“A person’s a person,
no matter how small” – Dr Seuss
Today, October 15, 2014, we pause to remember the stars of our soul that were extinguished far too early.
To the parents who are missing their babies today and always, The Band sends our love and prayers.
To our babies, the babies who never got to experience the joys of Earth and whose lives were cut very short, we miss you.
We miss you. More than anyone can ever know. We wish we could have one more moment – one single moment – with you, as if we can’t have a lifetime with you.
Today, we honor the short lives of some of the brightest souls, souls that have touched many and have taught us to cherish all of life’s moments.
To our babies who we carry in our hearts, instead of our arms, we will never forget you.
Nolan “Shepherd,” stillborn at 17 weeks on September 15, 2009.
Angie’s Daughter:
Madeleine Rose, stillborn July 7, 2009 due to incompetent cervix and uterine infection.
Ann’s Son:
Orion, stillborn May 8, 2004
Beka’s Son:
Benjamin, September 4, 2012, stillbirth.
Beryl’s Daughter:
Bella Rose, stillborn on September 9, 2009.
Brenda’s Son:
Emerson Allen Behrends, July 10, 2001, stillborn.
Debbie’s Son:
Jonathan Edward, June 4, 1992, stillborn.
Debbie And Jeff’s Daughter:
Chloe Eva, September 12, 2008, stillbirth.
Heather and David’s Daughter:
Clara Edith, July 1, 2012, Stillbirth at 42 weeks, 3 days due to meconium aspiration and uterine infection.
Jill and Mark’s Baby:
Haven, November 26, 2003, stillborn at 38 weeks gestation
Jolene’s Daughter:
Ruth, January 3, 2013, stillbirth
Leslie’s Son:
Cullen Liam, born still September 11, 2010.
Lilla and Gareth’s daughter:
Pippa, born still on February 13, 2011 from listeria infection.
Louise and Joseph’s Baby:
Alice Mathelin, born still on February 25, 2011, at 36 weeks and 5 days from Abruptio Placentae
Martha’s Twin Boys:
Owen died March 8, 2008 because his cord wasn’t properly attached to the placenta.
Joshua died one month later, April 6, 2008 because he couldn’t live without his brother. Both were born still on April 8, 2008.
Melanie’s Daughter:
Summer Lily, born still March 30, 2011.
Mel’s Daughter:
Jordan Ala, stillborn on November 13, 2006.
Melissa’s Twins:
Nicholas Aaron and Nathan Alexander, June 9, 2000, stillbirth
Sarah’s Daughter:
Audrey Elizabeth, August 7, 1998, born still.
Selah Mae: born January 22, 2002, stillborn.
Stephanie’s Son:
Carter Austin Ross, March 18, 2006, stillbirth due to an umbilical cord anomaly.
TiaMaria’s Daughter:
Isabella-Rose Elizabeth, October 12, 2009, stillbirth.
Prematurity:
Amy and James’s Babies:
Jacob Bennett born and died on July 11, 2007 due to premature rupture of membranes (PROM).
Samantha Lauren born August 16, 2011 at 23.5 weeks passed away September 17th due to extreme prematurity and fungal meningitis.
Baby Helen: Born July, 1993. Passed from prematurity.
Celeste’s Son:
Christopher Robin Cote: Born September 25, 2009. Stillborn due to premature rupture of membranes and incompetent cervix.
Christine’s Son:
Jellybean, born at 5:20 April 15th, 2009; and passed just four short hours later in her arms.
Heather and Aaron’s Son:
Aodin R. Hurd, October 7, 2007, born still due to premature rupture of the membranes.
Kate’s Babies:
Baby S, March 2008, Miscarriage
Evie, December 14, 2009, Triplet Prematurity
Jack, December 22, 2009, Triplet Stillbirth due to Prematurity
Will, January 13, 2010, Triplet Prematurity
Baby M, May 2010, Miscarriage
Kristin’s Baby (Mama KK):
Ariel Grace, born on July 28, 2009 at 18 weeks 5 days. Lived 5 minutes.
Leleisme’s Babies:
Ayla and Juliet, October 20, 2009 at 20 weeks.
Bayli and Thomas on June 8, 2011 at 21 weeks 2 days.
Matthew Chase Sims: April 25th, 2006 due to prematurity.
Melissa’s Son:
Born at 21 weeks in June 2011 due to a bacterial infection, lived for 30 minutes.
Nicky’s Son:
Samuel, August 8, 2001, prematurity.
Nina’s Son:
Coleman Parker Garibay, September 14, 2005, lost at 6 months gestation and passed from prematurity.
Paula’s Baby:
Reya, September 18 2011, Prematurity due to extreme Pre-eclempsia
S & T’s Son:
William, November 2, 2013, 24 weeks, 3 days, prematurity
Yvette’s Son:
Erik Richard, July 29, 1981, prematurity.
Birth Defects:
Aaron and Kristine’s Son:
Luke Ervin Seitz, born July 21, 2011 with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, and passed on June 28, 2011.
Amy’s Babies:
Mateo, Anthony, and Ian born on May 6, 2008 at 23 weeks and 3 days.
Mateo was born still.
Anthony passed away from Transposition of the Great Vessels.
Ian passed away after a short stay in the NICU.
