Look in vain for the instruction book

You probably have heard of the amazing book on baby loss by Elizabeth McCracken.

My friend BookishGirl sent me the following link to McCracken's book excerpt/article in O magazine (yes, BookishGirl loves the Oprah Book Club unabashedly, even though our book group has mocked her for it in the past - I mock her no more).

Elizabeth McCracken starts with a description of a woman who has a book idea: a book of "funny stories" about loss -- those quirky things that you think or remember after you lose a child, omens or signs. It sounds crazy, McCracken thinks. And this woman is clearly not meant to be a sympathetic character.

Then comes a line that hit me hard: "She wanted an instruction book." '

I got a little defensive at this point. YES! Yes I DO! I DO want an instruction book! Is there something wrong with that?

A survival manual. Please. Anyone... and of course it's not that easy.

(By the way, the article later redeems this woman to some extent. I do have a few chuckly little anecdotes from losing Grace -and lots of 'signs' that I find comforting. Am I just like the crazy lady in the story?)

But OF COURSE we want a manual on how to do this. How to survive this. And we are notoriously bad at it - as a society, even as families. Losing a baby, remembering a baby, explaining the baby, explaining our role to the baby, explaining where the baby is. I do yearn for an instruction book.

The only heartening thing about this is that this desperate desire for a manual and answers is just parenting. I am finding a way to be a parent to Baby Grace. I am a mother to this baby. I have to make decisions. I can read all the books and get all the advice in the world, and then I have to do what feels right for me and the baby.

Yes, in this case, there's no baby right here, in front of me, to get to know. And that is a hard hard hard thing to come to terms with.

So like any good mother, you make it up as you go along, you read, you ask grandmothers, friends, wise women and men, you collect. And then do something that feels right, even though you really don't know what you're doing. See? Mothering, I tell myself. I half believe it.

Learn from those who've gone down this road...

"Grief is incredibly personal."

It was the first lesson the chaplain gave us as we learned that Grace's heart wasn't beating. And yet I was so grateful to hear from others who had been somewhere close to here before.

Especially so, because, in the weeks that followed, I was terrified of forgetting baby Grace. I was holding on to so little, I couldn't bear that my memory of her would fade.

Almost immediately, though, I was amazed to get these letters.

Onewas from the mother of a co-worker, a woman I had spoken with maybe once....

When I heard of your loss, I just had to write a little note... You see, 24 years ago, I gave birth to a stillborn baby boy...

...and another, from a distant relative I had never met in person...

A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with your grandmother and she told me of the loss of your infant... and we were both so sad! I know pain of an infant dying as I had that loss too, now 44 years ago - and talking about it brings up that moment - seemingly still so near. And so I find myself thinking of you both and that empty ache within.

...and another from close relatives who had never spoken to me of their loss -- it must have been almost 40 years ago -- even though I knew of it...

We want you to know how sad we felt when we heard the news about Grace... It brings back memories of when we lost our baby at birth...

Before Grace's birth, my book group had picked Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal Dreams". After we lost Grace, my lovely and amazing bookgroup ladies tried to wave me off the book. Miscarriage, lost and endangered children. Perhaps I wasn't ready.

And this quote from the book's amazing narrator:

“A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven’t. Most don’t mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn’t happened, and so people imagine that a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.
But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she’ll know.”
-Barbara Kingsolver “Animal Dreams”

I waited, and then when I was ready, I devoured this book.

I needed this and all the stories. All of it. Desperately.

Release balloons

I saw this idea on the SHARE site as I was frantically trying to figure out what a service for a baby might possibly look like. I had no clue...


But this, I knew we needed to do - release balloons in memory of Grace.

So we've released balloons for Grace 3 times so far:
at her burial,
at 6 months,
... and at the year mark, this past November 2008.

It's one of those concrete things that we can see, touch, feel.

And we probably wouldn't have done it if we didn't have a 3 year old to placate.

Originally it was a way to make her feel a part of the experience. But, on the day of the funeral itself, it was a joyous moment for us in an otherwise devestating day.

For the funeral, we brought many balloons, and the children there (and there were a few) released balloons.

My friend N, who had lost her son to a cord accident 8 years earlier and was a huge support to us in the aftermath, also released a balloon for her son E.

We hugged and cried and let our balloons float off into the sky together.

This experience means that our daughter, N, thinks that cemeteries are beautiful, wonderous, celebratory places where people remember loved ones with trinkets, flowers, and treasures.

Stare it down

I'm starting - now 1 year out - to really face the bald-face truth: This happened to me. I lost this baby. She is gone.

The difference between now and a year ago is that I'm no longer fighting this truth. I used to say "I can't believe..." with a sense of injustice. I screamed this in the shower. I literally would find myself involuntarily shaking my head "no."

