Category Archives: Holidays for Bereaved

When Loss Occurs

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The following essay first appeared in Tidewater Family Magazine in October 2016.

http://www.tidewaterfamily.com/articles/parent-tips/when-loss-occurs

Our American culture doesn’t seem to know what to do with grief. Sometimes people reach out to the bereaved after a death, but as Elizabeth McCracken writes “Grief lasts longer than sympathy, which is one of the tragedies of the grieving” (80). For those of us who are bereaved, how do we navigate our grief in this fast-paced world when we want to stop and get off?

After my daughter, Mary Rose, died an hour after birth of trisomy 18, I processed my grief with therapy and art supplies. Others join grief and bereavement groups. Being with people who have gone through similar situations is comforting. They survived, and so can we.

I used a grief workbook by Mary Burgess and Shiloh Sophia McCloud called Mending Invisible Wings: Healing From the Loss of Your Baby. Through the exercises in this book which included meditations, writing and drawing exercises, I transmuted some of my pain into art. Instead of ignoring my grief or numbing it with behaviors that might not be healthy, using a sketchpad allows the bereaved to create something beautiful for our loved ones.

Many bereaved people reach out to others in their own grief. Heidi Faith created stillbirthday.com. Cubby LaHood and Nancy Mayer-Whittington co-founded Isaiah’s Promise to support other families. I started a blog and wrote a book. We can give back to this world by reaching out to others. Grief never leaves us completely. We cannot “get over” the death of a child or loved one, but we can find joy again. Spending time in nature, with my family and friends, I pause and notice the beauty around me.

And for those of us who know people who are suffering in grief, let us offer kind support. We do not know what to say, so many of us say nothing. If we are to be communities that support each other, we must nurture the bereaved. I have a few suggestions:

  1. Remember the loss. Write an email or send a note saying that you remember the person who died. Consider special anniversaries, holidays and birthdays. My sister gave me a Christmas card telling me that she made a donation in memory of Mary Rose on that first holiday without her. This meant so much.
  2. Say less. Don’t repeat platitudes such as “Time heals all wounds” (it does not) or “Be grateful for what you have.” A person who is grieving is not ungrateful. She has a broken heart. Instead of thinking in terms of one or the other (gratitude or grief) consider that the bereaved are both grateful for their blessings and mournful for their losses. The most comforting words spoken to me were “I don’t know what you are going through, but I am here for you.” Be honest. Speak from your heart. :Less is more. “I don’t know what to say,” is appropriate. It is your presence that matters most.
  3. Make small thoughtful gestures. Invite the bereaved for a cup of tea or a quiet walk. Stop by with a pot of soup or a book or plant. A quick email or text saying “I am thinking of you” weeks and months later means a lot.

In the aftermath of my own grief I realize that we have work to do to build our communities. It is my hope that together we can share our grief and our joys as we move forward after the tragedies that come to the living. I grieve, yet I love. I cry, but I laugh again. I hope that you will join me in reaching out to others and spreading love during the most difficult of circumstances.

 

Work Cited

McCracken, Elizabeth. An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination. New York, NY: Back Bay Books/Little, Brown and Company, 2010. Print.

August Book Giveaway on Goodreads

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Mary Rose’s birthday month is here and we are offering eight signed copies of Walking the Labyrinth of My Heart: A Journey of Pregnancy, Grief and Newborn Death this month on Goodreads. Enter to win a copy by CLICKING HERE:

Goodreads

 

 

Mother’s Day: Joyously Connecting with our Loved Ones in Spirit

IMG_2298for Nancy Eagle Spirit Woman

People are writing and posting about Mother’s Day and grief, about International Mothers’ Day for the Bereaved, which was celebrated last week, about the lack of response from our friends, family and community in remembering us during Mother’s Day. I have been thinking about how much importance we give one day, one holiday. I have decided to make a safe space for myself this Mother’s Day. I plan to stay home away from pregnant women and newborns who trigger my trauma. I want to be in my garden with mud underneath my fingernails. I want to be with my son, and I want to be with Mary Rose.