Amy’s Babies:
Nathaniel James, August 24, 2001 – August 29, 2001, Citrullinemia
David Henry, May 11, 2010 – January 24, 2011, Citrullinemia, passed away after becoming sick post liver transplant
Baby Khalil, born August 14, 2009, stillborn, born still from birth defects.
Beth’s Son:
Ethan Connor Brockwell, May 3, 2006 – August 17, 2006. Born with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.
Christopher: November 4, 1979, due to pulmonary atresia, a congenital heart defect.
Christopher’s Son:
Aidan, born with brain malformation on December 16, 2008 and passed on December 19, 2008.
Cora Mae McCormick:
November 30, 2009 to December 6, 2009 from a congenital heart defect.
Ellen’s Son:
Shane Michael, born October 10, 1971 and died October 11, 1971 from heart complications before his mother could wake from anesthesia. She never saw or held him.
Julie’s Daughter:
Brianna Elizabeth, born January 29, 1998 and died March 7, 1998 from a heart defect.
Kathryn’s Son:
Seth Douglas Bonnett, Our Little “Tough guy”, March 27, 2008 – October 12, 2008. Died from Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.
Raquel’s Son:
Austin Skylar Gregory, born July 3, 2005 and gained his wings August 29, 2005 from Multiple Complex Congenital Heart Defects.
Ruth’s Son:
Corbin Walker, born February 20, 2011 and died May 17, 2011 from heart defects brought on by Williams Syndrome.
Shannon’s Baby:
Chloe Walker, born November 29, 2000 and died June 4, 2001 from multiple congenital heart defects and heterotaxy.
Suzy’s Son:
Starbaby, born still February 2008 due to Trisomy 18.
Venita’s Son:
Matthew Connor – February 26, 2005, born at 26 weeks, passed from Necrotizing Enterocolitis (NEC).
Wendy’s Baby:
Reed Allyvion Miners, passed away July 5th 2003 at one hour old from Primary Myocardial Disease, a congenital heart defect.
Infant Loss:
Amy’s Sons:
Nathaniel, born August 24, 2001 and died August 29, 2001 from an undiagnosed metabolic disorder.
David, born May 11, 2010 and Died January 24, 2011 from a myriad of complications resulting from a liver transplant.
Angie’s Daughter:
Leia Sky Williams, born October 6, 2011, passed away from Group Beta Strep.
Baby Dominic:
January 16, 2002, SIDS
Baby Kash Michael:
Born June 3, 2011 and died September 28, 2011.
Carey’s Triplet Sons:
Rudyard, Desmond, and Oscar, June 4th, 2011, born at 22 weeks due to of E. coli infection.
Cecily’s Sons:
Nicholas and Zachary, October 27th, 2004.
Heather and Joe’s Twins:
Jonathan Michael and Samuel Joseph, identical twins born alive and died on May 6, 2004 from extreme prematurity and twin-to-twin transfusion.
Jana’s Son:
Charlie: Born May 21, 2003 and died June 14, 2003 from late-onset Group B Strep.
JennK’s Son:
Will, born (today) October 15, 2002 and died on September 16, 2003 from complications of late-onset Group B Strep.
Jenni’s Babies:
Malakai Zachary born still March 10, 2007 due to Anencephaly.
Five more angels, July, 2007 – May, 2010. Miscarriages.
Kara’s Daughter:
Catherine Grace, born August 10, 2012, passed August 12, 2012, due to prematurity brought on by HELLP syndrome.
Lisa’s Daughter:
Kaitlyn Grace, born sleeping at 38 weeks on Saturday, May 13th, 1995. Died from a true knot in her umbilical cord.
Matt and Lauren’s Baby:
Isla, born 14 weeks premature on August 23, 2011 and died on October 10, 2011.
Rachel’s Daughter:
Mina Kathryn, born February 18, 2009, died February 24, 2009, due to complications with her PICC line.
Scribbles412’s Baby:
Baby R, May 24, 1998, Medicine Administration by RN who didn’t know or ask.
Stephanie’s Son:
Silas, prematurity.
Venita’s Son:
Matthew Conner Webb, born January 11, 2005 and died February 26, 2005. He was born at 26 weeks and faced many obstacles in his short life.
Liberty Ann born March 30, 2011 and died on April 19, 2011.
Ally’s Son: Collin
Collin: born on August 9th, 2008. He passed away 30 minutes later from cardiac arrest after an emergency c-section due to a placental abruption.
Amy’s Baby:
Nicholas, born December 14, 2005, died April 19, 2006 from SIDS.
Claudia’s Son:
Max Corrigan, born November 14, 1987 and relinquished to adoption on November 18, 1987.
Colleen’s Babies:
Bryce Philip born May 26, 2009 and died September 1, 2009 due to SIDS
Ashton Karol, stillborn on February 24, 2010 at 17 weeks.
Jenny’s Daughter:
Addison Leah, June 13, 2008, accidental death.
Jessica and Mark’s Daughter:
Hadley Jane, born October 9, 2001 and died October 11, 2007.
Lanie’s Sons:
Jake, born August 14, 2005 died August 27, 2005 due to prematurity and hydrops.