Now - with time, with counseling, with all sorts of coping mechanisms - there are days when I can leave it at just this: "This happened to me" with some level of belief about the whole thing.

I also realize that I can only imagine who she would be - I can't in good conscience think that I know who she really was or would have been. She is who she is -and a mystery to me in so many ways.

The comfort?

It comes right now in really being able to see how she is woven into our lives. I water the plant my family gave us in her honor. I see her picture. I have my necklace. Every time the wind picks up outside my house, every fall, will be about her. We'll keep baking our cakes. We'll keep lighting our candle. We have the pillow my grandmother made. We will soon have the angel ornaments on the Christmas tree.

This is not how I wanted it to be. This is the way it is. I hold both of these side by side.

Collect baubles and trinkets to remember the baby...

I don't think that people realize how wonderful it is to get those random gifts - the "I'm thinking of you and of the baby, just because." Not tied to any date. Just because. I've kept and treasured all of them.

Because I think of my kids - both of them - all the time. It's so meaningful when others are thinking of them too. Powerful stuff.

My friend W - aka BookishGirl - just sent me the most touching and beautiful gift. And before I show it off, I just want to introduce W. She is my blogger hero.

In fact, our own sadness made it to her blogspace. It includes photos of our kids back the previous fall, before Grace died. When there were 2 pregnant women, 3 toddlers, 2 babies still on the way: here and here.
That's our beautiful friend W.

The gift? It's a pendant for me, recognizing both Grace and N as my two girls. So thoughtful, and just so simple, beautiful and meaningful.
N saw me open the box and asked why the letters were there. N for her name - she understood that one. G? "For Grace," I said. Why? "N and G for my girls."
Puzzled look. Hm.
Can I go watch Curious George now? she said. And off we went.
When I showed my husband A the necklace and related N's reaction, he also asked what the G was for. I should have been devastated. But we are handling grief so differently - it took him a moment to realize it wasn't just about N.
Thank goodness for the chaplain who said the magic words on Day 1. It's been my mantra:
"Everyone handles grief so differently. You each are going through this together, but you're experiencing it in very different ways."
Otherwise, I'm quite sure I would have lost it long ago.
W found it from a jeweler online at Etsy who was so sweet, she also sent some earrings and helped W figure out how to get it wrapped and added a little note.
The kindness of friends -- and relative strangers too -- means a lot to me right now.

Tell your story

The books say that we love to talk about our babies. I know I still do - both of them. This is the long version...


My first preganancy in 2005 was through IVF. In 2007, the nursing was over and we had tried a bit. I went to see our specialist about going through another battery of tests, poking and prodding.

At work, my friend J finally stopped me - and asked if something was up. How was I feeling? Was I trying?

I'm in my office telling her that my period was late, but I'm sure it's nothing. She tells me to take a pregnancy test. I tell her it would be a miracle birth, like the virgin mary. I'm catholic, I should know.

I go to the pharmacy, take the test in the work bathroom stall to appease her. I am pregant. Naturally. "Spontaneously" as they call it in the medical profession. Amazing. She is the first to know, my husband is the second. I give him the stick to prove my . I finally get the dream of going through the excitement of those first few moments, peeing on a stick, like a 'normal' pregnant lady.

I buy my husband and daughter the followup to our favorite pirate book: Pirates Don't Change Diapers!

It turns out to be a worrisome time. I'm worried about work. I'm tired at home. I'm not sure where this baby will go to daycare, where it will sleep, how to fit the crib in my first daughter's room. We can't decide on names. We're so tired we can't stay up late nights to figure it out. My beloved daycare provider tells me there will indeed not be a slot. I'm angry with my doctor for telling me that it's too bad I won't have a scheduled c-section. I switch to a midwife who is highly recommended.

I go to my midwife appointment. The heartbeat is good. I have a baby shower. And another baby shower. I go to my midwife appointment. I worry at work.

40 weeks. Thursday after Halloween, late at night, something is up. When did I last feel movement? Sunday? Wednesday? I'm not even sure. I've been so busy. I stay up late. I drink orange juice. I pray. I am on vigil. I finally sleep a little and get myself ready for my doctor's apointment. I pretend that it's nothing, but I'm rattled. No movement, still.

The next morning, at my appointment. I tell them I'm concerned. They say I should have called as soon as I noticed. No heartbeat. I go to the hospital. I meet my husband A there. I am told that I have give birth to a baby that is not alive. We are no longer the same people we were the day before.

On November 4, 2007, Grace Catherine was born, named after cousins on my dad's side who took good care of him after his parents passed away. And named so that her name could be out there with us in the world, even if she could not.

