Archives for February 2013

Remembering Kaidynn

Told by: Brittney

She was born still at 31 weeks on March, 28th 2011. She has a surviving identical twin sister. Remembering Kaidynn. Her story. This is the story of our Twins, and their birth.

At 6 weeks gestation, I started spotting. I had miscarried about 6 months prior, so I was fearing it was happening again. My doctor ordered an ultrasound right away. I was so nervous. I lay on that table staring off just waiting to hear the horrible news. That there once again, was no hearbeat. The ultrasound tech asked how I was doing.. “okay.. nervous..” I replied. She just nodded and gave me a slight smile. After what seemed an eternity, they turned the screen toward us. “Well, this is what we’re looking at..” And I immediately saw two big circles. I thought..What the heck? That looks odd..? “It appears we are looking at a twin pregnancy!” said the Tech. My jaw just dropped. I looked at my husband, who just looked back at me in disbelief? TWINS?! Oh my gosh! I would have NEVER expected this. As we were leaving, it started sinking in. Oh my gosh! We are having TWINS!! How amazing is that?! I was too excited and amazed. I had to tell our family and friends! The pregnancy was progressing normally. Babies were growing, and everything was going great! We started to notice a slight growth discrepency between the twins. One was slightly smaller. “It could be totally normal!” Said my doctor. So, we just had periodic ultrasounds to watch the growth.

At 20 weeks, we were referred by our OB/GYN to a Perinatologist 2 hours away. They did numerous scans. They were afraid my babies were suffering from Twin to Twin Transfusion Syndrome. The Perinatologist then gave us such relief, he did NOT believe it was TTTS. He said he believed my twins were fraternal, that they had their own placenta’s. I was so happy to know it wasn’t TTTS. (I had a friend who’s twin sons passed away from TTTS complications and being born too premature, and getting a bacterial infection.) But then he broke the bad news, it could be a placental issue. He said we just need to watch the growth of the girls. (yep, two wonderful little girls!) My regular OB/GYN seemed to be happy with the results of our appt with the Perinatologist. He said we will just continue to check on the girls. My pregnancy was going good. Other than there was still a size difference between Baby A and Baby B. Baby B was really starting to lag behind Baby A. My doctor didn’t seem concerned. So, I wasn’t concerned either. I figured he knew what he was doing. Right?

Well, the growth was really starting to lag, so he scheduled me for a Biophysical Profile on March 28th, 2011. The ultrasound tech started with Baby A. Everything was great! She scored 8 out 8! Then she moved onto Baby B. She did all her measurements first. Then she moved on to do the scoring parts of the BPP. She didn’t practice her chest breathing. She didn’t have any muscle tone/flexion. She didn’t move. At all. I tried to move around and lightly push on my stomach to encourage her to move. Nothing. We sat in that ultrasound for at least 45 minutes trying to get her to budge. She showed us her heartbeating on the ultrasound screen. Assured us she has good heart tones still. Concluded our ultrasound, and sent us on our way. We had our regular OB appt. scheduled following the ultrasound, so we headed to his office. He told us he was a little concerned. Baby B hadn’t grown at all since the previous ultrasound. She had actually lost weight. He seemed so casual about it. Like it wasn’t that bad. He said he would like us to go into the city following our appointment.

He said “they will likely repeat the ultrasound, and take it from there. If her condition hasn’t improved, they may choose to deliver. But, who knows, you could be pregnant for another 3-4 weeks.” He asked if we could drive there. I responded yes.  I was with my husbands cousin, my 3 year old, and we had my 2 dogs in the van. (We had driven 40 miles to this appointment) My husband couldn’t get off work so his cousin said she would love to come with. I called my husband and told him we were headed into the city. (another 40 miles away) He said he was going to come with. So, we waited for him at a nearby McDonald’s. He got there, I got in with him, and his cousin took our vehicle back to our hometown with our 3 year old and doggies. We were off to the hospital. I had a few contractions on the ride.