Sawyer, born November 17, 2009 died December 26, 2009. His cause of death has not been determined because he is part of a study at the Mayo clinic for heart arrhythmias – SIUDS (unexplained sudden infant death)
Leslie’s Son:
Cullen, September 11, 2010, stillbirth.
Mindy’s Son:
Brian Vitale, accidental death, September 4, 2007 – June 3, 2010. We miss him more and more each day.
Nancy’s Son:
Patrick, born April 10, 1977, Adoption
Pharon’s Daughter:
Sophia Lu Boudreau, born December 21, 2006 and died October 9, 2007 from SIDS.
Rebecca and TJ’s son:
Rafe Theobald Calvert, born on October 11th, 2009 at 26 weeks. Spent 3 months in the NICU and underwent an intestinal obstruction repair. He was released on January 11th, 2010 and we brought him home for 6 weeks. He passed away at 4 and a half months old from SIDS on February 25th, 2010.
The Stamm’s Daughter:
Adrienne Mae, May 7, 2006, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Suzie’s Son:
Nathan Michael King, died from SIDS November 2008.
Vanessa’s Daughter:
Kendra, April 23, 2005 to March 24, 2006. Died from Jacobsen Syndrome.
Homicide:
Chance, July 25, 2014, homicide
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Read about how to help a friend through miscarriage.
I’m not a sentimental mom – I don’t save everything my kids own to cherish forever. Sure, some things are special, but others I’ve never felt attached to.
My first son’s crib? Take that away. Don’t need it. It served as a toddler bed from the time he was 18 months until he got a big boy bed at age … I don’t know. When he had his little brother had to share a room because I was pregnant with my fourth son.
See? Not sentimental.
My third son was kicked out of his crib and moved into the bedroom with the first to give his crib to the fourth. My oldest got a real bed and we said goodbye to his toddler bed.
Life changes man, life changes.
My fourth was the second baby to use this crib – a gift from my mom for our second son.
Our second son that never came home. Well, I guess he did.
Our second son was a full-term stillbirth. The crib was his. A crib he never got to use; not for even a minute. Unless you count me leaning on it while I was heavily pregnant.
This was a fancy $500 crib that we didn’t even put together until I was 38 weeks pregnant because we were lazy and busy with our oldest son, Jules, who was seventeen months. For a while I blamed Joel’s death on this; obviously I didn’t prove that I wanted him because it took us so long to paint and fix up his room. Logically he died because we didn’t put his crib together.
That, The Band, is just one of the many insane things you think when your baby dies and you’re trying to figure out why. Because babies don’t just die. There has to be a reason, even if it’s silly and pathetic.
After we found out that Joel was dead, one of the worst moments was coming home and going to take a bath. I was surrounded by baby stuff. My husband went to that bedroom and shut that door. We had to block that out. That was the only way. That door was both literally and figuratively shut. His urn was placed in there after his service. His funeral flowers, too.
Over the next year, the room had magic and hope again when Blair came into this world, our rainbow baby that survived. It was a little hard turning Joel’s room into Blair’s, but we did it. Joel came into our bedroom. His crib was still his crib though, even though it was in Blair’s room and being used by Blair.
By the time Blair was ready for a big boy bed, I’d gotten pregnant with our fourth son, Reid. Now it was Reid’s turn to use the crib. Blair moved into Jules room and Blair’s room turned into Reid’s room which still housed Joel’s crib.
I don’t know why it was Joel’s crib but it was. It’s that one item allowed me to have a piece of him and to share a piece of him with his younger brothers. Even though he never used it, he passed that down to them.
A couple years later, Reid is becoming a big boy. He needs a toddler bed. Thankfully the $500 crib converts into a bed but the problem with that is that it’ll no longer be Joel’s crib. It becomes Reid’s bed. And even though it’s been five years of grief and trying to find ways to let go … I can’t let go of Joel’s crib. If I convert it, Joel’s crib is gone.
Then what do I have left?
I’ll make another painful decision and piece by piece, we will take Joel’s crib apart. Tears will flow, like everything else that normally involves him. We will load it up and store it at my parents, who understand. When I asked if we could store a crib there, they asked why I was saving a crib. When they asked who’s crib it was, I replied, “Joel’s.”
Without hesitation, my parents said, “Sure, we can find a safe place for that.” I’ll buy a toddler bed for Reid and, in a couple years, I’ll buy him a real bed instead of converting Joel’s crib for him.
Sometimes I wonder how this story will play out when I’m old and dying.
Will I find peace?
Will I continue to run his story through my head over and over, asking why?
Will my chest still hurt?
Will my eyes still pour tears?
Will the events run on a loop through my head like a bad movie?
Will my last thoughts be, “what could I have done differently?”
I won’t know until I get there. But I do know that some memories aren’t painful. Knowing that my rainbow babies – my pregnancies after we lost Joel – used Joel’s crib doesn’t make me sad.
The creation of human life is one of the most complex and shockingly beautiful things that our bodies are designed to do. The microanatomy that goes into this task is so astonishingly complicated that it’s a miracle any of us walk around at all. And yet, most of us do. Most…but not all.
When a baby dies, we are fragmented. Shattered, we must pick up the pieces and put them back together as we pay tribute to our children, our tables forever missing one, our families incomplete, our treasures in heaven, our babies alive only in our hearts.
