She literally backed away

If I wasn't already convinced that we need to break the silence around stillbirth, I am now. Recently I met a lady who I hadn't seen since before Ariella was born. I don't know her very well, and we don't share many of the same social circles. As she was walking past a room, she saw me inside and came over to where I was sitting. She excitedly said "you've had you're baby, haven't you?" and of course, my heart started pounding. I hate having to tell people the bad news, because I feel like it ruins the conversation. So I said to her that yes, I did have our baby. She then asked me what we'd had, and I said that we'd had a girl, but she was stillborn. She very awkwardly said she was sorry, and then starting backing away. Literally. She was still looking at me, but taking backwards steps away from me. It's always hard having to tell people about Ariella's death, but I'm not sure I've ever felt as awkward as I did at that moment, watching her literally back away.

Stillbirth isn't widely talked about, so many people don't know how to react when they hear about it. If you hear about a stillbirth (especially an unexpected one) consider asking what the child's name is, or when their birthday is. If you believe in prayer, maybe tell the parents you will be praying for them (but make sure that if you say this, you follow through and actually pray). Tell them that you are sorry that this happened to them and that you will be thinking of them. Depending on your relationship with them, perhaps you could give them a hug...but ask first! If nothing else, admit that you don't know what to say! 

I know it's hard to hear about a baby who was stillborn. When I hear of a friend's loss, it hits me hard. I feel as though I stumble backwards in shock. It's ok to feel that, just please don't actually do that. Please don't back away...

Life Update

It occurred to me recently that a lot of people don't actually know what I'm doing this year, so I thought I'd take the chance to fill you in on what life looks like at the moment for us.

Me:
I'm working two days a week, homeschooling two lovely girls. They are 13 (year 8) and 10 (year 5), and are such a pleasure to work with. I never imagined ever doing something like this but when I was asked if I would do it, it seemed like I had no reason to say no! It's been the perfect job to get me up in the mornings, and starting to re-enter "normal" life (whatever that it)!

I'm also volunteering at church on Mondays, helping our wonderful Children's Pastor with all sorts of things related to children's church. It's been great! It's nice to have something to do on Mondays, but it's also flexible, so if I'm having a bad day, I don't have to go. 

I have my final exam for my Hebrew class next week, and then the semester is over. I don't think I'll be studying next semester, as it's actually been quite a struggle to focus and remember things.

Marcus:
He's working two days a week with a friend from church, mowing lawns and doing general gardening. The other days he is doing maintenance and grounds-keeping at College. God has been so faithful in providing work.

Ariella:
Four months today since I went into labour. One of the things that I love hearing from others is that they miss her too. It's been four months, so I can understand that people are mentioning her less. But hearing people say "I miss her too" is really special to me; I love knowing that others loved her too and wish she was still here with us. 

I saw this photo on The STILL Project's Facebook page, and it definitely sums up how I feel. It was created by CarlyMarie, who does a lot of art and writing in the baby loss community.

No matter what I've been through in the past four months, despite the pain, agony, grief and despair, I would still choose Ariella. She's my daughter, and I love her. I would still choose her.

Guest Post: Early Pregnancy Loss

Since Ariella died, I've had a number of friends open up to me about their pregnancy losses. Today I have the honour of sharing with you something that a dear friend of mine wrote about her pregnancy loss. I hope you'll take the time to read this, as her words reveal a struggle that is so often overlooked by society. 

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Before I had a miscarriage I didn't really know what an impact it would have on someone's life. Being a paramedic, we often get called to woman experiencing a miscarriage and the first thing you notice is the fear in her eyes and pain on her face. But you don't exactly know how she feels. I think we all know what it feels like to have a loved one die but this is different. There is no physical human being that we, as the outsider can see. We can't associate any feelings with this unborn infant because to us it is invisible. Of course we feel sad for those women but what do you say? There is nothing you can say to take her pain, pain that we don't understand, away from her.