Instead of focusing on the separation that we feel from our loved ones in spirit, this year I will call Mary Rose to me. I will welcome her into my day as an ancestor of light and I will spend my day with both of my children. Lighting a candle is one way to remember our children. Planting a flower or plant is another. I will breathe deeply this Sunday remembering her small body, the sacred hour of her life here on earth, as I celebrate the life that she has now. I know that I will grieve my newborn’s death for the rest of my life, but I want to do so joyously. I cannot change the way that I see the world differently after holding life and death in my arms, but I can reinforce the love that deepens for my daughter. I will stay in a safe space where I can cry and remember my daughter while celebrating my continued role as her mother.

I am thinking more with my heart these days. My reality is shifting from a thinking place of lonely loss to a heart place of loving communion. This year I invite each of you whose children or mothers are not in an earthly body to celebrate anyway. It is my great hope that we can celebrate this Mother’s Day with tearful smiles and an understanding that the veil is thin, that our loved ones are still our children from their heavenly place, even the ones who were miscarried.

My connection to my daughter is deeper this year. She has been at my side as I wept and wrote her book that will soon be released by White Flowers Press. I have been through another year of milestones without her physical body, but she is here.

One night my son said to me “I feel Mary Rose in my heart. My heart is soooo big from the love of my sister.” She continues to be a part of our family. She continues to be my daughter. She is an intercessor helping us in our daily lives. I won’t be able to hear her whispers over the clatter and chatter in a restaurant, so I will be outside on our Earth celebrating quietly knowing that all life has its purpose and continues far beyond the life of the human body. I will listen to the birds’ songs, and notice the peony about to burst open. I too am open. Mary Rose, come…

 

Walking the Labyrinth of My Heart: A Journey of Pregnancy, Grief and Infant Death will be released later this month by White Flowers Press.

 

International Bereaved Mothers Day, Eastern Orthodox Easter and Mother’s Day

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It is May 1st and I am with my family celebrating Pascha or Easter. According to our tradition the Last Supper was during Passover and so our holiday comes after Passover each year. It is also International Bereaved Mothers Day, a holiday meant to support women whose children have died, started by Carly Marie. Today women who have faced miscarriages, the death of a child or infertility will be nurtured and remembered. Our Mother’s Day holiday excludes many including the infertile and bereaved, so Carly Marie started this new holiday. However, I’m not so sure that another holiday is what we need. Instead we can open our hearts as a community and remember those around us who suffer from losses with those who have not. If we are united as a community then my own grief is your grief, and we can share in love and joy and sadness together.

As I stood in front of the altar of Holy Trinity Church in Yonkers, New York, this morning, I lit one candle for the dead on one side of the holy doors and one candle for the living on the other side, my two children. I thought about my trisomy 18 communities and all the babies who died in the last few weeks. Some were born still, some lived for a moment. I remembered International Bereaved Mothers Day and I had to step outside the side door of church to catch my breath. I have been walking between the living and the dead for so long now it seems that the veil between the worlds is permanently thin. I live in a space with my living and my dead.

Next Sunday, May 8th, is Mother’s Day in the United States. I will stay home with my son and garden and go for a walk. I will remember Mary Rose and my son next Sunday, as I do every day. I cannot separate my own role as a mother to that of a bereaved mother today to celebrate Carly Marie’s day of remembrance, and then celebrate as a joyful mother of a living child next Sunday. I am one woman, and I wish that our culture could operate as one body where we can share our lives with our fellow co-workers, parishioners, friends, family, etc.

Who is the God does wonders? we sang in church today. Our God, our God, our God is so great who does wonders, we reply. Is Mary Rose a wonder of God? Is my dear, living son? I rejoice often that I was chosen to bear Mary Rose, and the grief that I live with, and will continue to live with, is the price I pay for being her mother. I rejoice often for my dear son.

We also sang Let us embrace each other joyously! this morning. This is my hope and my prayer for Pascha, for Mother’s Day. I pray that we can embrace each other joyously in both our sorrows and our joys. I pray that we develop communities that support each other united as one body, instead of comfortably staying in our cliques and rejoicing with new mothers of healthy living children while bereaved mothers and infertile women feel marginalized. We cannot only support people in their joy. We cannot only offer condolences in the aftermath of tragedy. Grief takes time to work itself through. We are all a part of this earth at this particular moment in time, and we can only heal together. May we learn to sit with each other in sorrow and in joy. May we offer love and tea. May it be so every day of the year.

 

For last year’s post Mother’s Day for the Bereaved click here: http://www.diannavagianos.com/blog/?p=95 I discuss celebrating with our loved ones who have died and connecting with their spirits.

