 |
There are some days that a parent will always remember. These moments are usually wrapped up in some great excitement and joy. A positive pregnancy test, telling your family there will be a new addition, the first pangs of labor as you realize you will meet your child for the first time.
No parent imagines their cherished moments will be some of the most painful of all. No parent can prepare for the moment you have to share tragic news when you are still processing it yourself.
Imagine having to teach your children about death. I couldn’t at first because my instinct was to protect them. My thoughts the day I found out that my baby would not live were shock, overwhelming grief and immediate spin control. I needed to feel like I had control over something because I couldn’t save my daughter. What I could do was protect my children, so naturally, we kept it from them at first only sharing with them that Amelia was very sick.
My most memorable moment was when I was given no hope. That fraction of a second when I was blissfully ignorant to seconds later when our lives would change forever is one that I will never forget. My husband and I numbly listened to the world class specialist tell us that our baby was a girl (something I already knew deep inside), that she was very sick and had a 99% chance of being stillborn and a 1% chance of dying after birth. We were given a winning ticket to a lottery that no one wants to win, a 100% fatal prognosis. Even more devastating, at 24 weeks, he could not believe that she had survived thus far. WHAT!? His words were cold, medical and not designed to comfort. Incompatible with life and Turner’s Syndrome were all I heard as the cry of anguish flooded my brain.
“She is alive!” SHE is my daughter, my fourth child, my survivor . . . she is a part of our family! I needed hope and he had none to offer.
Our lives began to quickly spin out of control.
The reality was that it was not just my husband and I who were now on the roller coaster of grief. We had three older children (ages 3, 5, and 7) who had spent months praying for a new baby, who danced when we shared our happy news and watched my belly grow over the weeks. This was their sister. A person with whom they were all anxious to meet, hold, and grow up with. How in the world was I going to tell them that they would not get the chance?
There was no real way to hide my pain, even though I tried. Children are natural observers watching and listening to everything around them. They witnessed my daily tears, the whispered phone calls, the abrupt stop in normal routine, the endless sitters that paraded in because we had so many appointments. They watched me fall apart, even when I tried my best to keep it together in front of them. I was a mother who was carrying a much loved child that was never going to be in a family photo, blow out birthday candles, or snuggle in my arms. How could I not fall apart?
We value honesty and communication with our children and quickly realized more harm then good could come from shielding them. Somehow, telling them she was ‘sick’ felt like giving them false hope. We also battled with how family and friends spoke to our children about the situation, because people ended up confusing them with their own ideas of what was happening and handed out hope and healing as if they were lollipops. Trusted adults would tell them it will all be okay, hug them and send them on their way. That was not the truth.
Our marriage struggled because my husband needed that hope to keep going while I needed to deal in another reality. One where a funeral had to be planned at the same time as her birth. I had the reality of heart surgeons, perinatologists, neonatologists, and various other specialists tell me that there was only time and death ahead.
Ultimately, I was the only one who would have to give birth to my daughter, to find the strength to draw from for labor. No one could do this for me, nor did I want them to. I wanted the honor of parenting my daughter throughout pregnancy and birth. So each decision we made reflected only love for her. And it is with this same love we decided that our children needed to understand Amelia’s fragile life.
Within weeks, we told our children the reality of what was happening with their sister. Because I was a child who lost a parent to sudden death in addition to being a former child therapist, I was able to share with each of them in age appropriate ways allowing them time to process the news. We took responsibility for teaching our children about Amelia’s life and eventual death. Lovingly saying to them, “Follow us, we are a family and we will walk through this together.”
After the initial weeks of shock wore off, a new reality set in. We had time. Time as a family to devote to loving Amelia and finding the blessing in the moments we had left. I made it my mission to create mementos and memories with and for my children. Knowing that they would need them after she was born as much as my husband and I did. We honored all the moments she was with us ~ sixteen weeks of time until she died the day after her due date. Amelia’s short life helped my children understand of one of the most difficult things about life ~ the reality of death.
Much has changed in the two years since her birth, including the addition of Amelia’s little brother. Our 15 month old is growing up in a very different family than we were before but our love for Amelia unites us. Her name is spoken aloud every day and is a natural part of our daily lives.