It is through our stories that they live forever. These children were here and they mattered. They were loved. They are loved.
There are many, many difficult things about a stillbirth. First and foremost, a child is lost. Every pregnancy revolves around planning. You plan your due date, your delivery method, your parenting style, and your hopes for your baby’s future. The second that heart stops beating, you lose it all. What makes a stillbirth loss distinctive is that your baby never takes a breath. There’s no birth certificate and no death certificate. There’s no legal proof your baby ever existed. You pay for the delivery but you get no tax deduction. The world moves on as if your baby never was. For the person who carried the child, it was very real. Your dreams and hopes were real, the baby’s movement was real, your baby was real. The majority of the rest of the world, however, would just as soon forget it ever happened.
The simplest question becomes complicated. How many children do you have? I feel guilty if I don’t mention my son, but I know the other person really doesn’t want to hear about my deceased child. They were just asking what they thought was a innocent question.
I will never forget my son. This blog is my attempt to remind a tiny portion of the rest of the world that he existed. It is also intended to help anyone who might be going through a similar experience. Stillbirth is something that is not talked about. No one even tells you it is a possibility. It is not listed on the doctor’s agenda of things to warn you of when you become pregnant. And yet it happens to many, many people. In most situations, it cannot be prevented. There are no warning signs and no group of people to whom it is more likely to happen. The only thing we can do is increase awareness so the world will be more empathetic and will acknowledge the existence of all our children.
Declan’s Story
When I woke up that morning, I didn’t know that I had already heard my son’s heartbeat for the last time. It was just a typical day. We got everyone up and dressed for work and daycare. I was working for half a day since my maternity leave began at 12. I gave myself a day and a half before our scheduled C-Section to get just a little rest before all the fun began. I was nervous, excited, and scared for the child within me to be introduced to the world.
We had found out at the 20 week anatomy scan that our son had a heart defect and a 50/50 probability of Down Syndrome. James and I had celebrated the discovery that we were finally having a boy and then suddenly we were mourning his health and prognosis. We cried, sought spiritual guidance, commiserated over the unfairness of the world, hoped for the best, and planned for the worst. Many, many ultrasounds and visits to a pediatric heart specialist were endured to try to figure out when we were going to have to tackle the heart surgery. We were hopefully expecting for him to be stable upon delivery and make it to 6 months before surgery was needed.
In due time, we came to accept our son, however he would be presented to us. We loved him, and while we were very excited to meet him, we were extraordinarily apprehensive, as well. We named him Declan Raiden and anxiously awaited his arrival.
I finished up loose ends at work and went to a last lunch with all my co-workers. After ordering our food, I realized I hadn’t felt the baby move in a while. I had been at the doctor the day before for my last non-stress test to monitor the heart rate. It wasn’t reacting enough and the nurse brought me a Mt. Dew and monitored me for another 20 minutes. After that, the doctor read the scan and stated that the heart was reacting appropriately and we confirmed my C-Section date for two days later. I wasn’t too concerned the next day at lunch. I poked him a few times and joked about him being lazy and running out of room. I ordered a Mt. Dew, poked him a few more times and waited for him to kick me. I mentioned to the others that I couldn’t remember feeling him move all morning. My co-worker, Lisa, called her mother who is an OB nurse and they suggested I go to the doctor’s office and have them check the baby, just for peace of mind.
I texted James and told him I was going by the doctor to see if they would do a quick doppler so I could check the heartbeat since I hadn’t felt him move. When I walked up to the counter at the OB’s office, I actually felt a little silly. After a quick explanation of why I was there, the receptionist spoke with the doctor who agreed to the doppler. The hallway seemed very long as we approached the room. I sat down and lifted my shirt. The baby had still not moved and my heart was in my throat, beating so hard I thought it was going to be hard to hear the baby’s heart beating over my own. The cold ultrasound juice was squeezed onto my enormously pregnant belly and the tech pulled out the wand.
I knew. After about 3 seconds, I knew. Anyone who has had a doppler that late into a pregnancy knows you hear the heartbeat almost instantly. I heard silence. The tech started moving the wand around in a futile search. “Oh God,” I moaned, “No, no, no, God please no.” She searched for a while longer as I put my fists over my eyes and groaned. The tech said, “Maybe he’s lying on his side and I just can’t find it.” But even she knew she was lying. You could see the shock in her face as she stood quietly and told me she was going to get the doctor.
The mind is a terrible thing and hope dies slowly and painfully. I waited. No one had officially told me anything and even though I knew, hope was lingering. Someone came into the room and told me to go next door to the ultrasound room. I moved like a zombie and clambered my way to the next chair I could collapse into. I raised my shirt once again and looked at the TV screen as the doctor prepared the machine. I was terrified.
The image of my son showed up immediately. He was so still. And, again, I knew. The tears began to fall even before the doctor could finish saying, “I’m so sorry, Paula, there’s no heartbeat.” I buried my face in my hands and felt the full crushing blow of what she had said. She asked if I wanted them to call my husband and I nodded. One of the nurses left to find his number in my file. The doctor put her hand on my shoulder in an ineffectual attempt to comfort me. Then, at a loss for anything to say, she left me to my mourning.