Blessed Nativity, Thank You & One Request

IMG_1897As we come upon the Nativity of Christ I am thinking about the excitement when a baby is coming. What is it about a new soul entering our broken world that brings tears to our eyes? This holiday season there is much to be grateful for and much to ponder. I was recently listening to Krista Tippett’s unedited interview with John O’Donohue and he told her that it’s not the soul that is in the body, but the body that is in the soul. This has stayed with me as I remember my daughter, Mary Rose. Her soul was certainly bigger than her tiny body.

As we prepare ourselves in the way that humans in the West prepare for Christmas there is much doing. Christmas cards and cookies. Shopping and pageants. We Westerners have created a maddening spinning wheel called the holiday season just when our bodies want to slow down and understand the deep energy of winter. Yet in the midst of all of this I have found many quiet moments of deep breaths and tears, liturgical hymns and more tears. This second Christmas without my daughter I still weep remembering what could have been, what was and what is.

My family is coming as they came in the summer of 2014 to meet my daughter, only she waited weeks and they went back to their homes and their jobs, except for her granny who held her and saw. My family is coming again and this year we await the Christ child, the holy child whose Mother is mother to us all. I have cleaned a chandelier and vacuumed my car. I baked cookies and finally ordered Christmas cards. Once again a child is coming and people gather to worship the birth in churches and temples, around the tree, around the table.

It has been nine months since I launched this blog and birthed this book for Mary Rose and for mothers with fatal or difficult “diagnoses.” I want to pause at this moment to thank you, Dear Readers, for making this blog so successful. With no advertising we have had thousands of views and every day a steady stream of visitors are reading these words that struggle to make sense of what cannot make sense. Thank you for trusting me to do this work, for inviting Mary Rose into your hearts and homes. Thank you for your time, for your kind comments and messages, for your stories about your own loved ones in spirit. I have been thinking hard on the names of your babies and I want to honor them and you.

If you would like your baby’s name who has had a fatal/difficult diagnosis or who was born still or was miscarried in my book that is coming out this spring, please comment below with your child’s name. You can also send me a private message on Facebook or Twitter. The links are on this page. Please do so by January 11th.  I am hoping to arrange the names at the end of the book as a tribute. I have started a list. Ryder Chance, Bryson James, Grace Miriam, Siddha, David Isaac, John Gilbert, Zinnia Wild Grace…

You are in my heart as we continue to walk our path.  Today on the Solstice we pause, and then walk toward the Light. We have much work to do and we are blessed that we have each other to rebuild our communities, to hold each other’s hands and to breathe together the love that abounds all around us, from this earth and from the heavenly realms.

Many blessings to you as you breathe through the intensity of these days. We are one.  With all our children and loved ones who have moved into the heavenly realms, we are still One.

Navigating Through the Holiday Season After Infant Death: A Meditation on Joy, Interrupted

blog IMG_0163‘Tis the Season. For those of us who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth and infant death, how do we walk through the holiday cheer? It is the season for Christmas cards and sparkly cookies, parties and gifts. It is also the time of year when somehow the fact that the world keeps spinning without slowing down to acknowledge Mary Rose makes my heart feel a little more tender. This second year of holidays after my daughter’s death from trisomy 18 hurts. After two early miscarriages in July and October, the holidays feel raw and holy. I walk this path gently.

­My friend, Daniela, recently sent me the book Joy, Interrupted edited by Melissa Miles McCarter. I love the title: Joy, Interrupted. Even in the midst of my pregnancy with Mary Rose when I knew that she would die, there were moments of joy. Snuggles and kisses. Loving conversations. Moments of grace when those who love me did stand by me. A bit of community. Hugs. I continue to find joy even though it is interrupted by grief and longing.

In McCarter’s book she collects works of various genres including artwork. The stories of heartbreak and hope are poignant. I love the titles of the five main sections: No, Furies, Plea, Longing, Acceptance.  The editor’s own daughter, Maddie, died at six weeks of SIDS. She then experienced secondary infertility. McCarter’s pregnancy was not easy and it ends for her in the death of her baby. She put together this anthology to heal and offer healing to others. The book has a range of topics including infertility and death of the mother, as well as miscarriage, abortion, adoption, stillbirth, infant and child death. The essays by Gabriella Burman about her daughter, Michaela, who died suddenly at five years old, 12 days after her youngest sister was born, brought tears to my eyes. Michaela who had many challenges and delays is a beautiful girl and her eyes cut to my own heart. (There are a few photos in the back of the book remembering those whom the writers honor.) One essay by Gail Marlene Schwartz about her pregnancy with twins was also particularly touching. One of the twins has Down’s Syndrome. Instead of aborting Benjamin, who does not fit into his parents’ family, he is given up for adoption to a willing and waiting family. That which one does not want is another person’s miracle.

