The promise, the hope, our dreams coming true
Oh how we looked forward to having you

But something went wrong, and everything ended
The shock, the loss, our hearts are unmended

We have lost someone precious, alone we have cried
Our babies, our beloved babies have died

The spark, the life that each of us carried
Has turned into ashes or caskets we’ve buried

And some of us have nothing left over at all
The loss was so early, so invisible, so small

Our hearts are jolted, we are shaken to our core
We are disappointed and sobered and longing for something more

We are silent, looking inward, each searching our soul
Surrendered to that which we could not control

Our stories are somber, we share them at length
And from each other we all draw some strength

Honesty, compassion, and grief so sincere
We come together to share that here

Author Amy D. had a stillborn baby in December 2012, when she was 38.5 weeks pregnant.

He’ll probably be as quiet as the midnight air
Because of this horrible pain he tries to bare

And If you ask him and he just quietly sighs
Look harder, you’ll see the pain in his eyes

Even If he does happen to tell you he’s coping
Then that just surely means……. He is hoping?

If he happens to mutter out, I’m surviving today
Oh then trust me, you know he is really not Ok

He has been so very quiet since that awful day
It’s just so hard for him to find the words to say

He really thinks he has to be stronger than steel
But he is just very fragile, suffering this ordeal

He feels like he has to hide away all those tears
Just suck it all in, and show no one of his fears

I’m his child in heaven, and he’s hurting oh so bad
He gets up and goes everyday, even though he’s sad

He watches my mommy cry and holds her oh so tight
He always tears up, but holds back with all of his might

If you ask, how are you today, and he says oh I’m just fine
He’s really not; he needs a hug, that’s definitely a sure sign

His heart is burdened with such terrible doubts often everyday
Please let him know, he didn’t let me down or fail in any way

I know He loves me very much and he thinks of me each day
But his poor heart is so broken, so please help him find a way

To find peace, comfort and a voice to shed his grief and pain
For without it, he cannot start to heal and lighten grief’s stain

Also tell him its ok to lose it, break down and shed those Tears
Cause it takes more strength to cry, then to hold back the fears

I love you daddy, Im always here with you, we’re never far apart
So for me, could you begin to Heal and open back up your heart

In Loving Memory of my Angel Boy, Matthew Hunter Vinson
Author JP Vinson
February 7, 2013

February 8th
This last little while has been a strange mix of fear and hope. Bright red warned me at every moment that something was wrong; a few strong kicks let my mind wander to paint colors and lullabies. I tried to keep my body very, very still, so as to not rupture all of my dreams. When the membranes of the sac ultimately did rupture, my castle in the sky began to crumble. I scrambled to rebuild it, stone by stone, to fill the sac back up by rehydrating with gallon after gallon of water. Ironically, it took 4 people and 6 attempts at finding a vein for an IV. There was no blood, water, life left in me. Mine had left my body before his did. When I gave birth/death to my son, the fear released from my body, as well. I no longer lay here, still as can be, wondering if my body is giving him what he needs or taking it away. The hope does remain. Hope to one day hold my baby whose body doesn’t grow cold in my arms. To one day fill my home with the love I was only able to fill my heart with. Everything in life has become intensified now. The mystery, the beauty, the pain, the love. I’ve never felt more or less alive than I do in this moment.

February 12th
They say that when a woman becomes a mom, her heart forever walks outside of her body. Today I can’t seem to find either of them. My heart or my child. I’ve tried to replace blood with wine, but the glass and the hole in my chest keep coming up empty. My skin remains pale, pale as the color of his ashes, whose daddy kept in the breast pocket of his shirt all day yesterday. That must be where I’ll find them both. My heart and my child. Next to the powerful, protective shelter of my husband’s beating heart.

February 13th
The feeling of skin swelling over pant waists or folding over itself under bras has always felt somewhat uncomfortable to me. Lately I’ve developed a sweet spot for these soft spots on my body. These places of extra skin, flesh and fat, a physical representation of generosity and love. These most tender places of my body hold my war wounds and my love letters now. I don’t feel like I did before him, and I’m not ready to look like I did before him either. For this softness is all I have left physically to remind myself he was more than just a dream.

