Break down the walls in society that see pregnancy, infant and childloss as
taboo subjects. These babies are not sad things that happened. They are
children. Much wanted and loved children. They are grandchildren,
brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. August 19th - Day Of HopeIt is a strange thing being a parent of a child who has passed away. From the Day that Aislynn made her way into this world my life changed. First as a NICU mom who visited with my little girl and touched her and willed her to have the strength to fight the battles that I could not fight for her. Then as the mother who walked down the hallway half supported by my husband as we made our way to the last time we would hold her before the life support that was keeping her alive would be turned off. Then as the mother who sat in the front row of the service we had to recognize her short little life. Then as the mother who had to figure out how to rebuild my life. The same sad story repeated itself nearly exactly with Aidan. Only he was not as far along when he made his way into this world, and so we could not fight for his little life. Instead he was held by someone
who loved him for every second of his short little life. Small solace but still it is some. Trying to figure out how to put my life back together was harder after Aidan, but still a necessity.
I was unprepared for life after that death. I was not aware that after the funeral I should stop talking about my babies. And yet that seemed to be the consensus from those around me, including my husband. Dave told me " It is a private th
ing. Not every one wants to hear about it." And so an unofficial gag order took effect. My doctor prescribed me antidepressants and referred me to a psychologist at my six week check up, after he came into the room and asked me in a jovial tone " And What can we do for you today?" The psychologist kept changing the subject when I would bring up my babies. " We want to look at how we can move FORWARD." she would say. I never went back.
My mother was the only person who I could talk to about my little ones, and every now and then my husband. Perhaps as a mother she understood my need to recognize and validate those little lives. She knew that I needed to hear their names, that I needed to say their names, that I needed to share what stories I could. Nearly everyone else would change the subject when babies came up. There was a look that I started to recognize, that sort of deer caught in a headlight look. And
then they would either change the subject or they would find some way to politely excuse themselves and move on. Some people didn't even try to engage me in conversation. The people I am talking about were not people on the fringe of my life or relative strangers. The people I am talking about were cousins and aunts and uncles. While I didn't ( and still don't ) talk about my babies continually, I didn't want to completely avoid talking about them either.
I am a new and different person than I was before
the miscarriage that started my chain of losses. My husband says that I have a tragic air around me that makes every thing fuzzy even when I am smiling and happy. He likens it to a gothic novel heroine. I have gone on to have beautiful wonderful children, but that does not erase my beautiful wonderful children that were born before. They are with me. I carry them in my heart and in my memory. I have been blessed to have them and I LOVE to share them. My oldest children didn't live long, but the shortness of their lives made them no less important. No less a part of their mommy. No less my babies, my children.
My mother wrote this poem for my Aunt Kathy when her twins passed away. It was read at both of childrens funerals and I think it is appropriate to add here:
who loved him for every second of his short little life. Small solace but still it is some. Trying to figure out how to put my life back together was harder after Aidan, but still a necessity.I was unprepared for life after that death. I was not aware that after the funeral I should stop talking about my babies. And yet that seemed to be the consensus from those around me, including my husband. Dave told me " It is a private th
ing. Not every one wants to hear about it." And so an unofficial gag order took effect. My doctor prescribed me antidepressants and referred me to a psychologist at my six week check up, after he came into the room and asked me in a jovial tone " And What can we do for you today?" The psychologist kept changing the subject when I would bring up my babies. " We want to look at how we can move FORWARD." she would say. I never went back.My mother was the only person who I could talk to about my little ones, and every now and then my husband. Perhaps as a mother she understood my need to recognize and validate those little lives. She knew that I needed to hear their names, that I needed to say their names, that I needed to share what stories I could. Nearly everyone else would change the subject when babies came up. There was a look that I started to recognize, that sort of deer caught in a headlight look. And
then they would either change the subject or they would find some way to politely excuse themselves and move on. Some people didn't even try to engage me in conversation. The people I am talking about were not people on the fringe of my life or relative strangers. The people I am talking about were cousins and aunts and uncles. While I didn't ( and still don't ) talk about my babies continually, I didn't want to completely avoid talking about them either.I am a new and different person than I was before
the miscarriage that started my chain of losses. My husband says that I have a tragic air around me that makes every thing fuzzy even when I am smiling and happy. He likens it to a gothic novel heroine. I have gone on to have beautiful wonderful children, but that does not erase my beautiful wonderful children that were born before. They are with me. I carry them in my heart and in my memory. I have been blessed to have them and I LOVE to share them. My oldest children didn't live long, but the shortness of their lives made them no less important. No less a part of their mommy. No less my babies, my children.My mother wrote this poem for my Aunt Kathy when her twins passed away. It was read at both of childrens funerals and I think it is appropriate to add here:
Diamonds in the Sand
Nancy Ryall
Nancy Ryall
When Father stretched his might hand
And made the Earth and Waters
He fashioned then his little ones
To be his sons and Daughters
And sometimes when a little soul
Is born upon this earth
Shining like a precious gem
From the moment of its birth
The Father in His joy and love
Stretches out his might hand,
And scoops His precious little gem
Like a diamond from the sand
And though it brings us tears of loss
And rends our hearts in sorrow
We know that they are in his arms
Where we will be tomorrow
For He who gave a special son
That we might understand
Has given us one quick chance
To hold a diamond in the sand.
And made the Earth and Waters
He fashioned then his little ones
To be his sons and Daughters
And sometimes when a little soul
Is born upon this earth
Shining like a precious gem
From the moment of its birth
The Father in His joy and love
Stretches out his might hand,
And scoops His precious little gem
Like a diamond from the sand
And though it brings us tears of loss
And rends our hearts in sorrow
We know that they are in his arms
Where we will be tomorrow
For He who gave a special son
That we might understand
Has given us one quick chance
To hold a diamond in the sand.
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