I was nervous. I hoped everything was ok. But the doctor didn’t seem worried at all. He was very casual about it. Not once said it was an emergency or anything of the sort. We get into the city, and head to the OB floor. They tell us we need to go register at the ER. They let my husband go register, and I went to change into a gown. When he returned, I was getting settled into the bed. A nurse came in, and started to hook me up to the contraction monitor. She found Baby A’s heartbeat right away. Then she tried to find Baby B. She wasn’t able to find it. She tried for a little bit, and then asked another nurse to come and try. She couldn’t find it either. Then came another nurse. Neither could she.

Finally, they decided they would have the ultrasound tech come up to my room with her portable machine. The tech was doing her thing, taking measurements and such. She even pointed out Baby A’s feet to me. The nurse that was with me when I got there, was now going off duty. She went up to the ultrasound tech and said, “I just gotta know before I go” and was looking at the screen. I looked up at the ultrasound tech in time to see her give her a ‘look’ and shake her head slightly. I knew. I knew then that something was terribly wrong.

I kept looking at my husband’s across the room, shaking my head. He just looked at me with question marks on his face. He had no clue what was going on. The nurse left the room. She came back a short time later, and said that the doctor was on her way in. I had a horrible feeling.

The doctor wasn’t initially supposed to come until the morning. After a few minutes, the doctor arrived. That’s when she told us the news that would break our hearts. “The baby they were concerned about has passed away.” My heart shattered into a million pieces. I burst into tears.

Kept saying no, no, no. Please no. :'( Everthing after that was a blur. They told me they needed to get Baby A out ASAP due to infection risks. I was signing papers that I had no clue what they were because I didn’t even pay attention to what was going on. My baby was dead. My daughter. I would never get to know her. And now they were going to take out Baby A, who is going to be 9 weeks premature! Is she going to be okay? I was panicking in my heart. Before I knew it, they were wheeling me back to the OR. They brought me in. They made my husband and my sister wait outside while they did my spinal block. Once I was laying down getting prepped, they let them come in. My blood pressure dropped drastically from the spinal block. All I remember is saying, “am I supposed to feel like this?” The anesthesiologist asked how I felt. I said “like I’m going to fall asleep.” I was so out of it. They gave me some medication through my IV, and in a little bit I started coming back around. I realized my husband was right next to me. I started feeling pressure and pulling. I was so anxious. All of a sudden I heard the most wonderful sound. A baby’s cry. Baby A came out crying! I started crying happy tears. I had expected she would come out silent, needing machines and tubes. To hear her cry was the most amazing sound in the world. They showed her to me really quick before they passed her off to the NICU team. So small! But so beautiful! Then came more pressure, and more pulling. Followed by silence. This time, there was no cry.

My daughter was born sleeping. Silent. Still.

They cleaned her up, wrapped her snug as a bug, and gave her to my sister to hold. My sister then brought her right over to us. She was beautiful. Our little angel. We held and kissed her. Until they said it was time to head back to recovery. The nurses came in and told us about the organization ‘Now I lay Me Down To Sleep’ and said they could come and take photo’s for us. I said that yes, I wanted someone to come.  My husband got to go to the NICU and see Baby A, who now was named Kaylie Jo. He brought back pictures for me. She is so beautiful. He said she was doing great. I was so relieved. The nurse came back and asked if we would like to hold (Baby B) who was now named Kaidynn June. We most definitely wanted to see her again. We sat and held her, cried over her, marveled over her tiny little toes and fingers. Her beautiful little face. She was only 1 pound 15.5 ounces, and 14 inches long. So, so small. She had the cutest little nose I had ever seen. I just wanted to kiss it forever. The photographer got there, and took some precious pictures of Kaidynn, and her daddy and me. Then she and my husband took baby Kaidynn into the NICU to take some pictures of the twins for the first, and the last time. I am so thankful for those pictures.

It took me a long time to be able to look at the disc they sent me. I started to one day.. And just couldn’t. I looked at two of them, and my heart broke into a million pieces all over again. The deep ache is always there. Always this HORRIBLE, EMPTY ache. I don’t think I will ever feel whole again. A part of me is missing. How could I ever fill that void? I couldn’t. My daughter is gone, and I will never get to see her again.