Reading this collection during Advent makes sense to me, because I keep pausing as I check in with my heart and inner knowing. I don’t want to be swept up into the insanity of this season without remembering my family in its entirety. Last December I was in a foggy daze, but I wanted to create a good holiday for my living son, so through my tears and heartache, I decorated a tree, took a family photo, sent out cards, and baked. But it hurt each step of the rocky, craggy path. It hurt and now I am here again. People say that time makes this pain better. I can say that I am not quite as shocked as I was last year. I can also say that I don’t cry hysterically as often, but my eyes tear up frequently as I open my heart again and again. With each opportunity to love another I open my heart to being broken again. I cannot build a fortress around my heart. As Marie Howe writes in her beautiful poem “What the Living Do,” “I am living. I remember you.”

Last year when I worked on our family Christmas card I included Mary Rose’s name on the card after my son’s name. The Armentrout family includes Mary Rose. Every time I sign a card with our family names without hers my heart aches. Perhaps I will change the wording this year to say something like “and Mary Rose, in our hearts” or “and our intercessor, Mary Rose.” I hope that for parents struggling with their footing on how to be a family with part of their heart in the heavenworlds that there is space to acknowledge all of the children, if that feels right, even if our family and friends do not speak their names any longer.

Our friend Annie made us our Christmas stockings last year. She knitted these huge, beautiful, homemade stockings and she knitted an angel on the back of each stocking to remember Mary Rose.  Mary Rose whose only Christmas on earth was that first year when I was newly pregnant with her. Isaiah’s Promise sent a handmade pink stocking with Mary Rose’s name on it and a small angel pin. This year I am thinking of putting something from Mary Rose to the other children in that stocking. If she is with us continuously and constantly, then what would be an appropriate gift to her brother and cousins? Chocolate? A sweet treat? Perhaps this will be a new tradition for me to keep her in the family, to weave her short life here into our longer lives on this earth.

Two years ago I bought a Christmas ornament from Brian Andreas and StoryPeople. It says “I carry you with me/into the world,/into the smell of rain/& the words/that dance/between/people/& for me/it will always/be this way,/walking/in the light,/remembering/being alive/together.” When I bought it I knew that my aunt would not live much longer. I unpacked the ornament last December after the year that changed everything. I wept because of the truth that now my daughter, that spark of life the previous December in my first-trimester was now somewhere else, not posing for photos under the tree, not growing, not here on this earth.

Last year my sister and her family made a donation to Isaiah’s Promise for Christmas in memory of Mary Rose. This meant so much. Perhaps this holiday season for those readers who know of a family who has experienced a baby death, a small donation and a card with the name of the baby could be offered. It is the speaking of the name, the acknowledgment of the life that we mothers seek. The comfort is in coming together as a community to celebrate our living and our dead, as we are intricately woven together, those still living on the earth and the ancestors of different generations here in their other-worldly presence.

As for the parties and the celebrations, I go to a few but give myself space to leave if I want to, to cry if that feels right. I was at a meeting this week and a tiny newborn girl with Mary Rose’s coloring was right behind me fussing and being a baby. I wanted to get up and leave, but I decided that I could make it through the two hours to be with my friends. Other times I just don’t face the world because I can’t. Cubby didn’t go near babies for two years after her beloved newborn, Francis, died. I navigate the best I can and hope that each of you readers has good support, warm tea, and the space to rest and grieve in your own time. It is so important to take the steps to rejoin the spinning world around us, but it is good to know one’s own limitations too.