We struggle and miss her but are still standing as we walk together through grief.
|
About Stephanie
I’m so sorry for the loss of Amelia. My brother had to tell his 3 children (14, 11, and 6) about us losing our son before he was even born. They didn’t get to see him after he was born, but I showed them pictures. They talk about our son and how much they miss him. They’ve experienced death before, of grandparents, but never something like they went through when we lost Owen. Like me, they thought he was a sure thing. I also believe in being honest with them and have answered their questions as they come; each one has their own understanding and questions surrounding the loss of our son. Thank you for sharing.
Melissa,
I am so so sorry that Owen is not here with you and that you have had to live this pain. I think that continuing to be honest with your families questions will help them and their grief. A child sees the world in different ways than an adult, and it is always hard to know that, in a way, their world view is altered. But when we are able to answer their questions, it goes a long way to helping them. They don’t feel so alone and isolated.
We too, lost our 4th in November 2011. Teaching a life lesson I did not and do not want to teach to my surviving children with grace and hope is SO hard.
Kori,
I agree, grief {whether our own or our children’s} is very hard. I am so very sorry for your loss, and I know that when I was at the 6 month anniversary, things seemed to get harder for us all.
Believe me, grief is messy for us all. I still have a hard time being ‘graceful’ with my children’s grief. We all are at different places and sometimes, I am not in the right frame of mind to just listen. Being a mom is hard, but being a mom in grief has to be harder. I just hope that in the years ahead, that when they are grown, they remember their ‘imperfect’ mom still loved them through the mess of life.
I think the stuffed animals with Amelia’s heartbeat are SO amazing. I also think it was so thoughtful that you considered how the children would be feeling. That they would need that connection to their little sister. Instead of grieving silently and alone and acting like your other children were “too young to understand”, you shared your grief and theirs. I think that’s beautiful. I’m so sorry for the loss of your darling Amelia, she would have gotten to grow up in an amazing family.
Thank you so much. I had the advantage of working with lots of children before having my own. I just never dreamed that after I stopped working, that I would have a need for what I learned.
I appreciate your thoughtful comment.
What an awesome idea to have her heartbeat to listen to for a lifetime. What a gift you have given your children. My only living son was our rainbow and he has grown up surrounded by the love we have for all of our children. He, even at a young age, understood death was inevitable in this lifetime but to be reunited with his siblings will be an eternity of joy. We lost our last baby when my son was 4 so he was already open to understanding that his little brother was in Heaven. He is 11 now and still speaks of what life would be like if all four were here with us. He is my Godsend.
Stephanie,
Hey friend! I think that you too have given your son a beautiful gift by allowing him to grieve as he needs. I know that grief is a lifetime sentence, and children are not spared from this. However, being a loving guide for them makes a positive difference.
I think it is wonderful that your son speaks of his siblings. They are real and waiting and he has faith. That is a gift!
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing this, Stephanie.
Thank you Beth! Honestly, I love sharing all of my children ~ they are all so amazing!
Stephanie, this is so moving. My son was 7 when my daughter was stillborn and I still feel like I’m navigating strange waters when talking about death with him, eight months after the fact. I agree with you that it is better to be straightforward with children, and ultimately, less confusing for them. I think children can handle more than we think (or allow them to), and I’ve noticed they sometimes handle these things better than adults.
Thank you for sharing your story. xo
Dejah, I often feel the same way “navigating strange waters when talking about death” with my children because it will never be something that we get used to. There will always be growth and new developmental stages with children, and with these come new ground to cover. But with an established commitment to communication we are able to trust the process of it all.
I also agree that the topic of death can be a confusing one for children and there are many wonderful books and resources that can help.
I adore, adore, adore the stuffed animals with her precious heartbeats. Just adore. Oh…if only I could go back in time for just three seconds…what I would do.
As always, beautiful, beautiful words, friend. Much love!
xoxoxo
Oh Lori, I wish you had those three seconds my friend.
Thank you for talking about this~I have lost two daughers, both after I had two sons. With my first loss, Paige Marie, my 5-yr old son was with me at the Drs when they saw she had passed away on the u/s. She had been kicking just 12 hrs earlier. My son had nightmares for weeks. We just lost another daughter, Kenley Faith in Feb. My boys are now 9 & 11 and they help me through the pain everyday. They are so wonderful, so brave. I hurt so much for them, to suffer the loss of two sisters while they are still children. We talk about the girls everyday, tears still fall, but I know they are both loved by their brothers everyday. I hope my boys never face a loss when they grow into men and have children, but it they do I know they have the strength and heart to help their wives through it. My girls are so blessed to have such amazing brothers
Rachael, your children sound amazing. You are doing a such a wonderful job to have them feel so safe to share their grief with you. It is not fair that children have to suffer this pain, but I do know that what we experience shapes us into who we are. And because of your daughters, your sons will have an empathy that most others won’t.