Never get to see her grow up. Never get to see her interact with her identical twin sister. We were asked if we wanted her baptized. We said we did. A priest came and did a very sweet little baptism. They were all so amazing at the hospital. I’m so thankful for everything they did. Her handprints, dressed her into this beautiful little crocheted outfit. I have all her things in a little memory box.  Then came one of the hardest things ever…I had to let my baby go. I didn’t want to let go of her. I wanted her to be with us. Stay with us. But she couldn’t.

We had to kiss our daughter goodbye for the very last time. Kaylie Jo will be 2 this coming March. And she is doing wonderful. She is full of personality and so much fun. But, it’s a constant reminder of what we lost. She lost the chance to experience the amazing bond she should have had with her identical twin sister. We lost the chance to watch our girls grow up together. It breaks my heart each and every day. Kenzie, our oldest who is now going to be 5 in April, has been so deeply affected by the loss of her sister. She talks about her daily. Cries when she starts talking about her, because she misses her so much. It’s not fair. I constantly think of what it would be, SHOULD be like with both girls here.

A pathologist also studied my placenta, and we found out it was a MONOchorionic placenta. They thought they were fraternal my whole pregnancy, and they turned out to be identical after all!  Our daughters shared a bond like no other. They came from ONE egg. They started life as one, and became two. Can you get any closer than that?! But now Kaylie will have to go on in life knowing that she will never get to know her other half. But we will never stop talking about her, never forget her. She will never be forgotten. Rest In Paradise my Angel.

I also made a video for her; it is the third video held in the stillbirthday memorial video collection.

Love Letters to My Body

In The Invisible Pregnancy, I challenge you as a mother to explore the intrinsic beauty and value of your body.  Mothering your mourning requires you to discover that you are valuable, that you are beautiful, that you are worthy.  To help inspire you to explore these, your sacred truths, and these challenging concepts of The Invisible Pregnancy, I’m inviting you to write love letters to your body.

Use this link to share a letter.  You may include photos.

I invite you, gently, respectfully, to learn to love your body, as a way to Mother Your Mourning.

 

Womandalas

The symbol of stillbirthday is the burning zero candle.  The original photo was taken at my son’s funeral, after a doctor called my baby debris, and after a popular babyloss bereavement photography organization told me that my baby was too young for their services.

The burning zero candle represents the heart of a stillbirthday.  When our children die, at any age (before birth or after), we do not forget the value of their life.  We do not forget that they were and are a part of us.  Monumental events, such as their birth date or death date, become significant to us.  Oftentimes, long after our loved ones move on and forget, stillbirthday parents quietly observe the anniversaries of these sacred, special, painful days.

Zeroes are placeholders; they hold value.  They are intrinsically significant.

Stillbirthday’s Zeroes Count project is a call to invite stillbirthday family and friends to craft art pieces that integrate an image of a zero within the piece – the way this is done is totally up to the artist and the spontaneous inspiration that prompts them.

These art pieces are collected with the goal of piecing them together in a book; a colorful, beautiful, powerful collection of womandalas and mandalas.  The funds of this book project will help our Palliative Birth Center project, and the inspiration for this project came from The Invisible Pregnancy, a collection of beautiful challenges for bereaved mothers.

About Womandalas

“Mandala” is loosely translated from Sanskrit to mean “circle”, a shape entirely similar to the zero.  More than simply a round shape, a mandala represents wholeness, a collection of integrated parts gathered around a central source.

Awareness of the mandala may have the potential of changing how we see ourselves, our planet, and perhaps even our own life purpose.  ~Bailey Cunningham, Mandala: Journey to the Center

 

A mandala is…an integrated structure organized around a unifying center. ~Longchenpa

How to make your womandala / mandala:

If you’d like to create a piece for our Zeroes Count project, your only instruction is to allow yourself to freely create an art piece with two things in mind:

  • an intentionally contemplative state on your womanhood, incorporating your motherhood, which may include your pre-conception,  pregnancy, birth of your baby, death of your baby, your grief, and your journey to healing, and allowing these feelings to prompt spontaneous, authentic art.  For stillbirthday fathers or other loved ones, translate this instruction as appropriate to you.
  • a desire to include a circular or zero shape, drawing upon the value of the unifying stillbirthday zero.

