When a baby dies (video)

This video was shared by Every Life Has A Story.

The people who made the video got the feelings - especially the first part - exactly right.

Grief through art

I didn’t sit down at my computer tonight to blog. Mainly, I’m hiding from the pile of dinner dishes awaiting me in the kitchen.

I wish I was artsy. I'm not. I'm about as far from talented in the arts as a person can get. I greatly appreciate art, however, and I have something that I would dearly love to share. I hope it speaks to you as it did to me.

We all read blogs, poetry, quotes and stories that we can connect with. It’s not very often we find art that speaks to us in the grief world. If sometimes there are no words, how could there be art? Well, there is. I've found quite a few artists online who express themselves and their grief dynamically through art, but these pieces in particular grabbed my attention. I received permission from the artist to post her artwork on my blog in the hopes that it can connect with others as it did me. You can read her blog and see her artwork here.




This first piece was the one that caught my eye. Feeling everything weighing on you and not having words to express that heavy burden, her art said it all.





This second piece means the most to me, the one that captured everything I was feeling those first few months. Being left behind. It encompasses those early stages of grief, and some of the later. No one stays behind with you when you grieve; eventually, they all move on with their lives. But not us. We watch, hurting and unable to move forward as our lives should have. I can't express in words what she did with one painting.





This one represents to me what my husband and I went through about six months after our loss. Our grief took us different places and before we knew it, this huge chasm had opened up between us. For a while we couldn’t reach each other and were alone in our grieving. At this point in time, I wasn’t sure our marriage would survive.

Thankfully, we found the strength to bridge that gap, and it did.





No matter how far away we are from our loss, this is what we all are doing deep inside. Still grieving.


Rachel, thank you so much for allowing me to share your work with the world. I know it was a personal journey for you, and your artwork helps others to find a connection when sometimes words just can't. You are truly talented.

18 months

*Sigh*

Unfortunately, I don’t have the time required tonight to write all that I would like to. For now, I’m remembering Brayden 18 months after we said goodbye.

Some days, it’s so easy to forget that this happened to us, really happened. Some days, it’s like it was all a bad dream that has faded with the early morning light, leaving behind faint feelings of sadness and regret. I can look at our rainbow baby and almost forget he had a big brother that he never new and has now outlived.

Other days, I remember how it felt to come home from the hospital. How I felt nothing and everything at the same time. How it felt to walk by the nursery door, knowing what was in there but having nowhere near the courage to open it and walk in. The endless hours I spent on the floor of the nursery, hugging the blankets that were meant for him and crying until I was sick. I would hold the packets containing the precious few pictures we have of him, run my fingers over the envelope, but not open them. My arms hurt so very badly because they were empty.

And the last time I saw him. When the nurse carried him out for the last time, the last glimpse I had of the back of his head as she was leaving and how perfect he looked. It’s burned in my memory, along with the urge to chase her down screaming and take him away from her and never let him go.

I’m not ashamed to say those days are moving farther into my past and I’m glad of it. Missing Brayden will never change, but the fading of those memories can’t come fast enough.

I miss my little man today, and every day. Our family will grow and move on, but never be the same.

I love you, Brayden.

Gone yet not forgotten,
Although we are apart,
Your spirit lives within me,
Forever in my heart.

Time to let go

Even though I experience time between my down days, it doesn’t make them any easier to deal with. It doesn’t make the pain less, and it doesn’t make the hurt stop. But, I do experience a measure of peace in these times between and that is new and precious to me. Peace that I took for granted before Brayden left us.

This has been a down week. I guess I was due for one, although I was hoping I wouldn’t have to go through another one.

It’s different now. A year ago, I was torn apart on the inside and not much of a functioning human being. I can remember every detail of what that stage of grief felt like, and I’m grateful to not be there now.

Back then, the haunting questions were still with me. I would cry and silently ask why? Why couldn’t he be with us? Was it something I did? Why did this happen? I would cry and silently hate everything and everyone around me for what I was going through, for not understanding the depths of my pain, for not mourning as I did. I wanted to die with my son. I wanted my pain to end. I wanted to turn back the clock. I wanted him back.

Now when I feel the down days upon me, there are no questions or accusations or unending pain directed at everywhere and nowhere. I cry and the voices in my head are silent. I cry and it just hurts. I feel like there’s a big cavernous black hole of pain surrounding me. Surrounding me, but not consuming me…if that makes sense.

I’d be lying if I said having a rainbow baby didn’t make a difference. It did. My subsequent pregnancy after loss and the birth of our living, breathing son has helped heal me like nothing else ever could. I didn’t think it would be like that.

I hated every second of being pregnant with him, I was terrified beyond measure and stressed to the max. It was the longest pregnancy in history…at least, in my mind. I knew the worries wouldn’t end there – I saw far ahead. There was still SIDS, choking, car accidents, suffocation…you name it, in every day life I saw one more thing that could potentially take our precious baby away if he survived the pregnancy.