Even in stillbirth we can understand the pain a little bit more than a miscarriage. With stillbirth, there is a physical baby there, for the world to see. I think seeing a perfect baby, born sleeping forever creeps into the depths of our hearts and would make the toughest person break down. The baby is there, there is proof of its existence, there is a funeral to attend and a grave site to visit. Somebody died, a baby died.

But with miscarriage, nobody physically died. Not for anyone else to see. There was no "somebody". In most cases there is no physical evidence that there was a baby at all. So when a woman experiences a miscarriage, it is all silent and secret, just like the miracle that was meant to be growing inside of her.

When I had my miscarriage I was six weeks pregnant. We had been trying for six months and over that six months the love for my unmade baby was already starting to grow. When I saw those two little pink lines my heart exploded with six months worth of love. Despite us knowing for only two weeks, it felt like a lifetime of love and hope and excitement had built up and was nestled in my heart.

When I had my miscarriage I was only six weeks. We had not even had an ultrasound performed. We never even got to see our baby's heart beating. 

At six weeks, the embryo is the size of a pea. It looks like a tadpole with a big head. It's ugly and alien. But its tiny heart starts beating. What a miracle. But to an expectant mother, that little alien is a baby. A baby. A chubby cheeked, fat fisted, dribbling baby, a child, a daughter or a son.

At six weeks, a miscarriage is described as an "early pregnancy loss". A lot of doctors dismiss it and speak harshly about bleeding and D&Cs and when you can try again. There is no recognition for your hopes and dreams which now lay, crushed on the bottom of that hospital floor.

I was devastated. My precious baby. My child had died. Gone. Forever. And there was nothing I could do but watch as my baby was literally ripped from inside me in a painful and bloody way. There was nothing anyone could do. No baby, not anymore.

When I started to share my grief and the devastating news with the few family and friends I had told about the pregnancy, the responses were mixed. Some said "how sad, how awful. I am so sorry" and that was nice. And some said "at least you knew you could get pregnant" or "it was for the best, obviously something was wrong, and the baby would probably have had down syndrome" or "it wasn't as if you lost an actual baby". That hurt the most. No, I didn't physically lose a fully formed baby. But in my heart and mind my embryo was a baby. It was a person, a somebody to me. Even if it wasn't a somebody to others. As the weeks went by I found that I craved recognition for my baby. While others guard the loss in the depths of their souls, I wanted to tell the world that "I had a baby, and it died".

A dear friend of mine only a month before my miscarriage had a still born baby. I was devastated for her. Her baby was incredibly beautiful and it was an incredibly unfair, unjust, unexplainable loss for her and her husband. I began to feel so ashamed at myself for feeling so sad for my loss when hers was so much greater. My baby most likely never had a beating heart while hers beat for nine months. How dare I be so selfish at being sad for me, when she lost an actual baby.

Suddenly I found myself feeling what others had felt for me. That it wasn't like I had actually lost a baby. All I lost was a little pea. My sweet little pea.

But I can't shake the devastation for how I still feel about losing my baby. For having an "early pregnancy loss". I joined a still birth and neonatal death Facebook support group SANDS. This group also supports woman who have experienced a miscarriage. But those woman were much further along in their pregnancies than I was. Again, I felt the crushing weight of guilt and shame for being a phony. For pretending to be a mother who lost an angel. For what was my loss next to the losses of these women? I was torn between grieving the loss of my child and feeling ashamed at pretending I lost a child when I didn't, not really.

Doctors, friends, strangers, they had dismissed my loss. It was just an "early pregnancy loss". But out of everyone in the world, it was the women who I believed to have lost so much more were the ones who comforted me.

