celebrate her life and feel the joy that is her, even in death.

It’s okay you couldn’t hold her while she was still warm. Her soul was no longer with her precious body. It was with you. She was with you, holding your heart, your hand through every soul shattering moment.

It’s okay you didn’t let her brother hold or see her. You were trying to protect him. You were being a mother. It’s okay you didn’t make the right decision.

It’s okay you think losing her was your fault, your body failed her, you deserved it, that you are less of a woman. You did not choose this. You would have laid your body down for hers.  Why is losing her a failure at all? You were blessed to know her for a short time on earth, but your soul will know her forever. 

It’s okay you wanted to start trying to conceive right away; secretly hating every pregnant woman who crossed your path. It’s okay that even when pregnant again, there are moments you wish you weren’t. That doesn’t mean you don’t want your baby. That doesn’t mean you will lose yet another. Feeling disconnected from pregnancy and from life is not a sign you do not care. You’re confused and scared, and it’s okay.

 It’s okay that your grief ebbs and flows. It will always be with you, it’s a part of you. It’s okay that at times you want to get lost in that pain. Sometimes believing if you feel the pain deep enough, you are embracing her, honouring her. It’s okay to have hope. Hope for the future, for the world, for your life. Whether you’re sad or joyful, angry or indifferent, she will always be with you. No matter what, above all else,

 

 It’s okay.

Thank you.