THIS is what I am about

It was by chance that my reading took me to this blog, where the babyloss-mama author had published this watercolor:




Rachel, the artist, recently suffered the loss of her daughter Lyra at 30 weeks due to placental abruption. Through her blog she is expressing her grief through not only words but also through beautiful drawings, paintings and other artwork. Her message is profound.

I've long struggled with how to explain to those outside the babyloss world just what exactly it is I'm trying to do here on my journey. And here, in a simple watercolor painting, I find the message so clearly.

THIS is our world, the world of babyloss. You see the grief and the pain obviously, but there's that other theme: isolation. It's a theme that I've seen time and time again as I've met other babyloss families, always there, always haunting them. Truly it's as common a thread between us as the grief itself.

Why is there isolation here?

Yes, some of it is self-created. I remember several months after we lost Aiden that I found myself just not wanting to talk to anyone about it. I was too tired and I didn't want to bring it up because I felt I couldn't handle going any deeper than I had already fallen. But that to me seems normal in any grief, and it didn't account for the entirety of the isolation.

There is more to it.

As a society in general, we treat babyloss as taboo. It's too terrible, too traumatic for us to process. So we repress it. Think about it - someone posts on facebook that it is the 5-year anniversary of their father's death, and what do the responses look like? They're supportive, understanding, hugging arms and loving notes, memories voiced to bring a smile. Now change it up and let's say the post is instead about the 5-year anniversary of their baby's death. Wholllleee different can of worms here. What do you think you'd see? Maybe no responses, no one is comfortable enough to "go there." Maybe just a vague indication of support. Or worse, words of "advice" pointing to all the good things in life now that suggest you "move on."

Over time I've come to understand for myself that by and large this double-standard is not the result of any harmful intentions. People just don't know what to say, or think it's most appropriate to stay out of what is "a private situation." Babyloss is simply too hard to handle.

What they don't realize is that by reacting in that way, we are inflicting this sense of isolation on hurting families when they need support the most. Support not just at a funeral, or a few days later, but forever. Just like you would for someone who has lost an older family member.

It should be just as OK to bring up memories of baby at a family Christmas gathering as it is to bring up memories of dear Aunt Jane. Otherwise, I feel we are contributing more to this isolation. Because parents are left dealing with a complex and lengthy list of rules that describe when it is and isn't OK for them to acknowledge their child.

Sometimes in my openness about Aiden's death I make people uncomfortable. I know that. And I also really think I know why it makes them uncomfortable - it's because they think the way we are supposed to handle it is by keeping it quiet and private, because that's what we do as a society.

But that's the exact reason why I am NOT closed about it. Because I feel so strongly that it's not only appropriate for that to change but that it NEEDS to change.

These families need to know that they are not alone.

And breaking this stigma doesn't need to be scary. It just seems scary when you don't know how to respond to someone who says they've lost a child.

So I am here, to be open and to demonstrate what I know is possible. What I have learned as a babyloss-Auntie. That this isolation doesn't have to be there. I'm here to show through my actions that there are appropriate ways to respond and support babyloss families. To show that it is perfectly acceptable to live in a household where memories of a baby who died are shared happily and without the uncomfortable silence. Where anniversaries are given their due, and a life is openly respected and honored as the gift that it was. To end the unnecessary isolation that only makes grieving more difficult.

THIS is what I am about.

My Wish

This last month has been an illustration of what I wish for all babyloss families.

We went to work, went home, bought groceries, cleaned, had some nights out with friends, gave the puppies their baths, I worked on our taxes. All pretty routine things one might think.

But what was different for us as we were doing these things, as we were living our lives, was that we found Aiden as a part of them, and it felt NORMAL. I can openly and freely say Aiden's name to my husband, and several close family members and friends. And he can be in a conversation. And there's not a taboo with it. He's just there. He's a part of us. He's a part of our lives. He is WITH us.

Last year in the deepest parts of the sadness I often read about people finding their "new normal." While I could understand what they were saying I don't think I really truly related to what that meant until now. I had always envisioned the new normal being terrible, and just sad and painful. I hadn't thought of the good parts.

Sure there is still sadness, and that loss and wondering what he would look like today, and how life would be different. But there is ALSO this happiness. This gladness that he WAS there, that he IS a part of our lives, and that nothing can ever take that away.

Having Aiden as a part of my life has brought me a lot of peace recently, in ways I didn't even expect.

And I truly do wish this on every babyloss mamma, and pappa, and grandma, grandpa, auntie, uncle, sister, brother, cousin, friend... Wishing you peace <3

No really officer, it's not crack, it's plaster of paris!

So there I was in the Olive Garden parking lot, suspiciously measuring out white powder into little baggies while my dad stood watch...

LoL that sounds just as sketchy as it probably looked while it was going on!

To start at the beginning... This past Monday I was up in Pennsylvania for a family event and I had decided to take the opportunity to make another delivery of Teddy Bear Tins to St. Luke's Hospital, which is in the area I was visiting. I had received tins from two artists and, already being in the area, thought it smart to hand-deliver the tins and save the cash that shipping would have taken. I hadn't had the time to assemble the kits yet, so I lugged my plastic bins of supplies up to PA with me and planned a stop at my dad's where he would help me put them together.

And truly, the plan was working just fine until shortly after 12:00, one hour before the time I was supposed to drop the tins off, when I discovered that I didn't have enough plaster of paris left to fill the kits. There lay 10 perfect little lids, drying in the sun from their coat of sealer, with their perfectly folded instruction packets and stickers on the back, with only 5 bags of plaster.

Now when I'm at home I know exactly where to buy my plaster of paris. After weeks last year of searching for just the right imprinting medium I finally found the right mix that dries in just the right amount of time and now I hoard it zealously whenever I have the chance. But up in PA? Nope, no idea where to buy it.

So, I spazzed.

Over the next hour my father drove my frantic butt across the better part of the Lehigh Valley until we finally, FINALLY found a craft store that carried the plaster. But then we didn't have enough time to go back home to finish the kits!

Which is how we ended up in an Olive Garden parking lot on the way to the hospital. And is why I was measuring suspicious white powder into little plastic baggies, while my dad stood watch.

Because how exactly would I explain to the police that "no this is not illegal drugs, this is plaster of paris and these are special kits for angel babies!"

As I spastically scooped the last few bags I wondered what the officer's face would look like after I gave that as my excuse. Would he tell his buddies back at the precinct about the "lamest excuse he'd ever heard from a drug dealer"??

But luckily the police did not come. And I did not have to defend my Teddy Bear Tins activity. :-P

Shortly after 1:00 we made it to St. Luke's and I successfully dropped off the tins. The ladies in the NICU even knew what they were when I walked in the door, even though they had never met me personally. And they said they use them, and they love them!

So between that, and the precious visual memory I have of my dad standing watch in the parking lot, I'd say it was a good day. :)