You can email your piece directly to heidi.faith@stillbirthday.info, or use our share your story link.  By sharing your photo with stillbirthday, you agree to release copyright permission to include your photo in our Zeroes Count project art collection.

The jar is a circle.

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Back to the Beginning

Told by: Sarah

I had a very traumatic birth experience.  It was everything opposite of what I had imagined and planned.

I planned a natural, drug-free, intervention-free, low lights, calming music, water birth at my midwives birth center.  But that’s not what I got. To this day, I still regret all of my decisions that led to the event of Brecken’s birth and I am filled with even more “What if’s?”

Sunday, January 6th, 2013, my husband and I were on our way to Sam’s Club to stock up on supplies in advance before our son was born.  Several days prior to this, I had developed a terrible cough.

While in the car I had coughed a few times, and each time I felt a gush as if I were peeing my pants.

After the third gush I knew something was not right.  We make it to Sam’s club and I instantly had to waddle my way to the bathroom.  Sure enough, it looked as if I peed my pants, but I knew that it was not my lack of bladder control.  I called my midwife to tell her I think my water was breaking.

She had us come in right away to check.  Sure enough, she said I was leaking amniotic fluid and to expect to be welcoming our baby boy in the next day or two. My husband and I looked at each other in excitement.  We couldn’t believe we were going to have our baby finally.  Especially nearly a week early!

My midwife said that if labor didn’t start by 5am on January 7th, 2013 then to take some castor oil.  It usually helps get things going.  5am rolled around and no contractions, so I took the castor oil.  Four hours later it kicked in and I started having my first contractions.

They weren’t so bad at first.  I kept telling myself  ”I can totally do this.  Natural labor is totally doable”   By 4pm my water broke all the way.

Once my contractions became more frequent we started recording how long and far apart they were.  When they reached 4 minutes apart at a minute+ longer we packed ourselves up and made our way back to the birth center. This was around 6pm.

My midwife had the place all set up, the water running in the huge birth tub, candles lit, scented oil burning. It was everything I imagined it would be.  I was so excited.  Once settled in, my midwife checked to see how dialated I was.  To my disappointment, I was only 1.5cm.  She said I’d have to go back home to labor more and that I was looking at possibly a whole other day of laboring.

My husband and I get home and the contractions were just so unbearable for me.  I had the worst lower back contraction pain imaginable.  There was no way I could continue in this kind of pain for a whole other day.  Against my own wishes, I broke down and told him to take me to the hospital so that I could get an epidural.

We arrive at the hospital at around 9pm or later.  I was put into a sterile, typical, unfriendly delivery room.  I remember I just kept looking around at how awful the room was in comparison to my midwives birth center.  I couldn’t stop being down on myself for the decision I had made. I cried.

I cried so much at how I was going against everything I had talked about. Going against everything I wanted.

It wasn’t until 3 hours later when I finally was administered the epidural.  I had to wait until I was at least 3cm dilated and on top of that the anesthesiologist was running late in another surgery. When she came in to do it, I sat there and cried the whole time.  She probably thought I was crying because I was in pain from the needle or that I was uncomfortable. She kept reassuring me that I was doing great and everything was going smoothly. That wasn’t the reason at all. The reason was because I was so disappointed in myself.

So, so disappointed.  I could not let up on myself. I could not stop putting myself down for being weak.  I was a hypocrite.

Several more hours go by and then there’s talk about administering pitocin because I wasn’t progressing very much.