February 14th
Two sentences are all that matter from that day. One a death sentence and one a life sentence.
“There is no heartbeat” from my doctor’s lips.
“I’m so glad I didn’t lose you” from my husband’s.

February 17th
Before, we would say “goodnight” and I would roll away, seeking the solitude of cold sheets.
After they placed him in my arms, I felt the warmth slowly leave his body. The last kiss to his forehead was cold against my lips. Bone-chillingly cold.
Now I find myself with limbs entangled, uncomfortably hot and unable to sleep. I don’t want solitude and I don’t want cold. I need to feel the warmth of “alive.”

Bio: Kali lives in Missoula, MT with her husband and pets.  She recently lost her son at 22 weeks pregnant due to placental abruption.  He blew open her heart and soul in ways she never knew possible.  She is the creator of OULA Fitness, a dance fitness company whose slogan is “it’s not how you look, it’s how you feel.”  Dancing and writing has helped her to heal and to feel a sense of peace while going through her life’s greatest loss.

Childless Baptism

Voices in joyful conversation
Families gather in the Narthex
Each with anticipated pride
Arms baring the Lord’s bounty.

Process down the isle
Toward the blessed baptismal water
Grace given manifest form
Sacrament of inclusion and embrace.

Empty arms, broken hearts
We step to the altar
We hold no child
So Sorrow dances on our lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Baring the Grief’s of the Never Bes

I am left to wonder, erect in silent pause
Found like the stillness over the pond in the woods at dawn.
As I stare intently at the monolithic wall of the lost future
The wall’s will is imposed, a slick—black—crystal—glass of loss
My grief soaked appendages, bandaged through angry rage
Reflect a clearly broken reality without meaning.

As if a heart’s pain could cast down mountains
Out beyond the horizon where the dreams live in peace,
And above the heavy clouds of white where hope is undefined.
My eyes strain across the dull canvas of grass running to the hills
Like desperate lost lovers in the crowd searching for each other
The wall remains un-scalable by human hearts alone.

But in this gentle brutality, every new layer of loss
Is set in the mind like tombstones in the churchyard
Or like memory trapped in the muscle tissue
Their presence burned like a scar, into the landscape.
To the grief’s and joy’s add the worlds that never will be
A personal journal of daydreams and only the questions linger
Like rocks carried in a sack on your back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Daniel McGregor was born in Wisconsin but grew up around the Tampa Bay area. He has been married to his wife Tina for 12 ½  years. For the last 6 years Tina and Daniel have wrestled with a diagnosis of infertility. They are looking to grow their family through adoption.  Daniel has earned Bachelor degrees from the University of South Florida and a Master’s of Divinity from Columbia International University.

I’ll never get to see your smile or kiss away tears from your warm soft cheeks.

I’ll never get to hear you cry and sneak you naughty treats.

I’ll never get to hold your hand as we skip along the way.

I’ll never get to wave you off to school on your first day.

All that time you were tucked up inside I never imagined this is how things would end.

Your needs and wants, your cries and shouts, I’ll never get to tend.

Despite the short time we were together as one I love you more than you’ll ever know.

One day I’ll come to find you, then onwards together we will go.

My whole body aches with sadness, my tears they freely flow.

What it means to lose you, no one will ever know.

Lots and lots of love from Mummy xxx

© LeanneCarline, Rocky’s Mum
December 2012

On September 7, 2011, I ended an unplanned pregnancy. Only six weeks earlier, a doctor told my partner and I joyfully that, well yes, we were going to be proud parents. I sat in shock for a moment before a smile spread across my face. The shock never left his. Before we had spoken a word to each other we both knew that I wanted to keep the baby and he didn’t.

We cried together for days, agonizing over the decision. I had just decided to quit my job to pursue a creative career full-time when I found out that I was pregnant. A baby would have potentially squashed those fledgling dreams and kept me tied to a job, a home, a static life. Neither one of us was willing to restrict our future just yet. And so, nodding at each other while gazing at the little bean on the ultrasound, we affirmed with the doctor that we just weren’t ready.

