Why "Baby Loss Crap"?

I chose this unconventional name after hearing myself say to close friends "yes, we're still doing this baby loss crap".

Or to a new family "yes, it is not fair, it's unexpected, it's messy, it's hard and at times, it's total crap".

Sometimes, when I'm feeling like I need to be totally truthful with the person standing in front of me I'll call it "baby loss crap".

There is no sweet phrase to describe this journey. I tried for years to make sense of it and to ask out loud the big question "why?"

I chose my words carefully, to spare the rest of the world the pain of knowing what this is truly like.

But being authentic is important to me and living one part of my life to meet the expectations of everyone else is taking too much energy.

This is the year that I promised myself I would take off the mask and show my true self.

And part of my true self is being authentically comfortable with my own journey, not just those I help.

So there it is: baby loss crap, the good, the bad, the ugly, but always true!

Mothering Bretton

I mother you from afar. Your touch is non-existent, your scent foreign to my senses. I have no idea if the picture in my mind of what you look like is accurate. Everything about you is a guess and a wish.

I mother you from afar, because in this world, you do not exist. You live only in my dreams and those vanish in the morning light. I dream of blonde curls and big blue eyes, dimples on your cheeks and at the top of your little round bum. Grubby hands and ripped jeans. Toys on your bedroom floor and books scattered across your bed. Pulling your little sisters hair and teasing the dog. Wanting to tag along with your older brothers but at 11, not quite old enough to be in their league. You dream of the day you can drive the car, like Brady. You pluck the guitar and wish you could play, like Brodie.

I mother you from afar because on the day you left, I made a promise that I would still be your mother. It may seem strange to others but the simplest act brings comfort to my soul. The chocolate cake with your name on it waits on the kitchen table for all of us to gather and sing your song. You are not here to enjoy the taste but we hope you are here to enjoy the  melody.

I mother you from afar to hold the ache in my heart at bay. Somehow, the act of mothering you makes this lonely journey a worthwhile process. My gut twists with envy when I hear another mother scold her young son for getting dirty or talking back. I wish, even just for a moment, to see you, to hold you and to hear your voice; too old to be a baby anymore but still young enough to fit into my arms. I would give anything for that chance.

I mother you from afar because it keeps me alive, day after day. They say that time heals the hurt of loss, that we soon forget and move on. But that hasn't happened yet Bretton. I remember every moment of our journey together and I know I will never, ever forget what you have taught us and the gifts you have provided.

I mother you from afar because I cannot mother you any other way. It is the least I can do and the most I can do. I am grateful for the support, the space and the time offered to me to be your mother, if only for a moment in time and a lifetime of wonder.

I mother you from afar now, with the hope that one day, I will mother you in person.

*In loving memory of Bretton-Elijah Lucas, born still on Tuesday, March 25th, 1996 @ 2:20 a.m. into the arms of his loving family. Written on the eve of Bretton's 12th birthday, March 24th, 2008.

Sensitive

Experiencing the death of my baby has affected every part of my being. How I view the world, how I react to others, how I now envision the rest of my life.

Experiencing the death of my baby the second time has made the affects even more intense. Anything that I have lived since and continue to live now have been totally guided by these two heart wrenching  experiences.

Experiencing the deaths of six small babies that were born so early, we don't even know if they were boys or girls. Many people don't know we've had this many losses. It hurts to know that they often have strong opinions about how many children we should and did have. To have to say, one more time, "I'm sorry to tell you we lost another baby" meant often, we didn't tell. Bretton's death, followed by Ciara's death, marked the time in my life when I began to hear "she's very sensitive, be careful" and "sorry, we kept that from you because you're so sensitive."

I am sensitive. I’m sure I came out of the womb feeling sensitive to everything. The lights, touch, smells, the air. I can remember being a very young child and reacting to the emotions around me. For most of my life, others have described me as sensitive and each time I hear the term now as an adult, I cringe. I cringe, because it is never delivered to me as a positive attribute but one that I obviously need to work on, one that holds me back from moving forward and one that I have to carry as a descriptive burden of my personality. Loss has exacerbated these to the point that it takes me forever to let anyone in to my life and even then, those relationships may not be solid and long-lasting. I no longer trust, no longer try and no longer truly care.