I refused it.  I did NOT want that in my body. So the doctor said that we could set a timeline.  If I hadn’t progressed by 11am on January 8th, then he’d like to finally administer it.  I reluctantly agreed.   11am rolls around and sure enough I had not progressed. They administered pitocin.  I cried.  Again.  There was another thing I could scratch off my list of things I didn’t want to have done during my labor and delivery.  I just kept feeling like a failure one decision after another.  I was living my worst nightmare…or so I thought at the time.

We had no idea our worst nightmare was soon to come.

I finally was making progress while on pitocin.  By 6:20pm on January 8th, I started pushing. For the first time since entering that hospital I was actually happy and excited.  I was at the finish line of meeting my baby boy.  He was going to be here soon and the nightmare of the decisions I made would melt away once he was in my arms.

I pushed for 1.5 hours.

It was around at this time that Brecken’s heart rate dropped to 70-80 bpm.  The OB wanted to use the vacuum to get him out.  I was reluctant for it’s use because of how often babies get injured from them.  So she had me try a different position to see if that would make his heart rate go back up.  It didn’t.

She again said she wanted to use the vacuum.  I sadly agreed.  I wanted him out.  She used it once, but it popped off.  So she gave me an episiotomy (without telling me) and tried the vacuum again.  This time he came out.

And in the events and the blur of what happened next, this is what I remember:

I remember the OB looking down at him and sighing “Oh”.  She clamped his cord and instantly handed him off to the incubator.  That was the only glimpse I got of my son.  Watching his lifeless, blue body being handed over to another team of doctors.  I remember so many people being in that room.  So many doctors surrounded Brecken that I couldn’t see him or see what was going on.  I instantly cried out “What’s wrong with him?!!”  No one answered me.  At some point, someone did tell us, either that or we figured it out on our own that our son wasn’t breathing. They were working to get him to breathe.

Brecken’s Daddy and I were crying uncontrollably begging for him to breathe over and over.  My cries were ravaged with pain and fear.

I remember the nurse midwife who originally was with me when I first started pushing, was holding my right hand.  I remember squeezing it with all my might.  I remember looking up at her for answers, for words of hope.  She just locked eyes with me and I saw the tears streaming down her face.

I knew after seeing her like that, that things weren’t good.   Amidst the chaos, I remember one of the NICU doctors who was working on Brecken call out to another doctor for some sort of instrument.  She then said

”If this doesn’t work, we’re going to have to call it.  It’s been over 10 minutes.”  I had never been so scared in my life.

Why was this happening to me? Why my baby? Everything was so perfect.  Why wasn’t he breathing?

Why could they not get him to breathe?

Why?

Shortly after, they were able to get him to breathe, but not without the help of the ventilator.  Brecken was instantly whisked away to the NICU.  There, in the delivery room, my husband and I sat and waited for word.

We were told that prior to Brecken coming out, the hospital had already contacted a special Children’s Hospital and that they were already making their way over to come get him.  A couple hours later we were told we would be able to see him before he would be taken there.  Before they gathered us, someone down in the NICU took a couple pictures of Brecken, printed them and sent them up to us so we could finally see him as we waited to see him in person.

I was cleaned up, stitched up and put into a hospital gown and eased into a wheelchair.

The moment we entered the NICU I could see a whole slew of doctors and parts of the crew who would be taking him by helicopter.  I had to sign a few papers before proceeding to see my son.  Finally, they wheeled me over to him.  The moment we turned the corner and I saw him I started to cry.  My baby boy was hooked up to a ventilator, and had so many wires and monitors attached to him.  I was heartbroken for him.  His eyes were shut, but he was breathing.  His skin color was finally fleshed and pink.  I remember asking permission to touch him.  We were given free range minus the fact that we couldn’t hold him.  I traced my hand along every inch of his body I could.  Soaking in my son through touch.  We had several pictures taken of him and of us holding his hands.  This is also when we finally officially named him: Brecken Theodore.

Next thing I remember was feeling extremely nauseous.  It was starting to get so severe I remember asking someone for a bucket or anything to throw up in.  Someone handed me a small trash can.  By time it was in my hands I remember the room starting to spin uncontrollably and I got incredibly dizzy.  Next thing I remember, I was waking up on the postpartum bed.  I had apparently passed out in the NICU.  This was the first time in my life I had ever done this.

