Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Max's Footprints in our Sand

This beautiful story was sent to us by DeAndrea Dare as she is Remembering Anderson Maxwell Graham, March 12, 2013

When my husband Aaron and I first started dating, we were thrilled to discover that we shared a love of travel.  As soon as I found out I was pregnant, we began to dream about all of the places we would visit with our baby, all the adventures we would take and all of the sites that we would see through the innocent eyes of a child.  

We bought a new camera at Christmas so we would have plenty of time to learn how to use all of the features in time for the baby's arrival.  Never did we dream that our lives would turn out much different than we could have ever imagined.  Max was born in the early hours of March 12, 2013 at only 28 weeks due to a placental abruption.  I remember Aaron placing our beautiful Max in my arms and with tears running down his face he said, "Wherever we go, whatever we do, we are always going to think about how he should be with us."  As I recovered at home from the emergency surgery and tried to tread the waters of grief, I searched the internet for ways to honor my baby boy.  I found artists who made jewelry for me out of his hand and foot prints.  For Mother's Day, friends gave me bracelets with his name on them.  And then a friend sent me a link to an etsy site, where I could have his prints made into a stamp.  My friend suggested that I could take it with me to special places.  I began to think about how I could physically leave his 'mark' wherever I went.  I contacted the etsy shop owner and shared with her Max's story.  She was so kind and agreed to make the stamp of his feet for me.  And, so it began that Max's mark began being stamped all over the country.  

His footprint is stamped and painted on a Heart Stone and is placed at the Bridge of Hope at Faith's Lodge in Wisconsin.  His feet are stamped on the threshold of my parent's home in Louisiana.  Last year his feet were stamped on a prayer flag that flew on the top of Cadillac Mountain in Maine at sunrise.  My favorite place and experience so far was stamping his feet in the sand in South Carolina.  We woke up at sunrise and headed to the beach.  It was incredibly peaceful as the sun began to peak out from the soft fluffy clouds.  The pastel colors were nearly the shades of a baby nursery.  The water gently made its way up onto the beach and then quietly flowed back out to sea.  I found a stick and began to write his name in the sand.  As I wrote the letters, I was filled simply with peace.  And then I began to stamp his feet, one by one, side by side in a walking pattern as if he were running on the sand and having his little toes tickled by the foaming water for the first time.  Tears crept into the corner of my eyes but I also smiled.  The joy that I felt while I carried him inside of me began to return.  Print by print.  The grief that, at times, had felt like a tsunami overwhelming me somehow gave way in those moments to a gentle softness that filled me once again with a love that no words could ever describe.  My husband and I looked down and the tiny prints of our son who changed our lives, made us parents, created a family and left a legacy that is still unfolding.  My friend, holding the camera that we bought at Christmas, which we thought would be taking a picture of the three of us on the beach one day, still took a picture of the three of us, just in a different way.  The wind blew in wild gusts and our hair flew around like mad.  We knelt down behind his name, looked up at the camera...and smiled.  We were overwhelmed with love, filled with joy, finding a little peace and being surrounded by Max's spirit that could not be contained in such a little body.  I look back at that picture all of the time.  It was a turning point.  Those tsunami waves still come from time to time.  I still wish I could hold him in my arms and not have to stamp his feet.  But, he goes with us, we carry him in all of our moments in all of our travels and his little footprints are on our hearts forever and can be found wherever we are and where ever we go.  

Sunday, August 10, 2014


This beautiful article was written by Share's Program Director, Rose Carlson.

One of my favorite things about my job at Share is a burial service and ceremony we host four times each year for babies who were miscarried at three of our local hospitals. It is one of my favorite things because I know how much something like this would have meant to me many years ago when I experienced my own early losses, and I do all I can to make it memorable and meaningful for the families who attend. Over the years I have planned and attended this ceremony, I have been incredibly blessed to meet so many parents and their extended family members who have shared countless touching stories with me—stories of their own losses and how healing it would have been for them to also have a service such as this. It is held at a local funeral home/cemetery, and while each grave is not marked, there is a monument of a kneeling Rachel from the bible next to a plaque that reads, “Our hopes and our dreams lie here.” 
I have always loved that. It is so fitting for someone who has experienced the death of a baby, especially early in pregnancy. Oftentimes, others do not understand the depth of grief a parent feels when a baby dies early in a pregnancy, and this plaque says it all—because not only has a baby died, but the hopes and dreams the parents had for that baby, perhaps from the moment the pregnancy was confirmed, died as well.

Our summer service was a few weeks ago. It is a simple, short ceremony that consists of poems, songs performed lovingly by a bereaved mom whose son died 13 years ago, comforting words from one of our hospital chaplains and a graveside balloon release. This time, as I listened to the speakers and poems and songs, for some reason, I found it hard to hold back tears. It is rare that I cry at this ceremony, but when I do, it is usually because there is someone in attendance whose situation reminds me of my own. More typically however, I hold off my tears until I am in my car on the way home. That was not the case on this particular day…I didn’t know the story of anyone who was there, yet I found myself fighting tears anyway, especially when I looked at one young couple who was especially distraught, crying loudly and holding each other tightly. So that others wouldn’t see that I was crying, I looked down at the floor.