Fifteen Years In

*Please note: this post is what I presented as a speaker at our Annual Baby Loss Memorial Service held  in my local community on Sunday, May 29th, 2011. My son, had he lived, would now be 16 years old.  

I struggled at the beginning of writing my words to you today. What could I say that would make you feel better and take away your pain? What brilliant phrase would help you transform from where you are to where you could be or want to be? I truly wanted to stand before you and say even one thing that would bring clarity and peace to your journey. But there are no magical words that would do this, so all I can offer is words that come from the heart and my own experience of being a bereaved momma to a beautiful baby boy, who would have been 15 years old this year, if he had taken a breath and opened his eyes.

A letter to my son, 15 years in.

Dear Bretton~Elijah Lucas,

Fifteen years in, you are still transforming our lives.

At 1 pound 2 oz & 10 inches long, you could have never realized the enormous impact you had on our lives. You rushed into our arms & our hearts, 2 hours & 20 minutes after the first contraction, too early & without warning.

You were to be our fifth child, third son. Today you remain our fifth child, in a family of six children, three sons, three daughters. We know you would have had the same unruly, curly locks that your siblings all possess and the same tiny button nose that graces each of their faces. We wonder if your dimples would have been present on the cheeks of your face or hidden away above the cheeks on your bottom.  We ponder the question often: would your eyes have been blue or brown, a 50/50 chance in our house.

Your older siblings had all arrived 3 days past their due dates. Fashionably late but naturally born. You came early & while your birth was also natural, we would have given anything for an intervention-filled birth, if it meant your journey could have had had a different outcome. You were to be born at home but with the first contraction, we knew something wasn’t quite right and we made the choice to head into the city to the big hospital, with the thought and belief that modern medicine would find a way to stop labor and give you a fighting chance. Instead, you arrived too quickly and nothing could be done. The care we received was compassionate and hands on. Everyone cried with us and despite the incredibly sad ending, the birthing room was filled with love. Your siblings were in awe of you. Your daddy, so gentle.

Bretton, you have transformed our lives by the lessons you have taught us. Before you were born, we were living an intentional, well thought out life that included taking the time to cherish the moments. But when you arrived, those moments had more meaning and we truly embrace all that the universe has offered to share with us. We know you would have found your own creative outlet in a family that includes a filmmaker, two paintera, three photographers, four musicians, six writers and six actors. Your birth was the catalyst that created the freedom for the creative energy that flows through our house on a daily basis. We know that without this experience, we would have probably been more subdued about our artistic endeavours but you taught us that we have only one chance at this life and making the best of the opportunities we are given has fulfilled our dreams at a much younger age and with much more meaning than we could have ever dreamed.

Our journey has been long and at times, painful beyond belief. We wondered if we would survive another day, another moment and would this experience ever end. Exploration of our grief, which each of us has done together and on our own, brought light to the dark and healing to our hearts. But it did not mean that we have ever forgotten you, Bretton.

Healing does not mean forgetting.

As a couple, we were aware early on that some relationships do not survive the pain of baby loss. Keeping you alive in our hearts has helped us remain focused on who we are as individuals, who we are as partners and who we are as parents.

As parents, we are reminded on a daily basis that you are not present in a physical sense, Bretton, even though we feel you all around us. We parent you from afar and love you just as much as your siblings who walk with us. Like all parents in the community, we are often asked how many children we have. Proudly, without hesitation, we answer six. For a time, I did struggle with how to answer this innocent, sometimes daily question. My hesitation was centred around the idea that if I shared our story, I would make the person who asked uncomfortable or even sad. What I discovered many times over was that the individual asking sometimes had their own story to share and a healing conversation would open the door. Other times, the shock I expected did not happen but instead a moment of compassion and often a “please tell me about your babies”.

My husband created the phrase “four earthly children and two heavenly babies” as a gentle way to explain our family structure and I find myself often borrowing his heartfelt response.

So where are we now, 15 years in?