They were the ones who recognized my little pea as a baby. They understood the grief and loss I felt. It was my dear friend who reassured me, told me that I wasn't a phony, wasn't pretending to have lost something more valuable than it actually was. That even though I had an "early pregnancy loss" I still lost a baby. That hers was just a bigger baby. And it was a baby. I need to realize that I lost my child. I lost my son or my daughter. My child died. It doesn't matter how far along the pregnancy was. It doesn't matter if you, as an outsider don't understand or think that it isn't the same as if somebody actually died. My baby was a somebody to me, my baby was a somebody to my husband.

When I would have been twelve weeks I announced my pregnancy. I wanted my baby to be recognized. I wanted to feel like my baby had existed. It was like the more people knew about my baby, the more my baby's existence and meaning couldn't be taken away from me.

So if somebody you know has gone through or is going through an early pregnancy loss, a miscarriage, a regretted abortion or a stillbirth, please acknowledge their baby's existence. It isn't about what you think. It isn't about how you think. It's about recognizing that a mother and father have lost their child, no matter how far along the pregnancy was. Say "I'm sorry you lost your baby", and that is all that is needed. Allow time for the parents to grieve, for as long as they need. It is not about how long you think they should grieve for. Don't try and explain it, or try to make them see the silver lining. Just be there for them. And every now and then ask how they are going and really listen if they choose to actually tell you. Because their baby was a somebody to them.

I was six weeks pregnant when my baby died. I was six weeks when I had an early pregnancy loss, but it is more than that. I was six weeks when I became a mother to an angel. My Angel. And nobody can take that away from me.

What to say: Their name

This one's really easy. If you would like to know something to say to a bereaved parent, say their child's name. You won't make them sad by bringing up their child, because it's likely they are already thinking about their child. Remember - you won't make them sad by bringing up their child!! It's nice knowing they are remembered, even though time and life keeps going.

Some suggestions (although you should replace 'Ariella' with the correct name for the situation!):

• Instead of I'm sorry about what happened, try I'm sorry about Ariella
• Instead of I'm sorry for your loss, try I'm sorry you lost Ariella
• Instead of Congratulations on giving birth, try Congratulations on birthing Ariella

It's not that the first options are bad, it's just that there is something special about hearing your child's name. After all, it was chosen because the parents loved it. If their child had lived, they'd be hearing it every day for years and years. When their child dies, it means they won't get to say or hear the name as often. If you think they've chosen a beautiful name, tell them! One lady told me that "Ariella Jade" sounded like a song. I loved hearing that. And if you don't like the name...keep that view to yourself (!!), but still use the child's name. Please. The parents will love it.

Practical ways to help

People have told me that they don't know what to do to help when a baby dies. This picture, from Life:Rearranged sums it up pretty well:

I really liked this picture when I saw it, because it's SO accurate. I think 2 and 3 can go together a lot of the time: know when the baby was born, and be aware that it could be a hard day each time that date pops up. For example, Ariella was born on the 30th, and I've found the 30th of each subsequent month hard. I also find the 28th hard, because that is when we heard that she had died. 

Number four is also important. The support is most obvious soon after the baby's birth/death, and slowly tapers off. I am very thankful that people are still continuing to check in on us, three months down the track. One thing in particular that makes me smile is getting notes in the mail. I absolutely LOVE opening the letterbox to find a card, letter or note in there. 

Number six is perhaps the one that people find most difficult. It's easy to say "do something" - but what exactly to do? Here are a few ideas:

• Make a meal. Be aware of any allergies, intolerances or strong dislikes. It's easiest if it can be frozen, as it means there is no rush for the parents to eat it. If it can't be frozen, arrange a date to drop the meal off. That way the parents know they will have a meal that night, and won't have something already prepared. If there is a person or church who can collect meals, that's great, as it means the parents aren't having lots of people on their doorstep wanting to chat. On that note, if you do drop a meal off in person, be considerate in terms of how long you stay. We never had anyone overstay or linger, which was brilliant. Also, if you have children, please be aware that the parents may or may not be comfortable seeing them. It's worth checking with them, even if that feels awkward.
• Offer to do the grocery shopping, or arrange some food deliveries. For a few weeks after Ariella was born, going to the shops was terrifying. Not only is it likely that there will be babies around, you might run into someone you know. The idea of unexpectedly seeing people was too confronting for me, and it actually did happen once. I'm not sure if that couple even knew we'd had a baby, as I hadn't seen them since early pregnancy (before I had a bump). To make it worse...they were carrying a baby in a capsule. A group of friends got together to organise 5 weeks worth of fruit and veg deliveries for us - it was amazing. Not having to think about going to the shops for fresh food quite literally took a weight of my mind.
• Consider giving financially. We were overwhelmed by people's generosity when it came to finances. It's slightly different if there was a miscarriage, but once a baby is over 20 weeks, the law requires them to have a proper burial/cremation, which can be quite expensive. You could offer to help pay for that, but don't be offended if the parents say no, they may feel like it is something they need to pay for themselves. The Dad may be taking time off from work, and depending on the job, it might be unpaid leave. 
• Send flowers - I know of mums who didn't like receiving flowers, because flowers eventually die (and they've already dealt with more than enough death). Personally, I loved receiving flowers. The brightened our lounge-room, and smelt wonderful. 
• I've mentioned this briefly above, but send a letter, card, or short note. Text messages or emails are great, but to post something takes a little bit more time and thought, and I love knowing that someone has been thinking about us and Ariella. Plus you get to keep cards and read through them whenever you want, without worrying about things like if your phone's memory is full. 
• Offer to do jobs or chores. If the loss was due to stillbirth, the mum will be recovering from birth, which has all sorts of physical implications (whether there was any damage done during birth or not). Please be aware that the mum's body will be acting as though her child is still alive - bleeding, milk, contractions, joints and muscles still loose...they're all the same. Housework may be too physically demanding, and it is almost certainly to emotionally demanding. Offer to help out (but don't touch the baby's things unless asked).

That's probably a long enough list for now, but I want to say one last thing. Please do not be offended if your offers for help are not taken up. Marcus and I had offers of help from dear friends, and it wasn't until weeks later that I realised I never took them up on it. The parents are going to be a fog, and chances are they may forget about your offer! This doesn't mean they don't appreciate it, because they do. It just means that they may not have needed that offer at that point in time; don't hesitate to offer again a few weeks later :)

If you haven't read my other posts about what to do after a friend loses a baby, you can find them here.

What to say: I don't know what to say

People have said they find it hard to know what to say when a baby dies. So these posts are my effort to help. I have written a short list of what not to say after baby loss as well as another idea of what you can say.

I understand when people haven't got a clue what to say to me after Ariella's death. I do. A dear friend of mine had a stillbirth the week before I had Ariella, so I can relate to the feeling of helplessness and the desire not to cause more pain by saying the wrong thing. I've been on both sides of this horrible fence.

So if you haven't got a clue what to say to me, don't feel bad, just tell me that! One of the best encounters I had with someone in the weeks following Ariella's birth was when my friend hugged me and said "Larissa, I don't know what to say." I wasn't at all offended that he didn't know what to say, in fact the opposite was true. I walked away feeling loved and cared for, as well as happy that he'd acknowledged what had happened with my daughter.

It's as simple as that - if you don't know what to say, just say that. It's better than silence, trust me. 

What to say: Congratulations

I've decided that rather than write one post full of things that are helpful to hear as a bereaved parent, I'm going to focus on one at a time. That way I can go into detail and not make you sit through a thousand word essay!

If someone has a baby, often the first word out of a person's mouth is "congratulations". And it's a word that parents love to hear. They are proud of the child they created, and love to be congratulated on it. Let me tell you a secret: that doesn't change just because the child has died. Ariella was beautiful. I happen to think that Marcus and I did a fairly awesome job, and hearing others say that makes me smile.

I only know what it's like to lose a baby late in pregnancy, but a dear friend of mine had a miscarriage, and she said the same thing - it's wonderful when someone says congratulations on the baby... it means you have recognised their existence. And for that, we are grateful.