Learn the definition of 'liminal'

Maureen Corrigan used this word (liminal) to introduce Elizabeth McCracken's book (the amazing women at glow in the woods also talked to her about her book!)

The word "liminal" been haunting me since.

How do you properly mourn Grace when she was mine just for a moment? She is part of our family,She is a real baby. I held her. yet can only ever be an imaginary toddler, kindergartner, adult. She's a part of the fabric of our family and yet has never been in my house.

She is a member of our family. Yet she never took a breath outside my body. Her sister, N, never met her. Neither did her grandparents, her aunts or uncles. She is hope and ideas and a tiny little body with disproportionately long feet and unexpectedly black hair.


I got to hold the baby, take pictures, dress her, hold her some more. Not every mama gets to do that, I know. Not everyone gets such tactile, physical proof of a baby's existence. I should be grateful, and I am.

There is a box for safekeeping of photos, a hat knitted by unknown volunteers just for this purpose, a handknit blanket (again, those amazing unseen volunteers) that was wrapped around her, a lock of hair (suddenly incredibly precious to me - who knew?), footprints.


I'm incredibly grateful for those keepsakes, the nurse who made those footprints, for the photographer from an amazing set of volunteers just for this purpose (NILTMDS). I'm grateful for all the arrangements made for us by the hospital, for all the understanding at work, for all the baubles and trinkets. But some days, it's all so inadequate.


I will recognize some of this gratitude on Thanksgiving day. But ultimately I am left with the reality that all these are just trinkets. So paltry. So secondhand.

Bake a cake

Today we baked a cake. For Grace.

It has the brightest, cheeriest angels, flowers and stars on it.

Baking is not in my comfort zone. But neither is mourning 1 year without Grace.

Because baking is not in my comfort zone, the kitchen was a disaster area. I ran all over the place collecting ingredients. I found a recipe from scratch, with seasonal ingredients. A crimson chocolate cake -- crimson for Grace's lips, chocolate for Grace's unlikely dark hair. (Did I tell you that Grace had red lips? Ah, that's another post.) Rather than use red dye, the crimson comes from beets. Shredded beets. Seems as probable as anything else I've experienced this year.

So I'm shredding by hand, deep in the purple muck, hands in gloves to avoid the beet purple stains. (It tasted fabulous, actually - for more on the cake itself, go here)

N and I went shopping for the decorations. We are going crazy with sprinkles (pastel hearts - what else would a 3-year-old girl want?) and bright fondant (purple, yellow, neon pink, I'm alarmed to discover as I open the package).

In the store, N asks: When is Grace's birthday?
It would be today, I answer. Today she would be with us 1 year.

At home, we cut out the fondant. Purple pink orange angels, yellow pink purple hearts, orange purple flowers. And plop a candle on.

A, N, and I light 1 green candle for Grace, surrounded by flowers, angels, trinkets from our loved ones and from people we barely know.

I ask N if we should sing a song - a birthday song? Another song we like?

She responds, I will say it and then you say it. Her chant is:
- Happy anniversary Grace! I hope you like the cake! I hope you get some cake!

Then she blows out the candle and announces:
- I'm blowing it out for Grace. Because she can't. Because she's not here. And because she's died.

That's our 1 year mark. Happy anniversary, Grace. I hope you like the cake.

Collect inspiration where you can find it

My friend & long-time coworker just sent me this today. Today is the day after our 1-year anniversary of losing Gracie.

All you quote lovers out there... When you come across them, please send good quotes that reference 'grace.' I'm starting my own personal collection. And I'm not one to collect things.
________

Funny I should get this today. My thoughts and prayers have been with you. - S

Concentrate on this Sentence
'To get something you never had, you have to do something you never did.'

When God takes something from your grasp, He's not punishing you, but merely opening your hands to receive something else..

'The will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not protect you.'
________

I'm not thrilled with the idea that God had this as a plan for me. I don't completely buy it. I'm still working that out. So I'm more shocked than anyone to find this last sentence somehow comforting. But I like to think that Grace is around us, watching out for us. Her name pops up from time to time, and it's comforting. I have a hard time reconciling my rational brain with my comfort I feel from these lines, but there it is.

Write a love letter or eulogy

All the books say it. Write a letter to the baby, whether it's a private letter or one you read openly.

We composed this as a eulogy for Grace, to be read at our memorial service for her.

It was read by another couple, dear friends who do not yet have kids. We were not prepared to be the ones to read this out loud. And we couldn't imagine that any of our friends with kids could get through it yet.

Sometimes now it seems too optimistic, too sweet, too empowered. But at the time, it seemed just right. It speaks to a hope that wanes more often now, but that was very strong right then. And it reminds us that there were some truly joyous moments in meeting her - before we had a chance to miss her so constantly.