We don’t take anything for granted. Every breath is cherished, every milestone & every moment celebrated. Even the things that don’t go well are honoured. We had hoped to live a life that would not hold regret but until you came along, we couldn’t quite envision what that looked like. You taught us that there are reasons for things to happen, that bad things do happen to good people and sometimes we are chosen for the task. But regrets are absent. There is no time for regrets, only time to celebrate what you have brought to our lives. A peacefulness, a calm and an understanding that what is meant to be, is meant to be. That doesn’t mean it’s never been messy or hurtful. We have lost friendships, had strained family moments and wondered at times what path we were supposed to take. Our spirituality was splintered and today continues to be a place of exploration that we now believe will continually evolve as we go.

Just when we thought we had settled in to the new life that was created after your birth and made peace with our experience by moving forward to help others, just when we thought it was safe to venture into a new pregnancy and continue with the creation of our family, just when we were hopeful and healthy again, the death of our sixth child, your tiny baby sister, Ciara-Rose Kennedi, shook our world upside down again. But this time, we knew who had our backs and what we needed to do to realign our life once again. It wasn’t harder the second time around but it was any easier either. Grief is painful and harsh, messy and exhausting but in the end, worth the strife, for the moments we had to meet you and your baby sister.

Two stillbirths back to back is a hard story to tell. It pains me at meetings to have to say that we are the parents of two babies born too early. We are thankful that we have wise people among us and one of the wisest during this second birthing experience was our midwife, who answered our daughter’s Chynna’s innocent question about why this happened to us a second time. She held Chynna in her arms and said “Bretton is not alone now; he has his baby sister to watch over and keep him company”. We are often comforted by the image in our head of our two small babies, together forever.

Bretton, thank you for the path you placed us on that warm spring evening. It has opened a whole new world for us and our journey continues to unfold. We miss you daily, we speak of you constantly, we remember every little thing about you and our love continues to grow.

Love, mom, 15 years in.

The person I was is different from the person I am today. But who I am today is a direct result of Bretton’s and Ciara’s brief presence in my life. Last night, I was honoured to be present at the Inagural Mayor’s Celebration for the Arts in Sherwood Park. As both a board member of the Arts Council of Strathcona County and an artist, the event was an opportunity to showcase artists and bring awareness about art and culture within our community. One of the artists had not started life as an artist but has become one because of a horrible, nearly fatal workplace accident that changed his life. Who he was before his accident and who he is now is vastly different. And like many of us have experienced in our baby loss journey’s, his terrible loss opened a door that created a new path in his life. He stated that he could not imagine at the time how his life would ever be fulfilling again when he had to give up his job in order to heal his body. Not able to return to the same work, his doctor suggested he find a way to use his hands. Art, in particular, sculpture and stone work ended up being the door that opened and today he is a renowned and popular artist.  But he still shakes his head at the thought that if he had not experienced the debilitating accident, he would not have become who he is now.

My own journey has a similar end. If you had told me 15 years ago that I would be fully engaged in the bereavement field as a career, I would have laughed or maybe even punched you in the face. It was not an area I had any interest in and like most community members, not an area I had much experience in and certainly nothing to offer. But 15 years in, Bretton’s moment in my life changed everything and I am grateful on a daily basis for the opportunity to be invited into the lives of those who grieving, whether it is in my position as the director of a baby loss program, or utilizing the arts to help grieving children and teens cope with the loss of someone they love, or counselling community members and professionals on the huge impact of loss on families. It is a joy and an honor to be immersed so intensely in this work.

I personally would never wish the experience of baby loss on another human being but I can now say, 15 years in, that we have embraced this journey with a balance between time for grieving and time for living. Today, our new normal means that Bretton and Ciara are part of our conversations as easily as talking about all the other children are. We still have birthday celebrations for them each year and their little stockings hang on our mantel at Christmas. We have been working on a Legacy project so that when we leave this Earth one day, Bretton and Ciara will have left a mark not just on our family’s hearts but on the community as well.

My hope for you today as you journey through this painful experience is that you will be open to the gifts that will come along the way. A new friendship, a cherished moment, a renewed relationship or a door that opens to a new path. I hope you will share your baby’s story with others in time and offer a compassionate, caring heart to another grieving parent, who will be grateful for your generosity as they begin their own walk through baby loss. Turning helplessness into healing and then into helping.

These are the words I can offer to you today, 15 years in.