It might seem odd to you, to say congratulations for a baby who has passed away. But a baby is still a baby! It doesn't matter at what stage a baby died, whether it was as late in the pregnancy as Ariella, half way through, or even the very early stages - a mother is still a mother, and someone saying congratulations means that they recognise the miracle that is your child.

We were blessed to receive a number of cards after Ariella's birth. I appreciate every single one of them, and have read all of them numerous times. But among all the sympathy cards were something you may not have expected: a few "baby girl" cards. Cards to say "congratulations on your baby girl, she will always be remembered". And I loved them! It wasn't until I received the first one that I realised how sad I was to not have more of them. In a way, people had acknowledged Ariella's death without acknowledging that she had lived. (I should pause here to reiterate that I loved and appreciated every single card we received, and in no way wish to say that a sympathy card was appreciated less. So please do not feel bad if you sent a sympathy card.)

Losing Ariella has been tough. But I feel like I've missed out on more than just having a living child. I've missed out on getting asked how labour and birth went. I've missed out on getting asked questions about my daughter (things like what colour hair and eyes she had). I've missed out on getting congratulated for the miracle that is my daughter.

So while it may seem strange to congratulate someone after the loss of a baby...consider it. It doesn't have to be the first word out of you mouth, but think about maybe saying it. If it's their first child, congratulate the couple on becoming parents, because that's what they are (even if their child is no longer with them). And be sensitive when you say it. Say something like "congratulations, I'm sorry you didn't have more time with them" or "congratulations, they are a gift from God." Or just say congratulations. It will mean a lot. Trust me.

What NOT to say

A lot of people have told me that they just don't know what to say to me or my husband. And that's ok, I understand that. It's a sucky situation that people don't often have to face (although miscarriage, stillbirth and neonatal death are more common than you'd think - see my post on that here). I thought about writing a list of things that would be helpful to say, but that's going to take a while to get all my thoughts down in a way that would be helpful. It's so much easier to think of things that we have been told that were no help at all. 

So without further ado, here are my top three things NOT to say to bereaved parents (in my opinion).

1. Nothing. Don't stay silent, even if you don't know what to say. If you really are stuck for words, say "I don't know what to say". Even something as simple as 'liking' a post or photo on Facebook lets me know that you have seen or thought about my precious daughter. 

2. Everything happens for a reason. We were told this two days after Ariella's birth, which means it was only four days after we knew she had died. It did NOT help. I believe God can and does cause all things to work for the good of those who love Him, which means He can bring good out of my daughter's death. However, I do not believe that any resulting good is the reason Ariella died. This may or may not be theologically correct (although I think it is). Some parents may like to think their child died for a reason, and that is more than ok. I believe good will come from my child's death, but that doesn't mean I want to hear that it happened for a reason. If you have to say it, please don't say it within the first few weeks.

3. Do not tell a parent who lost their firstborn that it was a practice run. Oh yes, I was told that "although it's hard to think of it that way, treat it as a practice". I wasn't hurt as much as I was offended. Ariella was not a practice run, she was a child. My 39 weeks of pregnancy weren't a pretend time to prepare me for a "proper" pregnancy later (trust me, the morning sickness was real, just ask my ever-patient and caring hubby!). Her birth wasn't some form of training for a "real" birth - I experienced labour and birth just as much as a mother whose child lives. Thankfully I've only heard this once, and it doesn't seem common. But please, do not say anything to parents that will imply their child did not count. Because every child counts.


So there you have it ladies and gentlemen, my top three things that I do not want to hear. I'm sure there are plenty more that other parents could add. And sometime soon I'll let you know what is helpful to hear.