I turned over onto my side, wrapped my arms around my heavy, lifeless belly, and sobbed. There’s no use in trying to explain what I was thinking or feeling. It’s a jumble of useless emotion. My son is dead. My body somehow failed him. What did I do wrong? Was there a multi-vitamin I missed? Did I overdo it at the pumpkin patch with the girls? Why? When? How? I was lost in a fog of confusion and grief.
After an indefinable amount of time, James was escorted in the room and the door shut behind him. I sat up and looked at him. Thinking that the doctor had already told him, I expected to see a mirror image of my own despair, but I saw only confusion. “What is it? What’s wrong?” I realized that they hadn’t told him and, for a moment, I didn’t know how to say it. How do you tell your husband his little boy is gone?
“There’s no heartbeat.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“There’s no heartbeat. He’s gone.”
He glanced up at the screen where the last image of our son remained, and I could see the realization flow over his face. He turned to me and put his arms around me. We stayed like that for a long time, grieving together.
The doctor returned to the room to make a plan. I’ve always been a meticulous planner. This very baby was planned because I wanted him to be born on 11/11/11. I planned my schooling, my volleyball career, my marriage, my home, my job. I just never thought I’d ever have to make a plan on how to deliver my deceased baby. We were told to go to the hospital and meet with the doctor on call. As I was gathering my things, James stepped out and called my parents. He explained what happened and told them to come. They live 3 hours away. James went to work to close up his office and I drove myself home.
After James picked up our 3 and 5 year olds, his parents met us at home to watch them and we went to the hospital. We had to go to registration and start the process of explaining our situation over and over. Signing my admission paperwork, I saw the words ‘fetal demise’ for the first time.So there’s a term for this, I thought. Great.
We waited for over an hour in a delivery room. We waited in a room in which hundreds of babies had been born to parents crying tears of joy. We cried as well. We sat together on the couch and said very little. When the doctor finally arrived, he explained that it was too late to do the C-Section that day. He wanted to do it the following day when a team would be prepared. I was shocked. I didn’t realize it would be an option to wait. We were sent home.
My parents were at the house when we got there. We hugged and cried and told them what the plan was. We didn’t talk much. No one wanted to alarm the girls. So, my mom made dinner and we ate in silence. James and I went to bed early. We laid in bed facing each other, with our dead son between us. Only 24 hours earlier, we had been watching him move and James had put his hands on my stomach and talked to Declan. He had been a very active baby and I loved feeling him move. All his energy made me feel like things were going to be ok. Now, my huge belly, the symbol of a glowing pregnancy, was a harsh reminder of what had happened. I couldn’t escape it: the stillness and heavy weight of our crushed dreams. I finally fell asleep out of pure emotional exhaustion.
The next morning, we rose early and drove to the hospital. Arriving at the delivery ward, the mood was somber. I felt that everyone looking at me knew why I was there and didn’t quite know what to say. The dismal situation seemed so incongruous in a place that was meant for excitement and joy. I tried not to cry much. Our nurses were incredibly sensitive and caring but I could sense the awkwardness of the situation. I felt bad for them. This shouldn’t be part of their job.
James was in the operating room with me. He stood and watched our son being delivered, just as he had for our two daughters before him. This time, however, the distinct cry of a newborn was not heard. There were no exuberant cries of “It’s a boy!” James didn’t get to place his finger into a tiny palm and feel the strength of that first grasp. The nurses quietly took Declan from the doctor and began the process of cleaning him. My surgery was finished and we were moved into the recovery room.
They brought us our son. He was wrapped up just like any newborn in a unisex blanket and cap. The nurse placed him in my arms. He was beautiful. He looked perfect in every way. His almond shaped eyes revealed his extra chromosome but that didn’t matter anymore. I stared at him as I held him and cried. James stood next to me and after a while, took him from me to hold him. It was the first time I’d seen James break down. It was painful to see him like that. He held Declan very close to his chest and buried his face in the blanket as his body was racked with grief.
After some time, I told him to call my mom. We hadn’t been sure how Declan was going to look when he was born and we had told my parents to stay with the girls. I found that I still had that urge of a proud parent to show off my precious child and I just knew my mom had to see him. James made the call and Mom arrived just a few minutes later. I handed her my son and I could see the mixed emotion of amazement and sorrow. Our priest came to bless the baby. After he left, we all held Declan one more time. We kept him with us as long as we could, but the time was approaching when we had to say our final goodbyes.
I was the last to take him. I held his tiny hand in mine and kissed his cold forehead. I told him how sorry I was that I had failed him; that for some unknown reason, my body had been unable to deliver him kicking and screaming into this beautiful world. I love you, I whispered against his smooth cheek, and I handed him to the nurse to take away. I had never felt so empty.
The doctor came in and talked with us. He explained that he saw no definite outward sign of what had gone wrong and asked if we wanted an autopsy. We agreed to an in-house examination. We didn’t want him sent away for a full autopsy because, at that point, it just didn’t matter. No test results were going to bring him back. They moved me to a different outpatient recovery wing so I did not have to hear the crying infants on the maternity floor. James and I recovered together. I took full advantage of the morphine pump throughout the night as it dulled both my physical and emotional pain.
