I often wonder how I would have coped if I had needed to parent other children when Orla died. How would I have managed my own grief alongside theirs? How would I have explained what had happened to their sibling? Although it may sound strange, I sometimes feel lucky that I had the opportunity to completely immerse myself in those early weeks and months; with no one else depending on me, I had the freedom to just be with my grief. Yet so many bereaved parents have other children to protect and support at a time when they too need the same.
In this letter to her sons, Lucie articulates her experiences beautifully. I am sure that the intensity of love and protection in parenting after loss will resonate with many.
“I’m Lucie a nearly 40 year old mum of five. Beau was our fourth child, our fourth boy and he was stillborn in June 2016. I pine for him every day and I don’t think that will ever change.
We had our rainbow, Seraphina Hope, our only daughter in August 2017. We call her our little heart healer as she’s helping to heal us all.
I’m married to my soulmate and we live a happy, simple but boring life surrounded by our family and friends.
Jealousy is one of those things that we don’t want to admit to – not in it’s true sense anyway. “So jealous!” might be something we exclaim in response to someone’s good fortune or exciting news, but how comfortable are we in really connecting with the real felt experience of jealousy? Society encourages us to say that we are not a ‘jealous person’. In many ways, it is demonised. And yet jealousy is a normal emotion. It is how we respond to and interact with that emotion that counts.
In this letter, Anna is compassionate towards her own experience of this emotion, but empowered to take back the control. She says:
“I wrote this letter because jealousy has a horrible habit of creeping into the parts of life which should be the most joyful (baby announcements, family events, and holidays, to name a few). It’s not often spoken about, and is considered deeply unattractive, yet we all experience it and often suffer the effects in silence. 19 months after the death of my daughter, I needed to redress the balance.”
Anna is mummy of Amelia (in our hearts) and Beatrice (in our arms) and can be found on Instagram @love_from_mummy
A wise man once said:
“Comparison is the thief of joy” [Theodore Roosevelt]
When Orla died, I became aware of this quote that has been associated with Ronald Reagan who himself lost a child:
“When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn’t a word to describe them.”
As a lover of words, and as someone who devotes their life to finding ways to which to understand and describe things, this quote stuck with me. We have so many words in the English language and yet not one that captures what it is to be a bereaved parent. ‘Maybe it’s because it is so rare’ some may say. Yet it is not. There are thousands upon thousands of parents who are left questioning their identity in the wake of child loss. Who feel invisible to the rest of the world. And Nicole is someone who refuses to allow this to continue.
Nicole is the founder of Our Missing Peace, a charity that aims to spread awareness of pregnancy, baby and child loss and to help bereaved parents know that they are not alone. Through Nicole, I have become aware of the term Vilomah, which is Sanskrit for ‘against the natural order’. Because that is what baby and child loss is; it is against the natural order of life. Nicole is campaigning to make this word more widely used and to give all parents who have experienced loss a clear identity.
I will never forget the doctor who told me that Orla had died. I cannot bring her face to mind, bit when I saw her coming out of a hospital room some months later, I knew instantly who she was. I remember her gentle tentativeness, her hand touching my leg, the sound of ‘I’m so sorry’. I remember her administering the pessary to induce labour and her willingness to sit and talk through the procedure. She was young, probably quite early in her career. But she was kind. I can’t say the same for every person I came into contact with, and I know that so many parents have had very varied experiences. However, I am grateful to have had someone who was able to show compassion at the time that I needed it most.
As someone who provides consultation and supervision to a range of professionals, I know full well how little emotional support is available to many medical staff. But reading This is Going to Hurt (Adam Kay’s book) sucker punched me with it even more. Every single day, the staff that we so value in the NHS are dealing with life and death. New life and death. Death before life begins. And yet they are often given little space to process or debrief. Continue Reading
When we announced our pregnancy after Orla’s death, the relief from others was palpable – a sense that there was going to be a happy ending. The rainbow after the storm. Yet nine months is a long time to live in terror, knowing that you can reach the final hurdle and still come home empty handed. Pregnancy after loss is an incredibly complex and fraught time; saturated with intense fear, renewed grief and other overwhelming emotions, each day can feel like an endurance task. Having someone else to carry some of this is essential. Priceless even.
In this letter, Jess captures her gratitude for the support their doctor gave them during their rainbow pregnancy. This is what person centred care is all about.
Jess is mum to Leo and Eli and works tirelessly to support bereaved parents, as well as fundraising and campaigning to raise awareness of baby loss with the hope of saving more babies lives. Jess can be found here and on Instagram @thelegacyofleo and she hosts a weekly #BabyLossHour twitter chat every Tuesday at 8pm.
To the doctor who held my fear during my pregnancy after stillbirth,
I didn’t recognise. We met you, properly for the first time, a few months after my son died to discuss what had happened. But I didn’t recognise you. I didn’t recognise you from that day – that moment when I discovered that he had died. Died, in the moments when we had been anticipating his arrival the most. One day, past full term. You were there, just to confirm that our life as we knew it then, had ended. That his life, in its entirety, had ended. That his tiny, beating heart that was once just a small flicker on a screen, was now still, silent, non-beating.