This year as I prepare for Christmas, I am in a different space. I think of the Christ child whom we remember this Christmas. I think of Mary and how all mothers await their babies. I remember my anticipation waiting for Mary Rose.  A child is coming who promises peace and love to our broken world. Even in grief, the light settles in each day and a gerbera daisy blooms in December in my garden. Sister Evelyn of Mount St. Mary’s Abbey told me once, when my aunt was suffering from atypical meningioma, to look for the small miracles that surround the difficult situation. Around my aunt’s hospital bed many gathered. We shared chocolate. My son brought joy to her long days. She made us laugh until her very end. Indeed the miracles abound, but Sr. Evelyn tells us to look for them. It’s okay if our joy is interrupted by our grief, as long as we allow joy to come back again and again and again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving, Gratitude, Grief & a Book Review

free-clipart-thanksgiving-jixEMo9iEIn Sunday’s New York Times, Arthur C. Brooks’ op-ed “Choose to be Grateful. It Will Make You Happier” cites research about gratitude and “greater life satisfaction.”  Gratitude stimulates the brain. He writes “Choosing to focus on good things makes you feel better than focusing on bad things.” This is something that most Americans agree with, but where do grieving mothers fit in? Is remembering our children who are no longer here a sign of ingratitude? Last night I read Angela Miller’s post “Grateful and Grieving” from her blog A Bed for My Heart. She eloquently discusses her grief and how grieving is not a sign that we are not grateful.  Miller writes “It’s not one or the other. Yes I’m still grieving because I love and miss my son with every molecule in my body, but that doesn’t mean I’m not also deeply thankful for my blessings.”

Recently my mother went to a family gathering and an aunt asked her “Is Dianna still sad?” The answer is yes. Dianna is still sad. Others offer my mother advice for me. “It is time for Dianna to find closure.” “She needs to move on.” “She has a son.” One woman told me that I have to look at what I do have, not at what I don’t have. I have a living son and a daughter on the other side of the veils.

Two years ago I was newly pregnant at Thanksgiving feeling first-trimester sick. I was not thinking too much about the abstraction of who my baby would be. But I did think This is my second pregnancy. I’m done child-bearing after this. I imagined that I would birth a healthy child. I imagined that all would be fine. Now two years later that assumption no longer exists. This year I prepare for the Thanksgiving holiday with a gluten-free America’s Test Kitchen pie crust recipe, and my heart still hurts.

Brooks’ op-ed made me smile because I am so grateful for so many things like this cold New York evening and red leaves almost gone from their tree. I am grateful for my family and for my friends. I am grateful for my readers and this blog and the publisher who is waiting for my completed manuscript. I am grateful for Mary Rose, but can I also be grateful for trisomy 18? Can I be grateful that she had the life that she was given by God to fulfill her mission in this life and the next? Her 42 weeks inside me, and one hour outside.

I was recently asked “How old would she have been?” at my MOPS meeting. My eyes opened wide because I stopped my brain from thinking those thoughts. I do not let myself think about how many months Mary Rose would be or what she would have been doing. In August my husband said “She would have been walking.” And I turned to him and replied “But she would not have been walking.”  I cannot separate my daughter’s body from trisomy 18. But I quickly did some math in my head that Wednesday morning and answered with tear-filled eyes, “She would have been 15 months old.” My friend Terry came for a visit on her daughter’s birthday last week. We spoke about grief and life and anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder and our children. “Heather would have been 46 today” she said. Angela Miller writes about the empty chair “where my seven year old should be sitting…” And here we are living in this world of juxtapositions and paradoxes. Of reality and imagination. Of our children, who are still our children even though they are now ageless.

In Elizabeth McCracken’s memoir An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, she writes about her first son who was born still at 41 and a half weeks. Her pregnancy was a happy time.  There were no complications until he died in utero. McCracken stays on the practical, tangible side of her grief. She does not believe in God, which does not bother me per se, but when she speaks of her dead son, it is difficult for me to process death without the spiritual dimensions.  However, this book is valuable as an academic’s journey through grief. The writing is good and it is not a sad book. McCracken is honest and talks about her travels, her pregnancy and her expectations for her son. Some of her insights are so true and important, though I cannot relate to her decision not to take a photo of her son, or not to have her husband present at the delivery, or how instead of giving the boy one of the names that they picked out and were considering, they put Pudding on the death certificate, which was his nickname through the pregnancy. I chose a different path, but there is value to McCracken’s book even if she walked her child’s death differently. In truth we each walk this path the best way that we know in the moments of our grief.