As the doctor told me the side effects of the drugs I would be taking to induce a miscarriage, I found myself drifting outside, staring at the situation. I never thought I’d be here. Always thought I would have carried through with a pregnancy. But the future was calling too tantalizingly…

The physical pain only lasted a few days. The psychological pain still plagues me. Karin fell into her “loose, long dive.” I built a barrier instead. I was bounding along in my busy little life just days after the procedure, not a glint of worry in my eye. That is until I would fall into the bed, sobbing into my pillow for reasons that I could never fully explain.

My partner would hold me delicately while feverishly asking questions, terrified of the pain that racked my body. Pain that refused to leave.

That decision still sits calmly on the back porch of my consciousness, waiting until my defenses are down, before it comes out and lays waste to the beautiful home I’ve built inside my brain. I fight it – sobbing, yelling, cursing – until finally it recoils back to the back porch. And I must go sit on my actual physical front porch in silence to rebuild the beautiful home once more.

I fight because succumbing is not an option, but the tender wound never disappears. I lovingly finger the baby booties in Target and can’t speak for an hour. For days after holding a brand new baby, I fall asleep with my hand clutching my abdomen.

Perhaps the depth of my love for that beautiful little bean can only be understood by other women who have made the same decision. And for that, I thank Dipika from the bottom of my heart. For allowing me to acknowledge that earnestness of that love. And for giving all of us a voice to say:

“No one can ever know what it feels like to stand in another’s reality, with its ten thousand million shades of difference.”

Bio: CH is a nomadic writer and visual artist traveling the globe in search of ways to create meaningful connections between creative people.

Image Credit: Deeni Simon

The things I have forgotten since losing my son to a fatal genetic disease seem silly to me, like breathing. Who forgets to breathe? Me.

After Henry died, I neglected other basic and simple self-maintenance needs. Showering. Eating. Getting comfort from friends. My baby is dead – why do any of these things matter?

I have performed impressive emotional acrobatics over taking care of myself.

On the one hand, I’m a single-standing female now, with no little life blooming in me. Why do I matter anymore? On the other hand, I could try to have other children, so I should keep myself a healthy vessel for them – just in case. But then again, maybe my womb is cursed and after losing my fist child. Then, relentless hope tries to glimmer through quickly, but not fast enough. I shut the window on it so hard that the glass almost breaks, and the frame splinters. But a broken window can still let in a surprising amount of light and air.

No matter how I try to rationalize the unthinkable. I am still here, and it blows my mind.

It was a while before I could let myself enjoy my old pleasures – coffee, reading, walking. How could I think about things that bring me happiness? But then someone bought me the gift of a 60-minute massage. It was with a precious little old lady in a house by the water. That 100-year-old house was covered in every corner with books, picture frames, dangling stars, mirrors, but not a speck of dust and walls painted light blue like the sky on a sunny afternoon. The home, like the soul who lived there, was open, fresh and inviting.

Preceding my massage was a little interview where we lightly touched on why I was there. And so gently, while pools of tears gathered in my eyes, my grief was accepted and incorporated into our time together.  Then, she reminded me how to breathe.

It had been a long while since I had truly taken a breath. She also drew me back to a special place I like to visit in my mind when I need some peace and repose. Call it my happy place if you will. I close my eyes and visualize a deep, dark forest by a babbling stream where sunlight breaks through the treetops. I feel grounded and safe as I sit by the water on a mossy boulder where I can breathe deeply, cradled in lush green surroundings.  The simple thought of this imaginary place causes my lungs to fill with rejuvenating breath, and makes me feel that even after a scathing visit to hell, I’m okay if I just take the time to breathe. If I’m hesitating to take care of myself, a breath will help me relax and move forward.

The wonderful part about breathing is that my lungs are always ready and waiting. They sit patiently in my chest, allowing me my shallow, short stress-breath until I’m ready to take it a bit further. While the massage was great, the lesson in breathing was far more valuable. In my life, torn to shreds with loss, remembering to breathe fully and deeply is a magic sticky glue that will help me piece together a new normal.