As in most funeral homes, at least those I have been in, the d├ęcor is fairly ornate. I have been in this funeral home many times, not only for the Share burial service, but also for the funerals and calling hours for people I have known as it is one of the most “popular” funeral homes in my city. But on this day, as I stared at the floor, I noticed something I never paid attention to before: The patterns on the carpet. There were several different shapes scattered about in shades of green, burgundy and gold, and they reminded me of the varying patterns in a kaleidoscope. The more I stared at my feet, and the more I examined the details of the carpet, the more my mind drifted, and I considered the ways a kaleidoscope is similar to grief and life after ones baby dies.

A kaleidoscope contains many different pieces, colors and gems, and while the pieces and colors stay the same, even a minuscule turn of the wheel causes each little fragment to combine in a way that makes something unique and unexpected. 

As I stared at the carpet, I thought about how the same can be said for grief. The “parts” are often the same even though life has completely changed. People in one’s life are the same-- friends, family members, acquaintances, neighbors, coworkers. Situations and circumstances are likely the same--going to the grocery store and Target and preschool and the park and evening walks. I thought about how even though the same “parts” are always there, one little twist or turn of events can cause those parts to tumble and change into something completely different from what appeared before the twist.  I thought about how when you turn the end of a kaleidoscope, some patterns and configurations are prettier than others, and you never know what you’re going to see. The same can be said for grief:  Sometimes, the twists and turns reveal something you do not like, something that angers you even. Other times, the twists and turns reveal something beautiful that you weren’t anticipating. And, most definitely, when you are in the depths of grief, you never know what to expect from the twists and turns each new day brings.

When I was at home later that afternoon, I couldn’t get the thoughts of a kaleidoscope out of my mind, so I sat down at my computer and began Googling to see if there is some symbolic meaning in kaleidoscopes.

Well, lo and behold, there is!

I read a handful of articles, all of which discussed metaphors that relate to kaleidoscopes. I could connect most of them to what parents undergo after the death of their baby, and I began to feel less crazy for the thoughts I had about kaleidoscopes as I stared at that colorful kaleidoscope-y carpet.

New beginnings emerge from the breakup of past forms

Wow. How true is that?
 I’m not sure there is anything that causes a new beginning for a person more than the death of a child does. Over and over I have read, been told by so many bereaved parents, and even learned myself from firsthand experience that life is often abruptly divided into “before” and “after.” While the people in your lives may stay the same, relationships are often forever altered. Frequently, those changes are for the better, but just as often, they are not. It is not uncommon for grieving parents to see people and relationships in new and surprising ways after the death of their baby. The people are the same, but a slight turn of events, even words, can shift lives and relationships into something else entirely.

All things turn and spin and change, endlessly rearranging themselves

Again, how perfectly does that fit with the way grief evolves and in the process, transforms the grieving parent and often everything about the bereaved parent’s life? Grief is made up of so many different emotions and thoughts, and they are ever changing, not only from one week or day to the next, but often from one hour or minute to the next. Again, the pieces of your life likely stay the same, the people involved may stay the same, but they are constantly rearranged into different patterns based on seemingly innocent situations. One day, grief may be triggered by a song on the radio, another day that song may not have an impact, but a random encounter in the grocery store can bring you to your knees. A loved one who you were once close to may be unsupportive and irritated with the way you are grieving, yet a mere acquaintance may pleasantly surprise you with kindness, compassion and concern. This rearranging of the usual order of your life can make you feel out of sorts, confused and frustrated.

Change evolves from chaos

Is there anything more chaotic and upsetting to the routine of one’s life than the death of a child? I think not. Some of the most profound changes that a person can undergo are those that occur after the death of a baby. Your life may have felt neat and tidy, going according to plan, when your whole world was abruptly and violently shaken, turned upside down--crushed and destroyed. Your life and world likely seem chaotic with everything out of control, and profound changes will inevitably occur.
I found this especially meaningful when thinking of bereaved parents:

The patterns of a kaleidoscope, a succession of interlinkings, are unified into one whole. Each piece is a vital part of that whole, no matter how small. Take one piece away and the image is not quite the same.

I pondered that one for quite some time.
Using that image, a kaleidoscope is not only a metaphor for grief, but also for the entire experience of life after the death of a baby. If one were able to pop open a kaleidoscope and remove a piece then put it back together, that kaleidoscope would never again be the same, though from the outside, it would appear unchanged. After the removal of that one piece, no matter what pattern is created after each twist and turn, that missing piece will forever affect the entire kaleidoscope. While beautiful patterns will still be created, they will always be different than what would have been created had that one tiny piece not been removed. Your baby, no matter how small, will always be a vital, missing piece of your whole. You and your family may look the same from the outside, as if you have been “put back together.” Yet, while the pieces of your life will change and evolve in many different ways, sometimes beautiful, amazing, breathtaking ways, there will always be one crucial piece missing that will forever affect the whole of your life. While there will still be lovely moments, moments of peace, even moments of joy, that missing piece has forever changed your kaleidoscope.
I want to end this with something I read in one of the articles that I find especially significant. The author wrote:

The tumbling pieces are held together by a protective circle.