After being settled in the postpartum room, the helicopter team wheeled Brecken into our room so we could see him one last time before his take off.  It was incredibly hard to watch him leave me.  To see him hooked up to all sorts of equipment.  I was still in shock that this was really happening to my baby.

I was not authorized to leave the hospital that night due to my fainting.  During our stay in there, we noticed our room was the room located RIGHT next to the nursery/NICU entrance.  Each time that door was opened while our door was open we heard a baby crying.  It made me cry every time because I never got to hear my own baby cry.

I finally was discharged from the hospital on January 10th, 2013.

We packed everything up and my husband ran everything down to the car ahead of me.  The nurse was supposed to be getting  me a wheelchair to go down in.  I was too impatient to wait so I started to walk out into the hall thinking there was somewhere to sit and wait out there.  There wasn’t.  Another nurse saw my walking struggles and asked if I wanted a wheelchair and I shook my head “yes”.  I sat in the wheelchair in the hallway in stone silence.  Then I heard a baby cry from another postpartum room and I started to cry.

My husband finally came up and wheeled me to our car.  I began to cry because I was leaving the hospital without my baby boy.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  I was supposed to be holding him while being wheeled out because that’s what new parents do.

You go to hospital pregnant and you leave hospital happy with baby in tow.  That wasn’t my case and that wasn’t my norm.

I didn’t know joy, or cried tears of happiness.

I didn’t know the smiles or the laughter.

I didn’t know the coos or the admiration.

I only knew of pain, of tears, of sadness, of silence, of uncertainty.

We drove away from the hospital that morning not knowing what our future would now hold or the road that laid ahead.  We had no idea what we were in for.

Sarah’s words were copied with her permission to be shared here.  You can learn more about her motherhood journey, including the transport to NICU in a different hospital, including finally taking her precious boy home, and ultimately, to her saying goodbye and her journey toward healing after his death.  She has added her blog, “To find joy in life again” to the stillbirthday bereavement blogroll.

 

 

Marion Lane

Marion Lane is an absolutely talented artist.

She is also a bereaved mother.

In 1963 she donated a powerful art piece to the Brooklyn Museum, after the death of her 2 and 1/2 year old daughter, Paula Ann.  Marion shared with me that she felt she needed to paint this piece and donate it to help her “move on”.

 “Grief” by Marion Lane, 1963

I have found myself captivated by this piece.  This is what I see:

First, her femininity is directly connected to her baby girl.  One breast appears missing, while the other trails down to her daughter.  She might have still been breastfeeding her daughter.  We can’t see her eyes, but her mouth is very prominent – trying to communicate her anguish but feeling unseen.  The bold colors and lines that connect to her baby, all run through her.  The gold line stands out as a color of hope, and being in her hand seems to show her hope that in painting perhaps this very piece, something may be expressed or released – that she may find healing – because, the rest of her body is purple, as if it’s cold, a real part of her has died along with her daughter.

 

This week, she will be presenting her most recent work at WestBeth Gallery.  Details below:

While most of her work is abstraction, this powerful piece will also be there:

This piece, entitled “Mother and Child”  is a wall sculpture made of sheet aluminum, with some portions painted, and some unpainted. 

This contrast, isn’t it powerful?  The seeming flatness of the mother, the dimensions of the child, the trail of crimson that breaks through the seemingly black and white and continues to connect these two…

Please, take a moment to visit Marion Lane’s website to learn about more of her work and her future exhibitions. 

Empathizing with Elizabeth

I’ve written about Elizabeth here at stillbirthday before.

Elizabeth, was a very old woman.  She waited a very, long time to become pregnant.  When she did, she remained in seclusion until her fifth month of pregnancy.  And I’ve shared why I believe this is.

To the world,

When you tell me to get over my loss, when you define it for me, when you try to take it away from me, it feels as though not only has my child died, but it feels as if you want me to believe my child never lived.  In short, not only did I lose my child, but your empty platitudes serve to threaten my motherhood.