An open letter to our friends and family, and to Baby Grace
From K & A

While this is a sad time for us, it is great comfort that you, our friends and family, are sharing this loss so profoundly with us.

But this Mass is also a celebration. And today, we want to share with you the wonder that was Grace.

Because from the first moment of sheer surprise and delight at discovering that we were pregnant, you, Grace, were exactly that -- a wonder!

We expected our second pregnancy to be so much like the first; but you managed to surprise us at every turn: the drama of morning sickness in the first three months; the baby’s high-energy activity -- somersaults, kicks and jabs; your clear love of sweets (which your mother indulged quite happily!) And of course, Grace, you joined all of us to root for the Red Sox together, even if we couldn’t quite stay up all night for the games.

And when, Grace, you arrived early Sunday morning, even in our grief, you managed to delight and surprise. You were a girl when we were sure we were having a boy. You were 6 pounds 2 ounces; we – and the doctors -- thought you would be so much larger. You had a shock of dark hair, while we were both expecting the blond curls we had as babies.

We can only imagine how this delight and surprise would have marked the rest of your life with us and your big sister N. But Baby Grace, you could not come home with us.

We are sad, Grace; already we miss the life that will not be. We miss your cries and already miss your first smile; your first laugh and your first crawl.

We miss you being N’s “baby”. She talked so much about how she would change your diapers, feed you, wash your face, and hug and kiss you. (And of course, Grace, we would have shielded you from an eager two-year-old’s over-attention!) We will miss reading stories to you and your sister, and most of all, watching you both grow up together.

Grace, we trust that we will someday learn something from this experience, and for that we are grateful for your brief life. We hope to find the moments where your delight and surprise carries on.

It has already started with so many little kindnesses – gestures from friends, our families, priests and chaplains, nurses and midwives, even from people we’ve never met.

Grace could not come home with us last Sunday. But we are reassured that she is in a special place, among the spirits of family and friends who have gone before her: namesakes Grace B, Grace S, Catherine M. Her Grandpa D, her Aunt Janine. Her great-grandpa M, her great-grandparents Rose and William, Una J -- and many others.

Baby Grace is with us in Spirit, in the angels of babies and in the saints, in prayers, anytime any of us remember her -- and wherever we stumble upon a little surprise and delight.

So to our friends and family, we invite you to look for signs of Grace all around you as well.

And Grace Catherine, we will always remember you.

- K and A

The List: Doing is the opposite of forgetting

After Grace died, I had to DO something.

For me, it started with planning a service. And crying. And reading. And listening to other stillbirthmamas who remember and honor their children -- some of them 20, 30, or 40 years later.

So I started collecting. Some unlikely things. Angels. Bible readings. Books on dragonflies. Others, not so unusual: self-help books, quotes on scraps of paper, letters and poems from other mourning mothers, worry stones, roses.

And advice.

Some of it I've followed 1 year out. Some I'd still like to. And some I haven't heard of yet. All of this you'll find one way or another, some day, in these pages.

Consider this your open invitation to share you list. Heaven knows, there's a lot of not-forgetting going on.

Tell your story
Learn from those who lost long ago
Plan a service
Pick some music (and why this is so hard!)
Write your baby a letter
Scream in the shower (or anywhere else)
Plant a garden
Delete old emails – and other mindless chores to do in mourning
Remember your baby: The days after loss
Sift through the cheese
Spend that baby shower money - even though it breaks your heart
Read a book #1: Quotes on baby loss from unlikely sources
Read a book #2: Quotes on baby loss from more likely sources
Thank your nurses
Make a bracelet
Splurge on jewelry
Donate to other moms who have lost – and are losing – their babies
Remember your baby: 1 year out
Get counseling
Join a support group
Talk to the chaplain
Get help for your marriage
Write in your journal
Remember your baby: October 15
Remember your baby: The hospital memorial service
Find others: Still.birthmamas in the blogosphere
Explain the loss to your family
Explain the loss to yourself!
Sort through the baby room
Don’t be afraid #1: Forgetting
Don’t be afraid #2: Remembering
Talk to your husband
Try again

Still...birth

This blog starts 1 year out from those first terrible days after we lost Grace.

It's designed as a place to save all the practical wisdom that we cherished - and still cherish - as we survive this. Wisdom from women who are going through this, are 10, 20, 30 years into the process of surviving this.

I found myself wanting a particular kind of advice, support, condolence:

Not overly sentimental (although I did love all the angel paraphernalia that was sent my way from moms who had ‘been there’).

Not overly religious (although faith helped carried me through).

Not overly cynical (although I can roll that way too).

This space is place to hold all that practical wisdom – and to share that with people who are looking for this information.