He’s here, and I still worry like crazy…but it’s one day at a time. That’s the only way I can breathe. One day at a time.

And as much as having him healed a great deal of my heart, there will always be a place that can’t ever be healed. I feel it every day, because it still hurts.

I never thought Brayden would be replaced. I never wanted him to be. I’m just surprised that what wasn’t meant to be can still hurt so badly.

Summer is coming fast, and I can’t ignore the fact that my precious lost son’s remains have yet to be dealt with. My husband has brought up a few conversations regarding where and when to spread his ashes. I always manage to turn the conversation pretty easily. I know I need to do something, but the thought of letting him go hurts more than I can express. I feel panicked, I can’t breathe and my mind screams NO! I can’t let him go. I just can’t. His ashes are all I have left. I’m afraid I’ll grieve all over again. In fact, I know I will. That’s what I feel when it’s brought up, like I’m losing him all over again. I can’t lose him again. I’m not ready.

But, like when we were at the hospital saying goodbye to our little man…life doesn’t give a crap if you’re ready. And it’s past time I said a true goodbye to Brayden. I know this. My heart just crushes at the thought of laying him to rest somewhere. I think it’s because I know as long as he’s here with me, I get to put off grieving again that much longer. And I’m not ready to let him go.

But, what mother is? How much time is enough time, really?

I don’t want to go through this again. But, it’s time. As a good friend of mine says, it’s time to put on my big girl panties. I owe it to my family. I survived losing him, I can survive saying goodbye.

I just don’t want to.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

I haven’t blogged in a while, mostly from lack of time. I’ve been taking each day as it comes, remembering to breathe in and out slowly and be content for just today.

That being said, I ran across something today that made me pause.

I’ve always been an avid reader of anything I could get my hands on. When I was young, one of the first things I remember owning was a book by Shel Silverstein. For those of you unfamiliar with his works, he wrote several excellent books of childrens poetry. I loved reading those books, and thought the other day how great it would be to travel down memory lane and read some fun verses to my 10-year-old son.

The book Where the Sidewalk Ends was the one I remember reading the most. I remember how worn the spine was and how careful I had to be with it towards the end…the pages were quite worn. To this day, I can still recite quite a few limericks and poems from that very book.

The actual poem Where the Sidewalk Ends (hence the title of the book) stopped me short when I read it again for the first time today. I don’t know if this is a difference in my perception. I don’t know if it was meant to speak to me now, as it did today, in the way that it did. I just don’t know.

What I do know is that it’s been almost 18 months since we’ve lost Brayden, and in the last year and a half I’ve read some very moving stories and poems that have helped me through my journey of grief. Most I could connect with, some I just thought were beautiful. I saved all of my favorites, and I’m happy to say my favorite childhood book will now contribute to my collection.


Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.


When reading this, I was struck by how much these words hit home. It’s about unhappy circumstances. It’s about getting through horrible things. It’s about hope, and how beautiful it can be to look ahead with the knowledge that life isn’t always what it is now, that it will get better if we just keep moving forward.

And best of all, it was written with the innocence and understanding of that of a child, which makes it whimsical and precious to me.

Our walk isn’t easy; that’s why we take it “measured and slow” (one day at a time). It’s not so easy to get to the place where the sidewalk ends…and for us, there’s no real end. But that’s a literal interpretation, and there’s no place for that in poetry. No one expects our grief to end, not really. And that’s the point of the poem; not an ending to our grief, but an ending to each hard period of grief we pass. That’s where the sidewalk ends. And that’s where hope begins.

For those of us who repeatedly find ourselves searching for where the sidewalk ends…take the poet’s advice and “watch where the chalk-white arrows go”. It’s a road we’ve been through many times and will travel many times again, but we know this road. We’re the children who mark. We’re the children who know. We know it ends in hope.

And, probably most important, we know we don’t walk it alone.

Rainbows and Grief

Isn’t it strange that with the right situation, clarity comes so swiftly it’s a wonder you never saw things for how they are to begin with?

I’m talking about sleep depravation. Either from child loss or arrival of a rainbow baby (I have both now), we are affected by serious amounts of lack of sleep. Combine this with an overload of hormones, stress, grief and worry and it becomes quite the combination. With this lack of sleep comes lots of time to work through things – by either deep thinking or flat crying them out, we struggle to find answers even when sometimes we know there are none.

So goes the life of a baby loss mother.

Along with this life of ours of grief, sadness, anger and everything else, we deal with coming to terms with things only to fall off the horse again later down the road. That’s where I find myself today. Sitting on my ass in the middle of the road, watching the horse I learned to ride so carefully galloping away from me at top speed. And we had just learned to canter, too. Damn.

With the arrival of our rainbow baby came a whole new host of emotions to the grieving world I thought I was leaving behind – or leaving, at least, the worst of it behind.