It’s amazing to me how you wrote my life this past couple months nearly word for word. My daughter, my 4th was born a month ago today after a 19 week ultrasound where we were given no hope. My children, 6,5,and. 3 faced this very same period of life halting, endless apts, etc. and then after many long weeks standing at her graveside trying to grasp what was happening. We talk about her often, have her picture displayed, and intend to use a part of her name when we have a rainbow. We are a different family!
Mary, I am so sorry. Your families grief is so new and raw right now and will forever change your world. Hugs to you and yours.
My husband and I had to grieve with our 2.5 year old. We were very open, even letting him see and touch ‘our’ baby after he was born, and he helped us through the whole process with an amazing intuitive love and tenderness. A big part of my grief is that he doesn’t get to have the brother he was looking forward to and that he had to be so grown up at such an early age. Thanks for posting about this. I haven’t yet seen much written about the involvement of living children in the death of our babies and about continuing trying to mother in the face of such sadness. I also wanted to say that the painting you have in the blog is lovely.
Maureen,
I think how you were so careful to make certain to use the word ‘our’ when speaking about your baby to your son is wonderful. Word usage is important especially because children are concrete thinkers.
I am so sorry that your son has to experience this grief with you, but I am happy to hear that your experiences with him seem so natural and loving. The tone you set makes a child’s grief easier to navigate for them and trusting the process ~ as foreign as it is for you all ~ is one way to do that.
The painting in my article is titled ‘Starry Starry Night’. I painted it after Amelia died because I needed something that represented the beauty of her life and the reality of me carrying her and having to say goodbye.
Thank you for sharing your story, Stephanie. Our stories are similar in that my son was given a 100% fatal diagnosis at around 18 weeks into my pregnancy. He was our first child, so we didn’t experience the pain of telling siblings. But telling our families that the long hoped for baby (he was conceived through IVF after years of infertility) was going to die was so incredibly painful. Like you, we decided to make the most of our time with William. We took long car rides to “show” him all the places that are important to us…our childhood homes, the church where we were married, etc. I can relate to so many of the things you wrote, such as planning a birth and a funeral. And we, like you, are a very different family after the life and death of our son. Thank you again for sharing…
Allison,
Thank you for sharing your story too. William sounds like he was very well loved and I am sure that he felt all the wonderful memories you created with him. I know I personally struggled with feeling such grief during the time when Amelia was alive and often thought that it must have had an effect on her in utero, but so did the powerful joy and love all of us lavished on her. Your time together was so short, but so very life changing and powerful as well.
So thankful you shared this story. I am still trying to find my way in parenting my other children while grieving the loss of my youngest son. It is amazing how much comfort their sweetness brought to me in the first few days following Seth’s death. Now we continue the grief dance as they try and understand why I am crying and I listen to their beautiful words about their memories of their baby brother. It completing melted my heart when my daughter Lydia (6 years old) wrote “Lydia loves Seth”.
We also have a recording of Seth’s heartbeat and plan to make a bear with the recording inside. Such a precious idea.
Kim,
I love the words you used . . . ‘grief dance.’ That is such a beautiful way to put such an ugly truth. Dancing is something that you do with others or a partner and it is usually an physical expression of emotion through movement. How aptly put since you and your children are partners in this grief and each of you will forever find ways to navigate these emotions together. And most likely, they will follow your lead as they watch your grief and feel it is safe and normal to express it.
It is always amazing to me to hear my children speak Amelia’s name. Even after two years, it is a validation of her life and its profound effect upon ours. I hope that you always hear Lydia’s name spoken aloud by your children and that it becomes like music to your ears.
I’m so sorry for your loss, we to had to go through explaining a similar situation , our first loss was a little boy ronnie who had potters syndrome, this ment he had no kidneys or urinary system I also had no amniotic fluid so his lungs never developed.0% survival rate, we went out excited to be finding out if the girls were going to get a brother or sister then that moment came when our lives were changed forever, ronnie was born sleeping 21 weeks 4 days on the tenth of January 2009 at 415pm x x
Zoe, my heart remembers that same moment. Definitely a life changing and defining one. So many dreams and things that change so fast within a moment like that.