In grief, I can related to Elizabeth hiding, until it was absolutely apparent that she was a mother.

You have an opportunity to invite mothers out into the community to share the pain, the beauty and the power of their motherhood.  They’ve already lost a child.  Don’t try to take away their motherhood.

For suggestions on how to better come alongside a bereaved mother, please visit our friends and family resources section.

Learn about Mothering the Mourning

Mothering the Mourning holds a radical and revolutionary truth that grief should not be silenced, the love for our children should not be closed up, we should not disengage from our relationship with our children at their physical death and we should not detach from our own reality of love.  While grief is the collection of feelings we have, mourning is the outward expression of these feelings.  Not all bereaved parents embrace both.  I have grief, and I have come to realize that my grief needs mourning, and, my mourning needs my mothering.
In my book The Invisible Pregnancy, I further explore the challenging concepts of nurturing and disciplining our mourning, and other challenging concepts such as recognizing the beautiful truths in what I identify as ec0-thanatology.  If these concepts seem intriguing, I’d recommend getting your copy of The Invisible Pregnancy, or consider hosting an Invisible Pregnancy Mother Workshop– and you and I can meet! Mothering the Mourning is my way of recognizing that my grief connects me to my child, my mourning connects me to my grief, and that I can seek out and find the many beautiful aspects of these connections.

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The Beginning

This is the beginning of this new place at stillbirthday, called Mothering Our Mourning.

Mothering Our Mourning is a place of short revelations I feel I’m given on my journey.  It’s a place where I pause, to note the messages of healing spoken to my heart.

While our Ripples program allows you to identify the ways in which your child(ren)s lives can still create a positive impact, this, Mothering Our Mourning, serves to be potentially, deeply challenging, as it is a place where the focus is not on the legacy of my child, per se, but is on the connection I have with him – my grief.  It is a collection of observations I make as I daily nurture and daily discipline my mourning, for my healthiest grief.

I believe my mourning needs my mothering.  It is not only an entity that needs nurturing – that is, validation, respect, and care, but it is also an entity that needs discipline – that is, structure, wise counsel upon and constructive speaking to.

Like a child, my mourning can throw tantrums – ha!  It really can!

But, my mourning, in its mysterious similarities to a child, can make me take pause, make me see its wonder, and, can even make me smile.

Mothering Our Mourning holds a radical and revolutionary truth that grief should not be silenced, the love for our children should not be closed up, we should not disengage from our relationship with our children at their physical death and we should not detach from our own reality of love.  While grief is the collection of feelings we have, mourning is the outward expression of these feelings.  Not all bereaved parents embrace both.  I have grief, and I have come to realize that my grief needs mourning, and, my mourning needs my mothering.

Mothering Our Mourning is a play on words.  Most of my intimate times with my grief, when I am able to identify its goodness, have come to me in the wee hours of the morning.  I’ve come to refer to this sacred space as Mother in the Morning.  I share about these most treasured moments in my book The Invisible Pregnancy, where I also explore the challenging concepts of nurturing and disciplining our mourning, and other challenging concepts such as recognizing the beautiful truths in what I identify as ec0-thanatology.  If these concepts seem intriguing, I’d recommend getting your copy of The Invisible Pregnancy, or consider hosting an Invisible Pregnancy Mother Workshop – and you and I can meet!

Mothering Our Mourning is my way of recognizing that my grief connects me to my child, my mourning connects me to my grief, and that I can seek out and find the many beautiful aspects of thes connections.

 

About the Coloring

Not because I think I have much artistic skill at all (chuckle!), but because the vision of this piece came to me most suddenly the very day I decided to create the Mothering Our Mourning section here at stillbirthday, I want to take a look at some of the things that came to me as I was coloring this picture.

The Tree

I am the tree.  Sometimes, I feel grey and withered, as if I cannot muster any life from within me.  I feel on a dusty, lifeless plain.  While my heart does hold color, and life, sometimes I believe it is too wrapped in darkness for this bright life to emerge.  Still, I know it is there.