In discussing her grief and other people’s sympathy, McCracken writes that “grief lasts longer than sympathy, which is one of the tragedies of the grieving” (80). Is that what this is? I think. The world moves so quickly around me and people want me to stop talking about my daughter who died even though she is still my daughter while I listen to them speak of their many living children. What negates my own daughter’s existence? And yes, my heart is still tender and raw and I do seek comfort. I want to make sense out of this trauma and grief and I cannot do it alone. McCracken speaks about the social aspect of the grieving parent after mentioning her pregnancy or her stillborn son to others. She writes “People changed the subject. They smiled uncomfortably…They didn’t mention it. They did not say, I am so sorry or How are you?” She goes on to discuss how surprised she was when people didn’t mention her son or pregnancy (92).  When I saw my uncle for the first time in over a year he did not mention my pregnancy or my daughter. Chit chat. Small talk. When someone asks how many children I have, I always mention Mary Rose. The person then looks at me in horror. A dead child! How could I speak it?

Later on McCracken beautiful and honestly writes

I’ve done it myself, when meeting the grief-struck…To mention it by name is to conjure it up, not the grief but the experience itself: The mother’s suicide, the brother’s overdose, the multiple miscarriages. The sadder the news, the less likely people are to mention it. The moment I lost my innocence about such things, I saw how careless I’d been myself.

I don’t even know what I would have wanted someone to say. Not: It will be better. Not: You don’t think you’ll live through this, but you will. Maybe: Tomorrow you will spontaneously combust. Tomorrow, finally your misery will turn to wax and heat and you will burn and melt till nothing is left in your chair but a greasy, childless smudge. That might have comforted me (94).

I was speaking to my friend Jenn about this very thing this summer. She says she doesn’t want to bring up the dead baby at work because she does not want to upset the mother. But the mother is never going to forget the baby. We remember our children living and dead, and for Jenn to tell her co-worker that she is thinking of her child is to acknowledge the child’s existence which is all we want.  We don’t get the milestones, the parties, the graduations, the holidays, so can our world give us that one acknowledgement of the existence of our children? This Thanksgiving, can we open our hearts to be grateful for the living and the dead? Can we make space around our tables for the memories of our children and other loved ones who have passed away? We remember the grandparents and parents and aunts, but when it comes to the children we do not want to speak their names. As McCracken says “The dead don’t need anything. The rest of us could use some company” (138).

There is one more thing that McCracken says that strikes a chord with me this holiday season. She speaks of her pregnancy to her second son, Gus, and says “there was nothing in my life that was not bittersweet. Every piece of hope was tinged with sadness; every moment of relief was lit on the edges with worry…. Of course [Gus] does not erase his older brother’s death” (183). So when we gather this holiday season, please don’t chastise a grieving mother or father or sibling for not “getting over it.” Please don’t insist that living children should fill the empty space of where the other child used to be. Let’s offer a smile and some kind words instead. There is no getting over the death of a child. Or anyone else for that matter. As Lucie Brock-Broido writes in her poem “Pyrrhic Victory,” “Some grief is larger than my body is.” Certainly this grief is larger than a month or a year, even when we are so grateful for so much.

Halloween

Halloween_symbols_like_the_jack-o'-lanternIt is the second Halloween without my baby girl. I have been thinking all day about my Facebook feed with pictures of adorable children in their Halloween costumes.  I love these pictures.  I enjoy seeing my friends’ children, my niece and nephew and cousins.  But today I did not post a picture of my son in his Martin Kratt bat creature power suit.  He gives me his three-year-old stink face smile as he sits on an excavator at Touch-A-Trucks in his costume and I snap another photo.  He holds my hand as we walk and trick-or-treat for the first time this evening.  We ring four doorbells and he is in awe of the bowls full of candy.  I did not post a photo of my son today because I’ve been thinking about the mothers who have had miscarriages and stillborn babies and babies who died after birth. I am thinking of my friends struggling with infertility and I’m thinking of the ones who are not here.  My Facebook page is blank today because I am holding the space for the ones we love who aren’t here.

“Halloween isn’t even a holiday,” my husband says to me when I tell him what is on my mind. But Halloween is a part of our American culture.  Tonight my pumpkins are in memory of the babies who are not here.  I know that they are very close to us.  In our hearts.  On our minds.  May our world remember us too:  the mothers and fathers and siblings who remember our own on the other side of the veils, even as the children around us squeal and laugh and shout “Trick or Treat!”

As night settles in around us my son holds my hand and the jack-o-lantern’s glow reminds me of my daughter, my love, my Light.