When people don't respond

Most people have been amazing since Ariella was born. But a few people haven't...it's not a case of them saying the wrong thing, but of them saying nothing at all.
Old friends who used to be close. Newer friends who were so excited about my pregnancy. People in both categories have literally said nothing.
Most days I don't let that bug me. But sometimes, especially after a hard day, it really hurts.
The silence is deafening.
So rather than dwell on those who haven't said anything, tonight I'm going to focus on the good:
*The friend who brings over hot chocolate sachets.
*The friend who takes over a job so I can go home early.
*The friend who asks me how my day was and chooses to comfort me in my grief rather than cheer me up.
*The friends from an online parents group who gave us a few weeks worth of meals and numerous other things to help, even though I'd never met most of them
*The mums I've met through this blog and support groups, who know what to say and when.
*My husband, who is so caring even when he's hurting.
*My God, who comforts me and keeps my little girl safe.
I am blessed.

Every story is different

Before I begin, I want to make it clear that no one has said anything to me regarding this topic that has offended or upset me. So please don't feel bad if you have mentioned something, I promise that I have not been hurt or offended. 

Future children.

As a Mum who has had a child die, let me tell you that this is a topic brings with it perhaps the biggest jumble of emotions possible. I'm so excited at the prospect of having a living child (no, I'm not pregnant)...but I'm terrified that something will go wrong. And please don't try to make me feel better by telling me that it's not likely to happen again...I know that. I know the stats, I've heard the doctors' and midwife's opinion, and I know it's not likely to happen again. But I'm still scared. And that's ok. 

So when people say something about me having more children, I don't quite know how to feel. And so I have one thing to ask you: please, please, please think twice before asking a bereaved parent if they're going to have more children.

I'm blessed in that I should be able to have more children. Many mums who have a baby die cannot - because their body was damaged, they are too old, a genetic issue was discovered, etc. Every story is different. 

Maybe a bereaved mum could physically have more children, but doesn't think they will cope emotionally with another pregnancy. Maybe their husband/partner is the one saying 'no' because of the incredible stress that comes with trying again. Maybe they had been trying for months or years to conceive the baby that they lost, and the stress is just too much to try again. Every story is different. 

Perhaps they would like to have more children, but want to wait months or even years to let some of the pain and grief over their child's death settle a little bit. Maybe asking if they are pregnant yet makes them feel guilty over choosing to wait. Every story is different.

Maybe the woman that you jokingly ask if they're pregnant has had a miscarriage, and is suffering in silence because your jokes are unintentionally hurtful. Maybe that woman you think is pregnant has been trying to conceive for months, and isn't pregnant yet. Every story is different.

Even if a woman is pregnant, perhaps they aren't ready to tell everyone. Being asked "are you pregnant" can be a difficult question if you are, but don't want to share that yet.  If they've previously had a baby die (miscarriage, stillbirth, neonatal death), they might want to wait longer before telling people. Or maybe they will shout it from the rooftop the moment they discover the news. Every story is different.

I'm not saying don't ask me (or other bereaved parents) about future children. I'm just asking that you think twice about what you're saying, and word it carefully. Remember, every story is different...but it's their story to tell. 

Assumptions

Lorelai: You know what they say about those who assume!

Emily: No, what do they say? 

Lorelai: You just...well...shouldn't.

It's true. So let me ask you one thing:

Please, please please - when it comes to a stillbirth, do not assume anything. 

I was told one day "oh, this must have tested your faith in God." Blanket statements like that give little room for a grieving parent to move; a statement that has "must" in it is essentially telling us how we should feel. And you may unintentionally make us feel guilty for not feeling the way we are "meant" to be feeling.

Ariella's death did not test my faith in God. I'm not trying to make myself "super-spiritual" or anything like that. I imagine that the death of a baby could make some people question their faith in God. That's ok. Every parent is different. While Ariella's death made me question a lot of things, there were some things I never questioned: God's faithfulness and love, and my husband's love for me. They are my unshakable rocks. 

So please don't assume anything. Don't tell us how we are feeling, rather, ask how we're feeling. It'll make a big difference, and probably lead to a more meaningful conversation.