May the Odds Be Ever in Your Favor

In the dystopian trilogy, The Hunger Games, twenty-four children (two from each of 12 districts) are reaped into a televised war, in which only one survives–the victor. At age 16, Katniss Everdeen has 20 entries in the reaping bowl. At age 12, her sister, Primrose, has only one entry. Collins doesn’t tell us the number of children eligible for reaping in District 12, so we don’t know what Katniss’s or Prim’s odds of getting reaped are, only that Katniss has a higher chance than Prim. And yet, Prim is reaped

May the odds be ever in your favor.

My daughter loves Candy Land. We have both the original and the Princess version. (Yes, there is a Princess Candy Land, which, has nothing to do with candy at all). I am continuously reminding her that there are no skills involved with Candy Land, it’s just “luck of the draw.” When it’s your turn, you choose a card and that’s the space you move your gingerbread guy (or princess) to. No, it’s not always fair–luck of the draw.

When I was a kid, there were these books, Choose Your Own Adventure. My recollection of these books is there would be a scenario presented and then the reader would get to choose the next part of the story. I hated these books. Inevitably, I would choose one path, turn to page 11, only to find myself in some horrific mess. Quickly, I would turn back to page 6 and choose a different path, seeking a happy ending.  My brain replays, like a movie, scenes of my pregnancy as though I were living in one of these books.

You’re pregnant! If you opt to seek care through an ob-gyn, turn to page 22, if you opt to hire a homebirth midwife, continue reading.

At 37 weeks gestation, you wonder if your baby is moving enough. If you opt to go the hospital, turn to page 14, if you opt to stay home and hope for the best, continue reading.

As a non-smoking, non-drinking, non-drug using mother without diabetes or high blood pressure, the odds of delivering a living baby were good, we could even say the odds were ever in my favor.

But somehow, my name was drawn from the reaping bowl.


Support Groups

One of the first things I did after the birth and death of Corva, was seek out support. I wanted to know–no I needed to know–that there were others surviving this nightmare. The hospital had given me contact information for a local support group, but I actually knew of the group’s existence prior to my loss. As a WIC nutritionist,  I referred clients to the group, not frequently, but often enough considering the 1 in 4 statistic.  I didn’t really know what the group did though.

The support group in my area specific to baby loss welcomes bereaved parents who have lost a baby at any gestational age, and after birth up until age one.  They meet monthly. The first meeting post loss arrived ten days after Corva’s delivery. I went, though it was the same day that earlier, in my grief stricken state, I left my purse in a friend’s car and it was stolen (the purse, not the car). So it had been an exhausting day, complete with a panic attack and a police report. There was one person at the group that night–Elisha–and I found immediate comfort from her. She sat with me for over an hour and for that I am forever grateful.

After that initial meeting, I attended four more meetings. I also went with several other moms to get coffee, attended a butterfly release and a social dinner out.  In October I attended a remembrance walk for infant loss awareness month.

Then I started to feel angry and frustrated.

First there was the prayer. Now, I’m not a stranger to prayer; after all I pray everyday, to a God  I ambiguously believe in, that I will die before my eldest daughter. At this walk in October, a board member of the support group, we’ll call her Jenny, said some touching words then invited her husband to say a prayer before the walk. This fueled so much anger within me.

Then I started reflecting on the stories. I’m not saying that my loss is worse or greater or more painful than anyone else’s. I only say the following because I cannot relate to these losses. Each month at support group, we went around the circle, saying our name and “as much of your story as you wish to share.” I got so tired of hearing those stories. (All names have been changed). There was Ashley, one of the leaders, who portrays her loss as further along than it actually was. Jenny, who lost her daughter with congenital defects at 19 weeks. Shaina, who delivered prematurely due to complications of preeclampsia at 23 weeks but whose son lived for 10 days. Tara who experienced an ectopic pregnancy in the first trimester. And Elisha who lost her beautiful twins at 20 weeks due to an infection.

And then there is me. Me, who carried my beautiful wanted baby for 40 weeks. Me, who had no complications during that time. Me, whose baby was healthy and growing (until she wasn’t). Me, whose baby lived only inside me, who did not get any sort of acknowledgment of life.

Elisha was the mother who was present at my first meeting. She was the one who was there for me, the one I connected with by default. On that unusually hot day in May, she was the one who watched my tears fall, who listened without judgement. She was the one who demonstrated survival.

Elisha’s story is complex–and it’s not mine to share. And, although, I am thrilled that she is carrying a successful pregnancy, it hurts to no end that she is due May 5, 2018–almost exactly one year (May 8, 2017) after my due date for Corva. I just can’t bring myself to watch her growing belly each month at a support group for infant loss.

So I stopped going.