The following day, my parents brought the girls to see us. It was time to tell them. James and I gently explained that their brother had gone to heaven. Annika, our 3 year old, was too young to really understand. At 5, Layna grasped the gravity of the situation. She began to cry and asked why. “Why couldn’t he stay here with us, Mommy? Why did he have to die?” I had no answers for her. Her questions mirrored my own.
At the end of their visit, Layna kissed me goodbye. Then she patted my hand and said, “It’s ok, Mommy, we’ll have another baby.” She was so young and hope was so quick to return to her. For me, it took a little longer. The unimaginable had happened and it had torn a dark hole right through my perfect little world.
We were sent home after a few days. I recovered from the surgery and James began the painful journey of making the final arrangements for Declan. My milk came in a day or two later. It was excruciating, physically and emotionally. I broke down one evening and groaned through sobs that my body was making milk for a baby I couldn’t hold. It was just so heartbreaking.
We tried to keep it together for the girls. Each day was waded through in a fog of disbelief and overwhelming sadness. We talked about a gravesite and coffin, but I didn’t want to live in this town forever, and I couldn’t stand the thought of one day leaving him behind. Cremation seemed like a ‘better’ option. The day James brought our son home in a small wooden box, we held it between us, held each other, and cried.
Declan’s memorial service was held at our church. I medicated myself as much as possible and greeted each “I’m sorry” and “Let me know if you need anything” with a polite smile and “Thank you.” Once again, we said goodbye to our son.
A small piece of advice for people addressing anyone grieving the loss of a loved one: just say I’m sorry. Every time I heard “He’s in a better place” or “God had a different plan,” I was screaming to myself: his place is with ME and any other plan is WRONG. I was confused and angry. It was grossly unfair that so many people abused themselves throughout pregnancy, or didn’t even know they were pregnant, and went on to have perfectly healthy babies. I tried so hard to do everything right. I gave up sushi and hot tubs, took my vitamins every night, and attended every appointment diligently. Why wasn’t it enough? How could this have possibly happened to us? These were questions that would never be answered.
Eventually, my pain meds ran out, my ‘maternity’ leave ended, and James and I found ourselves on the road to recovery. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. It doesn’t matter how much pain is thrown at you; life has a way of carrying on. Thanksgiving came, followed by Christmas and New Year’s. I drank a lot of wine and spent many quality hours with my girls, albeit not simultaneously. We took a vacation to Williamsburg for a week in January and made new memories. We found the balance between moving on and never forgetting.
There is a rainbow at the end of this tale. During my journey of recovery, I came across the term ‘rainbow baby.’ The following is a description of it:
“It is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn’t mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy, and hope.” (Author unknown)
Our rainbow baby came one year and 20 days after we lost Declan. The beautiful Quinlyn Levay Bass was conceived in March, 2012 and, after a perfectly ordinary, drama-free (although not stress-free!) pregnancy, she was delivered via C-Section on 11/20/12. Her birth was bittersweet. I’d waited almost 2 years and 20 months of pregnancy for a baby to take home in my arms. The death of Declan scarred me, and I am constantly petrified that something is going to happen to Quinnie. Although it probably isn’t fair to her and she will most likely be in therapy 20 years from now because of it, two babies worth of love and anticipation have been showered upon her. She will always be my rainbow, kissed by her brother in heaven before being sent to us.
People say that I am strong.
I am not.
My marriage is strong. Many couples don’t make it through the loss of a child. James is as much reliable and supportive as he is sensitive and empathetic. He is a wonderful husband and we survived this together and came out the other side closer than ever.
My family is strong. I know without a doubt that my parents would drop anything, anytime we needed them. They understand that just because I don’t always show my emotions, it doesn’t mean I’m not feeling them. My mother was the only person other than me and James who held my son in her arms. She knows more certainly than I do that Declan is our guardian angel. She and my dad took care of our girls and our home while were recovering and their presence made it just a little bit easier.
But me? No, I’m not strong. What I am is present. I have three living children and a husband. I have parents, in-laws, brothers, nieces, and nephews. I have a job and a home. In other words, life goes on. I am persistently on the verge of tears and some days I feel as though I will explode with emotion. On the outside, however, I am very careful not to emote too much lest everything that is pushed down and backed up comes out with it.
I try to live each day.
I try to be present with my living children.
Everything I do in life is for them. Because, if you believe in that sort of thing (which I’d like to), my afterlife will be with my son.
Late at night, after every living creature in my house is asleep, I close my eyes and picture him. I no longer dwell on the life that could have been and I don’t focus on the things that will never happen. I know I’ll never mark his height on the wall, nor chase after him down the street as he rides his bike the first time. I’ll never stay up late worried if he’s ok and I’ll never beam with pride at his graduation.
I know this.
As selfish as this sounds, Declan was mine. I carried him for 37 weeks, nourished him, sang to him, watched him on the monitors at our numerous ultrasounds. I planned for him and worried for him and accepted him. His entire life on this earth was lived within me. He was mine and we will be together again. God can’t keep him all to Himself forever. In the quiet hours of the night, I focus on Declan and I know:
The scars of losing a baby will never fully heal. We are shattered; unable to see the light.
This is her story:
At 5AM on Tuesday, the 5th of February 2013, I gave birth to a baby boy at home.