Again, I found that applicable to the experiences of a grieving parent. The protective circle, which typically has a huge impact on the ways a bereaved parent grieves, begins to heal and eventually finds new hope is formed by your loved ones. Your protective circle also will evolve and change as time goes on. It’s not uncommon for those who were supportive and enveloping with their compassion for you to fade away and be replaced by someone new, maybe a support group or new friends who have been where you are, someone who becomes an integral part of your protective circle. That protective circle is a crucial part of your story, of your baby’s story, of your ever-changing yet still beautiful kaleidoscope.

Friday, July 25, 2014

My Miscarriage: Coping {Part Two of Two}

This article was submitted by New Orleans Moms Blog and written by Amanda Bensabat. 

My Miscarriage: Coping {Part Two of Two}


baby3pt2finalI know my last post was not a happy one as I wrote a letter to the baby I will never hold. But this thing that happened to me, I have learned, will be something I carry for the rest of my life. Sure, the sharp, painful edges will blur and soften with time, but the wound will never heal completely. I feel compelled to follow up on my previous post after so many of you reached out to me. High school friends and acquaintances who I have not spoken with in years were sharing their personal stories of similar grief. I had no idea that so many women I knew had experienced what left me feeling so isolated and alone.


Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Traveling with Memories

This article was written and submitted by Share board member Meredith Byers.  

Summer is beginning, and many families are making vacation plans - either to travel somewhere by car or plane, or to enjoy a "staycation" and take in a local activity. Our family's summer plans include travel in Missouri as well as Texas, and like many Share families, our plans include a time to make memories with both our living children and our angel Samuel.

Our son Samuel was born still in April 2007. Before that time, our vacations were usually excursions for rest and relaxation, a new adventure or experience, or a working trip with some sightseeing and good food squeezed in. After Samuel's delivery, everything in our world, including our future travels, changed dramatically. Derek and I grieved intensely for weeks after coming home from the hospital without Samuel. We eventually began to realize that we needed to "get away" just for a little while to gain some shelter from the storm of feelings that were controlling our lives. Our oldest son, Wyatt, was 2 and loved trains, so we traveled to Colorado over Memorial Day weekend to explore and ride trains there. We brought our new camera, meant to be filled with photos of a new baby, and instead filled it with photos of us riding a train through Freemont, CO, in the snow (we weren't expecting snow in May!). This trip was our chance to hide in a world that wasn't raw with feelings for Samuel for a few days and hunker down with just ourselves. When we returned home, I made a photo book of the Colorado train ride for Wyatt to enjoy. When I look at that book now, it's filled with memories for me - I look swollen in my postpartum state, Derek looks tired and worn, and Wyatt's chubby cheeks are lit with excitement from the ride. I can still feel Samuel in those pictures.

Since then, we haven taken many trips as a family for various reasons, and each time we try to do something or find something that reminds us of Samuel. We have found a seashell on a South Carolina beach, a handmade bowl from a market in Georgia, an Asian ornament in San Francisco, and a Zuni mother-of-pearl butterfly from Santa Fe. Samuel is our butterfly, and we often look for butterflies and butterfly objects in our travels. We feel like Samuel is with us when we see a butterfly, and Derek feels closest to Samuel when he is outdoors under a blue sky. We have many butterflies on our shelves, our walls, and even in Samuel's garden in our backyard to remember him.

We have been blessed with two more living children since we lost Samuel, and all three kids enjoy looking for special treasures on our trips to put on Samuel's shelf when we get home. They recognize that these items are part of our family and part of our memories, and they value these objects and their meaning as much as I do. Our daughter Shiloh feels a special connection to butterflies also. On our recent visit to the Laumeier Art Fair on Mother's Day, she picked out a small drawing of a butterfly for her room. I think that she feels the memory of Samuel in this drawing. Our youngest, Ryder, is filled with charm and mischief, and his treasures usually reflect his spirit of play - a ball, a well-loved toy, even a shiny coin - and remind me of his angel brother.

We are driving to Branson today for a long Father's Day weekend vacation - we will do a little boating and fishing on Table Rock Lake, enjoy some amusement park fun at Silver Dollar City, and snuggle up around a campfire. Most importantly we will be looking for a treasure to remind us of our family. We will celebrate our living children, mourn our angel baby, look for butterflies, and make memories for now and always. 

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Accepting submissions for the upcoming magazine...

We are now accepting newsletter submissions for the September/October edition. The topic is "When Children Grieve." The deadline is August 15.

While children may grieve just as intensely as adults, they are often called the "forgotten grievers." When their baby sibling dies, they may experience a myriad of emotions and reactions to the death. This issue will share ways families have helped their child move through his/her grief, including the difficulties. Parents are encouraged to share their children's art projects, writings and/or poems and other creative ways their children have dealt with their sibling's death. Finally, if you are a professional who works with grieving children, we would like to share any tips or words of wisdom you have to offer grieving parents.

If anyone is interested in submitting for this issue, please email Rose Carlson, rcarlson@nationalshare.org.