Tell me about your in-person support groups.

Marking Time

Monday January 8, 2018  is an odd sort of coincidental date of triggering thoughts and feelings. First, it is a Monday, marking 35 weeks since Corva was delivered. Second, this 8th of January marks 8 months since the birth of my youngest daughter.

Although Corva was born on her due date, technically she was inside me for 38 weeks. This means that in three weeks, on Monday January 29 (or, likely, Saturday January 27th), Corva will have been dead for as long as she was alive

This weekend was particularly difficult for me. With the days lining up precisely as they did in May 2017, I was reminded on Friday January 5th that Friday May 5th was my last day of work. And on Saturday January 6th I remembered that on Saturday May 6th I insisted that my husband go to urgent care after days of illness and severe abdominal pain. On Sunday January 7th I remembered that on Sunday May 7th I picked my husband up from the hospital after his night spent in observation,  conscious of the fact that the very next day was my due date, oblivious to the fact that my daughter had likely already passed away. Last night I recalled that 8 months ago, I fell asleep cuddling with my then-3-year old only to awaken in the night with labor pains. I wasn’t concerned only excited. Was she moving? I don’t recall, though now I can say, likely not; testing indicates Corva likely passed a couple days prior to birth.

This is how I mark time now. By Mondays and 8ths. And I wonder if it will always be this way.

Woke up and wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you’d gone
And let the world spin madly on.



Would She?

It has been six months; six months since I delivered my unbreathing baby. I can’t help but constantly think how my life would be different had she lived. She would still be nursing (likely–I nursed A for….awhile). Would she tug my hair while nursing? Would she like avocado? What would she think of a cup? Would she be rolling across the living room rug? Army crawling? Would she watch my hands carefully as I signed “more”, “cat”, “mama”, “daddy”, “sister”? Would her eyes twinkle with interest while her older sister showed her pictures in a book? Would she have used a pacifier?

How would I be filling my days? Would I be at home with C, occupied with cloth diaper-washing and trips to the library and park, attempting to squeeze in a nap before having to pick-up A from pre-k? Or would I be working? Would I be in this new job? Or would I have stuck with my old job? Would I be trying to work full-time while parenting a baby and a four-year-old? Would I be pulling my hair out, exhausted, not realizing how fortunate I was to have two living children? If I wasn’t working, would money be tight? Would I be budgeting carefully for the holidays?

I never had a chance to live this imagined life. I remember, in the initial shock of the first few days, commenting to my midwife “….but I had plans…” I remember her, gently asking “what kind of plans?”. Even then I remember thinking: What a dumb question. What kind of plans? What does she mean what kind of plans?

When a woman is pregnant (and my midwife was pregnant with her 4th child), she makes plans. When those plans are buried and cremated with her baby, the ashes turn into what-ifs? and would-(s)hes?.

What if she lived? Would she look like her sister?

Does she know she is loved?

What what-ifs? and would-(s)hes? replay through your mind?

BeFunky Collage

(My oldest daughter, A, Oct-Dec 2013–5 months-7 months)





I’ve never been much for swearing but I’ve noticed that since Corva died, I’ve been much more willing to let a fuck fly from my mouth. Usually under my breath and never in front of my living daughter, but still….

I wonder if this stems from anger? Grief? Or just the realization that after one delivers a dead baby, bad language is futile.

How the fuck did this happen?

What the fuck? My baby died.

Why the fuck?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 



There’s no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were. —Dwight D. Eisenhower

Lately, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the phrase bereaved mother. Unlike some, who become mother and bereaved mother simultaneously, my experience was subsequent–my eldest daughter made me a mother first and then my second daughter made me a bereaved mother. A co-worker recently made a comment on my Facebook page “Hope to see you soon…really miss your humor.” I thought to myself: Who am I now? Do I still have a sense of humor? How has becoming a bereaved mother changed my identity?

When I became a mother four years ago it was life-changing. My birth experience, while not exactly what I had planned, was empowering. I cherished every moment of my maternity leave–waking in the dark summer night, nursing my baby, listening to the frogs, owls, and our neighbors’ new puppy. Yes, I was tired (exhausted). Yes, my days were filled with loads of laundry, explosive diaper changes, and lots of spit up. But I loved nursing my baby. I loved watching her sleep. I loved adorning her in beautiful summer dresses (we had many outfit changes, you know, because of the explosive diapers and the spit up).