Our new son looks so much like the one we lost that it hurts. I have to keep a constant light on in the nursery because with just the right amount of dim, it’s like I’m looking at Brayden. The lips look blue, the eyes closed and face so still…it haunts me. I reach out and touch his little face and find relief that his cheek is warm. I lean down and gently push his back until he grunts and moves, quietly grateful that he responds. Then I realize once again that I never held Brayden, never kissed his cheek and told him how much I dearly loved him. And something inside begins to hurt.

Regret. It sucks.

I would give just about anything to be able to go back and just do that much. My heart would feel so much better, and that memory would be such a comfort. To have been that much of a mother to him, to have been brave and given him what I could have when I had the chance. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

Regret. It really, really sucks.

It’s like I’m reliving what I lost all over again. Before, it was what I almost had. Now, I am seeing (and living) what I really missed.

I don’t like this part. In fact, I hate it. I don’t expect everything to be peachy perfect, but damn…where’s my balance? What happened to the plateau I was on? That wonderful happy place I briefly had that allowed me to think about our loss without dwelling, to remember Brayden without sharp pains or losing my breath.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the reality of the situation. Maybe this is my forever, the way my life is from now on - one big up and down moment. Maybe it’s everything.

A few thoughts

Most BLM’s are aware that October 15th is International Baby Loss Day, October in particular being the month dedicated to Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness. For those new to this information, it’s a time to remember our lost little ones regardless of when or how they were lost. Candles will be lit in private homes, places of worship, work or wherever else life might find you on October 15th at 7 p.m. Be sure to light in remembrance of your angel or any lost angel.

The inspiration for this post came from Susan at Our Lives Forever Changed. She recently blogged about what this month means, sighting other bloggers who are doing daily blogs dedicated to all things grief related, what may have helped and how life has changed for all of us.

Susan has a daily blog list that she will touch on throughout the month, one topic listed for each day that will be the focus of her blog. I read through them briefly, coming up with my own answers to each topic and the one I kept coming back to was this one: Day 4 - your favorite book. has it changed since your loss?

It’s strange that this one stood out to me...I wouldn't have thought my loss would have affected my taste in reading material. I’m a huge Kay Hooper fan (fictional mysteries with serial killers who always get theirs at the end!), but my most favorite book and quite possibly the only book I’ve read more than once is called The Summerhouse by Jude Deveraux.

I’m not sure why I fell in love with this book. I suppose it may fall in the genre of romance, but that’s not why I love it. The story revolves around three women who by chance met each other at the DMV on their 20th birthdays. Flash forward 20 years later, the women have not seen each other since that day and are about to turn 40. As they connect and get together for a birthday weekend in Maine, you see how life turned sour for all three in the years since they met – shattered dreams, broken homes, heartbreak and misery have visited all of them.

While walking through town, they found business cards to a fortuneteller who clamed the ability to offer you the chance to rewrite your past. Doubtful but curious, they paid her a visit. She offered them each the chance to go to any point in time in their lives for three weeks. During that time, they can choose a different path and change their future life. When they get back, they can choose their new future or keep their current one.

I loved this book because it was very well written (Deveraux is a great story teller) and the characters were well defined. It was fun and imaginative. It had a bit of magic to it. Wrongs were righted. Justice was given. Lives were changed for the better. Second chances were given.

Each time I’ve read it, I’ve closed the book and felt hope…NOT that I think I will be offered a chance to go back in time, but to read such happiness result from so much tragedy was inspiring – even if it is fiction. I always thought, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to have a do-over at one point? Regret, missed opportunities, that guy you made eye contact with that once but were too shy to speak up…who knows what may have happened? A neat thought and perfect for the fiction it was.

Surprisingly, the significance of the book has changed for me. If you would have asked me a year ago if I could have a do-over, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. Rewind time so I would have the chance to change Brayden’s fate. To not have to go through what we did this past year, or face what lies ahead for us. Wipe the slate clean…like it never happened.

I can’t say that now and I wouldn’t do that now. With a rainbow baby on the way, I’m reminded that if we had not lost Brayden, we wouldn’t have this new life we’re about to meet. I can’t take that back, and wouldn’t want to. So…where does that leave me?

I don’t believe things happen for a reason. I’m not sure I believe in fate at all. I don’t believe ‘some things are meant to be’. I believe things happen, good and bad…and hope there is a balance somewhere. I think our rainbow baby is our balance. Life gives and takes away. I can’t go back in time, but I am getting another chance. Even without time travel, I consider myself one of the fortunate ones.

Thanks to Susan for posting questions like that. Even the most seemingly innocuous things in our lives – such as our favorite books - have been affected by our loss. We look at the world differently, see things differently and have new perspective. It’s interesting to see how far reaching that really is. I look forward to exploring more of this in the future.