Bio: Mel Lefebvre is a Montreal-based journalist and editor, step-mom, and mother to Henry, her sweet boy who was died before he could take his first breath. Henry was diagnosed at 20 weeks with osteogenesis imperfecta type 2 – the fatal form of brittle bone disease. Mel has been blogging regularly on her healing process and coping with the decisions they made for Henry. She finds comfort in her pets, knitting, going for walks, and making pottery. It’s her hope that through the honest portrayal of her feelings, which are sometimes ugly, other grieving parents can allow themselves to feel normal as they mourn, too. Read more about Mel’s healing journey at http://writerightmel.wordpress.com.

Life is now divided. There was the time before our daughter, Charlie, was born sleeping at forty weeks of age. And the period which followed.

I’m certain most bereaved parents would echo that such gut-wrenching loss is life-changing. I’m also sure that would come as no surprise to those fortunate to have never experienced such loss….. However, what I find most alarming is the stark contrast of life before Charlie and that since.

This weighs on my mind, at length. The comparison shocks, consumes and haunts me. It’s mostly what keeps me awake at night.

I remember the blissful ignorance before I knew that, in 2012, babies die – and sometimes, we don’t ever find out why.

The time before ‘grief’ moved into our house, and became a permanent part of everyday life; a third member in our marriage….. before the three of us became entangled and inseparable.

I remember the hopes, the dreams….. the feeling of being ‘in charge’ of our lives. The belief that our life was shaped by our actions – that we were the choreographers.

I look back at the emails I sent on the days before we lost Charlie and realise my oblivion to the approaching tsunami.

The 40 week pregnancy photos, taken on the morning before we presented at the hospital to be told our daughter’s heart had stopped beating, are of an entirely different woman……. a soon-to-be ‘mum’, with a fresh, peaceful and naive face, unaware of the cruelty or beauty of life.

We now live in a world of confusion in many regards. We have new identities; parents – but not. We have a constant instinctive, craving desire to devote time to a child that we cannot hold in our arms – only in our hearts.

In many ways we are at a standstill. Grief has robbed us of the ability to plan a future, requiring that we focus our energies to get through the day-to-day, and activities we previously enjoyed are just not the same.

But while we are emotionally scarred, we are also much better people for knowing Charlie.

Our hearts, yet broken, have somehow grown. We love each other more deeply. We hold our loved ones closer and are forever-in-debt to those who have supported us over the past four months and have shown love for our daughter.

Our marriage is bonded by a new strength; we have an understanding of each other that probably nothing else but our third partner could have provided.

And, last but not least, we appreciate beauty in things that we previously never noticed. A magical sunset. A colourful flower that has ‘popped up’ unexpectedly on the side of the road. Leaves dancing with the rustle of the wind…..

Bio: Emily Geering (Brisbane, Australia) is the proud mother of Charlie – born sleeping on 28 September 2012 following a ‘text book’ pregnancy. Emily is passionate about increasing community awareness of still birth believing bereaved parents need the opportunity to communicate about their loss to ‘heal’ and that more research must be conducted to reduce incidence.

Trees flow, oceans grow
When it stops no one knows
Now you’re here, then you’re gone
It’s one family that we all belong
One is happy, one is sad
One is good, one is bad
You are mine, not for long
Up to heaven you belong
The hour is up, the time is near
You are my child, no need to fear
You are always one phone call away
It’s not for sale, no one can pay
Going, going, going, gone
For unto you a happy song
Hello, Goodbye, you laugh, you cry
All of God’s children multiply
Evelyn Marie you were to be
You were to be, you were to me
In my belly growing fast
How I wish this time could last
Our time together, immersed and blessed
How I loved you, no second guess
I felt, I saw, you lived, you breathed
You hurt, I knew, we loved indeed
Flapping wings came shining down
After your spirit could not be found
From seed, to bud, to flower bloom
The life that happened much too soon
Water colors dripping down
Checkered floors, wall to wall, abound
Laughing, crying, tear drops dying
Clutching grip, I won’t let go
Crushing blow as water flows
Moving fast all along
Cherish life, it’s all gone
God is faithful, God is kind
We can’t see, we are blind
Always there, always with us
Never stops, never forsakes us
Trust in Him, glory be to thee
Up in heaven is Evelyn Marie

by Uncle Andy