In contrast to the living seed, the grey tree doesn’t have roots, which seems to represent that the life from the living seed runs deep, is solid, is permanent, while the grey tree doesn’t have that penetrable hold.

As this grey tree, I have spent my own time, reaching, searching, outward, inward, looking for the answers to my child’s death.  Not merely the physical reasons, but the spiritual reasons as well.  “Why?” I’ve begged to know.  The branches of this grey tree, I made with a series of the letter “Y”.  As they thin, some of these Ys look like jagged thorns – in my quest, I know I have, at times, hurt others and myself.

The Jar

I had no idea as I was shading in the black, that I was actually making a jar, but that is exactly what I made.  The lifeless plain, everything I see in this darkness, is within this jar, this jar that doesn’t really have definition, it just sort of became there.  In my simple view, I can’t see where the darkness ends, I only have a conviction that it somehow, somewhere does.  In contrast to the colors above it, I trust that the Great Gardener can see much further across the horizon than I can.

The  (invisible) Rain

The rain, from the point of view of within the jar, is tears.  Tears of sadness, of pain, of longing, of confusion.  The rain though, from the view of the Great Gardener, penetrates through the darkness, reaches to the depths of the roots of the living seed, and it refreshes and helps it grow.

You don’t see the rain in the jar?  It’s because so often I recognize that I have a more masculine mourning style, and quite often it’s invisible rain, but nevertheless, is still there.

The Great Gardener

The Great Gardener implanted my child in my womb.  His hands are golden, to me the color of holiness.  Everything He plants is good.  His arms extending from above – I felt a little disappointed as I was coloring, to discover that both arms weren’t extending from the yellow in the rainbow, but as His left arm is extending from green, I am reminded of the chakras, and as His left arm extends from green, I realize that our left arms are connected to our hearts (hence wearing a wedding ring on the left hand), and that what He plants is a labor of His own love.  As He digs into the soil, and I am the tree, from my own limited view, I can’t see, but His hands are penetrating through the darkness.

These golden hands also look like my uterus.

The Big Heart

The big heart is the seed of my child.  This seed was planted within me, but what I don’t see in my limited view, is that this seed has taken deep root, and, this seed is growing and blossoming.

The Roots

The roots of this sacred life seed trail into my searching braches of Ys (and whys).  There are indicators of the growing of this sacred life, and connect me to the greater view the Great Gardener has, even if I don’t recognize them for what they are.  They can bring life into the otherwise greyness.

The swirling, deep roots also look like my hair.

The Blossoms

Only a heart can grow hearts.  This sacred life seed will only grow more of what it is.  This love extends and connects further than the primary stems that are immediately attached to it.  This love continues to extend, branch out, reach others, and even overflow beyond the Great Gardeners arms.  Such is the reach of this sacred life seed.

The Numbers

I didn’t realize this while I was coloring, but there are seven blossoms.  This is a biblically significant number.  And, altogether, there are nine hearts.  This too seems significant.  Nine is the triple of triple, that is, three.  This too, resonates with me as biblically significant.

The Rainbow

Many families who are trying to conceive a subsequent child after loss often refer to this journey as “waiting for the rainbow” after the storm of their loss.  While I understand the sentiment, I have always had a sense that this approach can put at least a little strain of expectation on the trying to conceive journey, and on the subsequent child.  I feel that this coloring confirms that the rainbow, of peace, the rainbow as a sign that God is with us, is already here, for each of us, however that rainbow manifests for each of us.  Even when I can get a glimpse out of the darkness, all I might see is red, but the Great Gardener can see much further along the horizon than I can.  This horizon, it looks like the sun rising.  The rainbow, while I purposely didn’t measure the spaces of the colors, I can see that the purple is not as thick as the other colors, because I ran out of paper.  Even in knowing that the Great Gardener has a view of the horizon that extends much further than I can, even I can’t see to the end of the rainbow.  I believe that someday I will.

 

 

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