Delivering my second daughter was also life-changing and empowering.  And devastating. When I heard those words “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat,” I immediately thought, I want a C-section. This was not offered to me and I was told that it was better for me to deliver naturally. My brain knew this but my heart, my heart could not comprehend how I was going to do what was being asked of me. Since surgery was off the table, I decided I wanted whatever medication they would give me. Upon admission, my nurses hooked up my saline lock and administered Stadol to alleviate some of my discomfort. By the time the anesthesiologist came to my room several hours later, it was too late to get any additional medication. After 24 minutes of pushing, there she was, all 7 lb 2 oz of beautiful baby girl. I had a new word to describe myself. I would continue to be woman, daughter, wife, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, aunt, and mother. Now I was also bereaved mother.

Commonly referred to as “the club”, I have seen many variations: Bereaved Mothers’ Club; Loss Mama Club; The Club Nobody Wants to Join; and others which include fathers and tease out specifics between miscarriage to stillbirth to losing an adult child.

I recently observed two women–years out from their losses–commiserate about a constant feeling of absence. They spoke of a need to continue having babies because of this hole, this knowledge that a child is missing from their family. Always missing yet irreplaceable. And then it hit me:

I will be a bereaved mother for the REST OF MY LIFE.

This is part of me, part of who I am and I am powerless to change it.

A great comfort to me is knowing that I am not alone. There are others who have gone before me (and unfortunately, more will follow). This is a disturbing thought–to gain comfort as a result of other parents’ heartache–though I have been told that it is “normal.” I get more comfort from my support group than my therapist. I now belong to a multitude of “loss” and “grief” Facebook pages. I love reading all of your blogs. And after watching the movie Jackie, I wanted–needed–to know who else has survived this tragedy of child-loss.

Legendary Jackie Kennedy suffered a stillbirth, a miscarriage, and the death of Baby Patrick at two days old.  The singer Annie Lennox delivered  a stillborn son, Daniel. Gladys Presley delivered twin boys–one stillborn (Jesse) and one living (Elvis). Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower lost a son, Doud “Ikky” to scarlet fever when he was just 3 years old. Mary, became a bereaved mother when her only son, Jesus, was publicly executed at the age of 33 years.

My own grandmother (who died before I was born) was a “Loss Mama.” My mom rarely speaks of an infant brother who passed away at 7 weeks of age in 1955. After my own experience, she told me it was the only time she ever saw her daddy cry. Two of my mom’s aunts were pregnant that summer and my grandma was trying to be happy for her sister and sister-in-law while her own baby boy was in the ground. “My poor mother,” said my own mom, “my poor daughter.”

What in your life has changed the most since the loss of your beloved? Have people in your life made comments on how you are a different person now? Do you view the changes as positive, negative, both, or neither? What do you call your “club”?


35 Songs for a Grieving Parent

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” ~Maya Angelou

I’ve been moving rapidly through the Stages of Grief and what better way to commiserate than to turn up the music and cry (or scream or throw things or sob into pillows, well I think you have the general idea).  My current favorite is #29 below, “Stars” by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. This really speaks to what my heart is feeling right now. If you are so inclined to listen to a truly gorgeous version, click here

I would love, love, love to know what songs are resonating with you as you journey through your own personal hell (I mean grief). Please comment below. 

  1.  A Falling Through–Ray LaMontagne
  2. All of the Stars–Ed Sheeran
  3. Angel–Sarah McLachlan
  4. Ave Maria–Beyonce
  5. Beam Me Up–P!nk
  6. Dancing in the Sky–Dani and Lizzy
  7. Elizabeth, You Were Born to Play That Part–Ryan Adams
  8. Emma’s Lullaby–Kenzie Nimmo
  9. Far Away–Nickelback
  10. Fly–Celine Dion
  11. Fly Away–Amy Lynn
  12. Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)–Dixie Chicks
  13. Gone Too Soon–Simple Plan
  14. Held–Natalie Grant
  15. I Want You Here–Plum
  16. I Will Carry You (Audrey’s Song)–Selah
  17. I Will Follow You Into the Dark–Death Cab for Cutie
  18. I Will Follow You Into the Dark (Cover)–Jasmine Thompson
  19. I Will Not Say Goodbye–Danny Gokey
  20. I’ll Be There–Escape Club
  21. If I Die Young–The Band Perry
  22. Let It Be–The Beatles
  23. Lullaby–Dixie Chicks
  24. Not Right Now–Jason Gray
  25. One More Day–Rocket Club
  26. Safe & Sound–Taylor Swift with The Civil Wars
  27. See You Again–Carrie Underwood
  28. Smallest Wingless–Craig Cardiff
  29. Stars–Grace Potter & The Nocturnals
  30. Still–Gerrit Hofsink
  31. To Where You Are–Josh Groban
  32. Waiting on an Angel–Ben Harper
  33. When a Heart Breaks–Ben Rector
  34. When You Come Back Down–Nickel Creek
  35. Winter Song–Sara Bareilles, Ingrid Michaelson