He was 20 weeks and 1 day gestational age; he weighed a mere 340 grams.
I held my son his whole life; eight minutes.
I named my son Cash Alan. I watched Cash as he struggled for life; an image that will forever haunt me. I shared his pain and fear but there was nothing I could do to save him.
An autopsy revealed that premature labour was caused by an infection of the uterus and placenta due to low levels of amniotic fluid.
Cash was cremated on Thursday, February the 14th 2013 and I keep his ashes with me in a small urn. I’ve found some comfort in knowing that all Cash knew of Life was my love for him, but I will never truly come to terms with his death.
Prior to my loss, I spent over 15 years building a career as a publicist. I loved my field and felt passionate about everything I was doing.
After I lost Cash, everything changed.
I became someone else, none of the little stuff mattered anymore. I see Life so differently now. I was at a crossroads, lost in my grief. A few weeks after losing Cash, I packed up and moved 1600 kilometers away for a fresh start. I knew I no longer wanted to be a publicist, the late nights and time away from home kept me away from my other children.
The idea came to me after spending hours upon hours searching the internet for keepsakes to honour Cash. On 24 June 2013 (the date Cash was due to be born) I started a business called “In Loving Memory Of Cash;” a dedication to the brief Life of my son. The official launch is planned for 5th February 2014; his first angelversary. I want to to ensure that bereaved parents have an opportunity to save the moment without thinking about the details.
I now handcraft unique memorial keepsakes full-time. 100% of the profits are used to support pregnancy and infant loss projects and campaigns. Creating memorial gifts is a great outlet for my own grief. A piece of my heart and soul goes into every one of my creations: IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT MAKING SOMETHING SPECIAL, IT’S ABOUT HONOURING A PRECIOUS LIFE, HOWEVER BRIEF.
The most comforting words when grieving are “You Are Not Alone.” I’m able connect with bereaved parents on a level that not everyone else can. I understand the intense pain and sorrow, the never-ending heartbreak, and the heavy burden of empty arms.
The response so far has been tremendous. I have already helped many families honour their angels. I have my bad days where I want to stay in bed and grieve all day long. I live for my other children, but now I have a purpose, a reason to go on:
Maybe you will read this and nod along thinking to yourself, “ugh, why do people say stupid stuff” or you have a friend or coworker that needs comforting and you don’t know what to say. Here are some tips on what to say and what NOT to say to bereaved parents.
WHAT NOT TO SAY:
“It’s so much better that it was so early or he was so young, or she didn’t have to suffer.”
No parents should bury their child. No matter HOW old or young they are. It’s just the wrong order of events.
“You’re young and have time to have other children.”
You don’t know how long we’ve been trying to have THIS child. You don’t know that I haven’t had a hysterectomy because of some terrible disease. You don’t know any details that would lead you to think this statement would be true.
“I know how you feel, my dog died last week.”
This was actually said to me at Charlie’s visitation. Kid you not. Enough said.
“Please call me if there’s anything we can do for you.”
This is a really sweet sentiment. But we don’t know what we need right now. I’m sure we need our grass cut, some meals, somebody to babysit our other children, or any number of other things-be creative. But we don’t have any clue what day it is or even how to put one foot in front of another. So we sure as heck don’t know what our to-do list looks like.
“Things happen for a reason.”
This is probably THE most insensitive thing anyone can say. Though this is true, that there is some “order of events” that our lives take and things happen in the order they are supposed to. BUT this is not a comforting statement and one that most people who are grieving a loss of a child, a diagnosis of a severe or chronic illness, a major accident or surgery that is life-changing, find offensive. If you take nothing else from this, DO NOT SAY THIS STATEMENT TO ANYONE. EVER. Thanks.
So, CharliesMom, what CAN I say to someone?
People get really funny around situations they are uncomfortable with. They panic when they don’t know what to say. They freeze and THAT is when stupid stuff is said.
Here are the basic rules:
1. Acknowledging the situation is better than saying nothing.
2. Saying nothing is better than saying something stupid.
3. Giving a hug and saying “I just don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am” is better than saying nothing OR saying something stupid.
Other ways to offer comfort:
Send a card with a gift card to a local restaurant. It’s not flowers that die and it will get them out of the house which is normally needed.
Call and tell them you are going to be mowing their grass, shoveling their snow, pulling their weeds (or whatever fits) on Saturday.
Remember that food, flowers and help flows in for about two weeks. Then it’s like the rest of the world picks up and moves on quickly without the grieving people. The rest of the world doesn’t remember, or care that they lost their child or their child is sick. About a month later, or two months later, offer to help or to bring a meal or to take the mom out for a pedicure.
Acknowledge the child in the future. I cannot tell you how much I love this one lady. To this day, and it’s been seven years, when she sees my son Henry, she calls him Charlie. Every. Single. Time. She blushes and gets embarrassed until I tell her that it’s flattering to me that she remembers my baby that she actually never met. People like to hear their child’s name. And they like to know you remember and think of them.
Continue reaching out. If you are really close with the bereaved person, call regularly. I know I never returned calls, turned down lunch dates, didn’t want to go to parties but I had friends who were persistent and at a certain point, I was ready. And I said yes. Don’t give up on the person. They are hurting and are scared to have to leave their comfort zone.
