Our Culture Needs Rituals for When Babies Die

***Last week was the 10th anniversary of my son's stillbirth. For me, it was a life changing experience, and I haven't yet fully recovered from the tremors of that quake which shook me to the core. On Facebook, I'd written this note last summer in response to an article I heard on NPR. As a way of keeping all of my children's written memories collected in one place, I've decided to include this piece on my blog.****

August 28, 2011

The summer after River's stillbirth, I remember listening to a reenactor describe the death rituals of the Civil War era.  Among them, she said, was to cast a mold of the dead baby's face or body.  While the other people in the group gasped in disgust at something so morbid, I understood.  These customs were instructions for the family and friends to know how to act during a sad time.  

A picture of our little River many hours after his stillbirth. When he looked too much like the corpse he was, holding him became too sad for me.

During my shock in the weeks after River died, I thought over and over how I had no idea how I was supposed to act or what to do. And many dear people around me didn't know what to say to me or how to show their concern because River was born dead which didn't allow anyone else to know him.  I was the only one who'd been with him for those 41 weeks of his life.  It was awkward.  We all needed a manual for how to act after a prenatal death as people's awkwardness hurt my feelings.  Thankfully, enough loved ones took charge and organized a funeral for his burial because I doubt anyone today could understand why Liz had cast a mold of her 9 1/2 lb. beauty.

This morning, I heard a previously aired NPR article about this father's silent grief after the miscarriage of his baby.  Until my own experiences with both a stillbirth and two miscarriages, I know that I would have continued to treat other people's loss as if it was "no big deal" because that is exactly what I thought of those losses before my own.  Now I know that in addition to the pain of the loss, the loneliness surrounding these events magnifies the grief.  While I'm clueless to offer any suggestions as to what we should do for parents to have an outlet for their pain, I know that a funeral really helped my family.  The people who attended the funeral validated River's life and my loss.  It was therapeutic.

Over the last 9 years I've seen more support groups, memorial services, and online webpages where people can memorialize their babies who were lost either in the neonatal or postnatal stage.  Hopefully, this trend of an open display of emotions will influence our culture to reach out to those parents grieving the loss of a baby that no one ever had the chance to meet.

This is the transcript that I listened to.
From NPR's All Things Considered:

August 19, 2011

Ken Harbaugh is a former Navy pilot and an NPR commentator. 

 It has been three months since the miscarriage. We weren't far along, still in the first trimester, so only our closest friends knew we were expecting.

Annmarie, my wife, is fine. At least, her body is fine. There is something broken in both of us, though.

My wife and I have every reason to be grateful. The miscarriage happened early on. Annmarie was never in danger. We have two beautiful girls already. If we want, we can still have more. But the whole experience left us wondering how one deals with a tragedy that happens quietly at home.

A few weeks before we lost the baby, my wife's grandfather died. His funeral, like any other, was solemn. But also beautiful. Everyone came — all 10 kids, from across the country. Distant relatives, co-workers, people from church stopped by to pay their respects. They mourned alongside the family. We buried Grandpa Kel that afternoon, and woke the next morning with the memory of a beautiful send-off.

There is a reason that such ceremonies exist. Who knows if it meant anything to Grandpa, lying in his coffin, but it meant a lot to everyone else. I gave him my gold Navy wings, pinned to an American flag laid on his chest. He was the only other Navy pilot in the family, and I felt the need to solemnize that connection. Others said goodbye in their own way. Some talked to him, some knelt for a while by his side. Most important, we all said farewell together.

A miscarriage is tragic enough by itself. What makes it worse is the fact that no social custom has evolved to help us through the loss. There is no ceremony, no coming together, no ritualized support. Annmarie and I suffered alone, in silence. Most of our friends had no idea we were grieving. It took me two weeks to tell my own mom.

And it's not as if life stopped, or even slowed down to allow us a moment to reflect. We had jobs to get to, kids to take care of. Real sadness seemed an indulgence we could not afford.

In the months since, I have learned something about this kind of grief. It is not a luxury, but an essential part of healing. So this weekend, after the kids are in bed, Annmarie and I will do something that may seem a little crazy. We will head into the garden with a bulb we've been saving. We will bury it, say a few words, and hold each other. We will finally have our ceremony.

I suspect that watching the first green shoot push up through the earth will hurt. Every time we see it, we will be reminded of what happened to us. But that's alright. Grief cannot be buried forever. With enough time, and a little sunlight, it might just transform itself into something that aches a little less.

Here's the link if you'd like to listen to the father read his article:
http://www.npr.org/2011/08/19/139650471/after-miscarriage-missing-the-luxury-of-grieving