The last couple of weeks have been… bad.
We’re not okay. And it’s hard to suppress the passive aggressive urge in me to follow that statement up with a “not that you asked.” Because this is lonely. And the sky is raining shitcannons on us on an almost daily basis. And I’m not myself. And it’s not fair, and it’s not easy, and I just never want another person to feel like this ever again.
But that’s not realistic.
The specifics of what happened to us is so rare it’s difficult to find numbers on it, but the basics are more common than we really want to consider. Pregnancy loss happens to an estimated 1 in 4 pregnancies. Stillbirth occurs in an estimated 1 in 160 births (that number changes vastly by country) – roughly 24,000 couples in the United States will leave the hospital empty-handed each year. Unfortunately, it’s likely I won’t be the only person you know who loses their baby.
My previous post touches lightly on the things not to do when a loved one is mourning, written by the only perspective I have – my own. So, grain of salt and whatnot. I’ve given some thought to what we got from people that was helpful, or what we wish we had gotten. So this is that post.
What you can do
Send condolences.
We kept every card that was sent to us. To you, it may have just been a social courtesy. But I hope it’s more than that. Mourning a stillbirth is unique, because no one met Logan. No one even saw me super preggers in person. It probably never even sunk in for most people that a tiny human was supposed to join our lives. No one else realizes that there is a tangible hole in their lives where Logan will never be. I will say this another half dozen times in this post, but for us, any acknowledgement that Logan existed and is missed is precious to us, so the acknowledgment of his passing is just that – precious.
Send care packages.
Since the pandemic began, we’ve been “quarantining” our packages in our garage for 2-3 days so that whatever contents inside are no longer in danger of being a vehicle of the virus. On October 15th, we brought in several packages. One was a belated condolence card from an old friend from college who had just heard the news (we haven’t spoken in years, but she thought to send a note, and it was touching and I appreciate it so much – see “Send condolences.”). Another was a mystery. The return label was from Michigan – a place called “Nora’s Garden.”
Matt was in a meeting, but I sat down on the floor in front of him and I opened the package anyway, thinking perhaps someone sent us some seeds for our garden. I was sort of correct.
Inside was a care package, very obviously put together by someone who had lived through what we are currently trying to survive, or by someone who had closely witnessed such a loss.
Every single piece in this care package touched me so deeply. I had already been crying off and on for hours, unprepared for the impact of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. But this was a beautiful arc of catharsis that I so desperately needed – to feel understood when I didn’t even know what my own needs were.
I don’t know who asked Nora’s Garden to send the package, but I’m grateful.
The most important factor in care packages is the art of gift-giving: knowing your subject and applying that item(s) to them and their situation specifically. In this case, intent is appreciated, but applicability is vital.
Send food.
Or a gift card, but make sure it’s delivery. Or deliver it to their doorstep yourself and don’t require them to make niceties with you. Postpartum recovery for me was (is) brutal. Being in a car was literally physically painful. Most women won’t experience the complications I did (still am experiencing), but any woman who has given birth can attest that postpartum recovery is not a time for cooking or driving.
Offer help in specific ways – but leave it open.
I stated this in my last post, but losing your baby comes with a period of shock. Processing the reality that your child is dead takes every cell of your brain, because it’s unnatural. It’s not supposed to happen that way. Saying you want to help is so kind, and so appreciated, but now I have to figure out what you can do, and I’m currently trying to remember to put toothpaste on my toothbrush right now – I’m in no condition to make decisions. (Decision fatigue is a documented phenomenon.) Some people may not be like that – but we were. We didn’t know what we wanted, or needed. Give us options, then some neuron in our brains might spark – oh, yea. That. We need that. Okay.
Ex: “Can I make you some soup?” And then “Ginger chicken or black bean tortilla?” Narrow down the possibilities.
Ex #2: “Can I watch a movie with you? Aladdin or Tangled?”
Ex #3: “Can I take your dog for a walk or take the kids out for ice cream so you can get some quiet?”
Do unconditional check-ins.
The day I went in to be induced, I sent a note to a couple of my close friends who had been with me through my pregnancy journey to tell them that we’d lost Logan. I stated that I may disappear for a while. I was incapable of social interaction. I wasn’t even emotionally or mentally present in my own body at that time. I had burrowed away somewhere else.
A few weeks later, one of these friends and I discussed this sometimes awkward aspect of being an introvert who needs to withdraw and refuel in times of stress. As an introvert herself, she understands how it works, and told me that regardless of whether or not I responded, she would have continued to send a check-in every week or two, to give me the option of responding and to remind me that she was there and ready to talk when I was.
This is a part of the grief process that we don’t talk about enough.
It’s awkward – we think we shouldn’t check in and see how people are doing because we don’t want to “trigger them.” Thing is, they’re already triggered. What you’re really doing is protecting yourself from their grief (or rejection) and leaving them to believe you don’t care in the process. See how all of this is suddenly about you and your pride rather than their grief? If you send someone a message (something that puts control of the conversation in their hands) and you just say “Thinking about you and wondering how you’re doing” or “Just checking in – if and when you’re ready, I’m here,” you’re letting them know that you care, and you’re not tacking on any expectations.
Someone else’s grief journey is not your time for a power play.
Do the research.
If the parents have told you some term that you don’t know about, research it. If you don’t know how to help in the specific way the parents managed to communicate they needed help, research it. We’re in the Information Age, here, people – the world of knowledge at your fingertips. Find out about it before you ask, then use the information you know about them individually and apply what you’ve learned.
*Remember our baby.*
You may never have gotten to hold Logan or see a picture of him, but he was real. He was a tiny person who left a huge hole in our lives. And you may not really think about it this way, but if you are connected to us, he left a hole in your life too. He deserves to be respected and remembered as much as the next person does, especially by those whose lives he would have graced beyond our own. The idea that people we love are not mourning our son with us, in their own way (again, let me reference that letting the parents know that you are mourning their loss and making them feel your grief are two different things) is heart-wrenching. It demeans his memory, and belittles our grief.
There are a million blogs and articles out there on how to memorialize a lost baby. Much like the care package, you’ll have to find a few ideas and pick one that best applies to your loved ones (and yourself). You could ask how the parents would like for you to memorialize their child, but it’s best if you offer a few suggestions if you’re not sure. Decision-making in grief is already difficult, and asking someone else to put effort into a task is adding guilt, so don’t put all of the emotional labor of the task on them. This is about making things easier.
Donations are an easy one – to March of Dimes or Star Legacy. Other options are wind chimes you put up, and tell the parents you’ll think of their child every time they ring. My in-laws offered to plant a tree (I’m a bit of a tree-hugger, so this is perfect for me) and asked us to pick one out when we were ready. It was planted in early October and will eventually have a plaque and bench as well in Logan’s honor. Because of this tree, seeing red leaves will always make me think of Logan, and friends and family have recently started sharing photos of red leaves in the autumn change to commemorate him. It’s a comfort to me to know that there is a bit of the world that will allow me to feel closer to him, no matter where we are, and that he exists in other people’s minds, if only for the briefest moment.
There are other ways that will help us to remember him ourselves, but it’s valuable to us to see others commemorate him, because, again, they would have known and loved him too.
I know these topics aren’t the easiest. It’s emotionally challenging to think about our loved ones being in pain, and trying to find ways to be considerate of them and their needs, but it’s so important that we do.