JUST BE THERE. And don’t freak out when we start talking about our situation. If it freaks you out, you just need to listen and offer hugs and support. If you are a good friend, it shouldn’t make you uncomfortable, though.
Seven years down the road, the letters you sent, the meals you brought, the ear you lent, the shoulder you offered, the memories you helped us keep will be remembered.
And the insensitive stuff other people said will still sting when you think back on them
I have never spoken to anyone about this but my husband, my mother, and, of course, my doctors. This may be one of the hardest things I will ever write. It may not all make sense. I don’t remember it all. But yet I remember it like it was yesterday. I will never forget it. This is my PTSD talking. I am in a very bad place right now. And I know what happened to me isn’t as bad as some but to me it’s worse because she was mine.
Anyway, Oh God here goes…
You were due December 25th. I was so excited that both of your sisters were Christmas babies. I love Christmas. And I still do. Your due date was so amazing I couldn’t believe it – three children born on or around Christmas.
The beginning of my pregnancy didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Normal morning all day sickness for me. Around 6 weeks something felt off I called my Doctor who is AMAZING, and she got me right in for an ultrasound. There you were – perfect. And fine. Little heart beating to beat the band with a due date of Dec. 25th. I felt better. Things resumed. We got to our 12th week and we told everyone and even started buying things. Come on – you were my fourth baby. What could go wrong? How could I even think that?? Everything was fine .
Then it happened. July 27th I felt yucky and my back hurt SO bad. I should have called the doctor. You might be here today. I should have known. But I just thought I worked hard that day. It was hotter than hell. And it was just a back ache. I never ever had back labor. At 2:12 on July 28th, I woke up and thought, “shit, I wet the bed.” I hit my husband and said, “I wet the bed. Go get new sheets.” And then I went to turn the lights on. And it felt really off. It was sticky. I turned the light on and there was blood everywhere. I heard a sound like I had never heard before – it was my screams. I told my husband call the doctor and tell her we’re going to the hospital. Something was very very wrong.
My mom came running in and tried to calm me, but it didn’t help. I remember telling her keep the kids out. I didn’t want them to see the blood. And my back – OMG the pain. All the sudden I felt a pop between my legs and there was a “doll” between my legs – it didn’t seem real. I thought WTF is that about my own baby. I saw your little chest heaving up and down. You were breathing!!!!!!!
I screamed for my husband to stop calling the doctor. We had to leave NOW. She’s here. She’s ALIVE. She’s breathing.
You were 18 weeks and 5 days. You were perfect – tiny and waxy, but perfect. You breathed for 5 minutes. I held you in my hand as you took you first and last breaths. I will never forget them. I loved you so much in those 5 minutes. You were my daughter, Ariel Grace.
But the horror didn’t come until we got to the hospital. You WEREN’T a baby. You were nothing. You were – I choke on the words now. You were a miscarriage. But I saw you and I held you. You WERE breathing for 5 minutes. I have a cell video of it. But you were going to be discarded as if it was a miscarriage. I flipped out like my husband has never seen me flip out. I screamed and I wailed. I hit a doctor, I think. Not my doctor. She was AMAZING. She held me while I rocked the baby. She stroked my hair. She couldn’t change the policy.
You would never exist to the world. You would get no birth certificate and no death certificate. But to me and your father, siblings and grandparents you were EVERYTHING!
I made my uncle call his friend at a funeral home. He kind of laughed – not in a mean way but he told my uncle, “She’s not even as big as a cat. I can’t charge. I won’t. It’s a freebie.” I have her ashes. Although that was a HELL of a fight. But I think they knew I was a mad woman and I would not leave that hospital without MY baby.
I have her ashes hidden in my room. I left the hospital the next day with nothing. No baby, no belly, no nothing. I was empty and blank and a Zombie for a LONG time. Hell, I still am. I never mentioned it to anyone. Some people asked questions. I think I probably stared at them blankly. But I never answered. My husband or mother would later. I couldn’t talk about it. It’s over a year later and the pain is still unreal. I have nightmares of waking up to the blood every five minutes. I don’t know that they will ever go away. But what is the worst for me is I can’t talk about her to anyone but my husband, mother and therapists.
Am I forgetting her, am I not remembering her, am I cold? I just it hurts so bad. And no one that I personally know can understand that pain. No one I know in real life understands my anger and bitterness of her not being a baby because she was 18 weeks and 5 days and not a viable birth. Isn’t breathing for 5 minutes viable? Had we been at the hospital could we have made it farther my AMAZING doctor thinks that those 5 minutes were pretty darn special. And so do I for a baby with such under developed lungs.
Obviously now everyone knows she was never born and just went away. People have stopped asking questions. And I just can’t talk about it. I feel cold. And I miss her even more now. I don’t know that it will get better. She wasn’t a “real” living baby. But she was mine. I held her. I named her. I talked to her. And on her birthday I buy her a gift. I guess that really does make me crazy. Maybe I’ll stop someday. I don’t know. But I guess tonight on one of my darkest of nights, this needed to come out. Thank you for listening. No one else knows. And it hurt to talk about. A LOT so this was BRAVE. So thank you for reading.
