on family dynamics

Throughout the month of January, our regular contributors are writing and talking about family--both the family of origin and the family we select as adults through our friends. The ways in which our family can be there, and the way they can't, after the death of our child(ren).

1. What was  your relationship with your immediate family (mother, father, sisters and/or brothers) like before your child died? How have those relationships changed?

 Angie: I have always been very close to my family. Before and after.

 Josh: I have always been close to my parents. Losing Margot hasn't changed this.

Jess: We are a big rabble of lovely chaotic familiness, that hasn't changed. I think the changes are deeper than that. Probably deeper than I can see or even care to look for.

Julia: We'd had our differences before, and we've had them since. It has never been particularly simple, but for the most part, I have been close to my family. It's been nearly five years now, which is a long time, the kind of time where time itself plays a big role in how relationships evolve.

Catherine: Being just the four of us, with no extended family near at hand, we have always been close. I have always confided in both my sister and my mother and relied on my father's generosity and kindness. But, after Georgina died, something shifted. I felt a distance between us. Perhaps because we could not help one another? Our default response, to try and fix the problem, was simply not a possibility. As a result I think we all flailed about for a time. 

2. Has your family been a refuge or safe haven, or a place where your grief is unaccepted?

Angie: Definitely a refuge. My immediate family, mother and sister, remember Lucia and talk of her often. My father is very ill, and doesn't remember her, or if he does, he doesn't speak of her.

Josh: Yes, a refuge, a safe haven. They speak of Margot often and ask how we're doing. Outside of us, they miss her more than anyone.

Jess: My family just IS. It's a place where I am normal, however I am. It's not somewhere I'd identify as safe or a refuge, but perhaps that's the realest, most privileged kind of security; so safe you'd never doubt or question it. Incidentally, if I could provide one thing for my living children, it would be just that.

Julia: I would never have doubted that my family would be accepting. And they have been. They may not always see it coming, but they do always accept that it is. 

Catherine: Initially I felt that my grief was accepted. As time wore on, less so. I think it is uncomfortable to sit and listen to someone who talks so very much about a situation that cannot be resolved or changed. And I know I found it very difficult to even feign interest in anything other than the twins and what had happened to them for at least a year. Which made for dreary and discomfiting company.  

3. How has your partner's family, if you have one, been there for you? For your partner?

Angie: My husband's family has been a refuge for him, I think. I don't talk about my grief openly with my mother-in-law, but I talk about my work here and there. My sisters-in-law, on the other hand, have been so incredibly supportive and loving. I feel very fortunate.

Josh: The same as my family. Kari's family is very loving and supportive. They fly out to watch my firstborn so Kari and I can get away and grieve together...they speak her name and miss her like my own parents do.

Jess: Ah. This is a difficult one for me. David's family would like to be there, I think. They have always been open and tried so hard. But I have struggled to let them be there for me. They weren't the ones I wanted.

Julia: My mother-in-law has been the stereotypical horror story of bad family reactions. She disapproved of what we did, how we did it. She was convinced we were harming our living daughter by allowing her to grieve rather than distracting her and minimizing the whole thing for her. From time to time I find that I still have very strong feelings about her behavior then and since.

Catherine: My in-laws met Georgina whilst she was alive and were there on the day that she died. I've hardly spoken to them about her since. I don't believe that my husband has either. It is not their way, his or theirs. When I checked with my husband about my response to this question he said (and I hope this doesn't sound flippant) 'don't mention the war.'

4. Have your immediate and extended family accepted your child(ren) as part of the family? Do they talk about your baby(ies)? Do they mourn?

Angie: Yes, absolutely. My mother wears a necklace with all her grandchildren's names on it, and in family collages, she always includes a picture of Lucia's name.

Josh: Yes. For Christmas this year, my whole family went to Margot's River (where we spread her ashes) and talked about her and sang to her. I am so lucky and don't take it for granted.

Jess: They accept, they remember, they mourn, but they don't speak about her that much. 

Julia: My family accepts and remembers. My husband's? Not so very. My family doesn't go out of their way to speak his name, which is really ok with me because that's the way we all are. They don't hide when it comes up naturally, and that's the way I like it to be.

Catherine: My immediate family do. My sister and my mother will mention her from time and time. My extended family too but only because I've prompted them to do so. In the very early days, one of my cousins listed my Ouma's great-grandchildren but omitted Georgina, who was named for my Ouma. I was so hurt that I added her rather pointedly on the wonderfully public forum of facebook. So nobody on that side of the family will ever dare to forget her again! My husband's family don't mention her at all. I don't know if they mourn. 

5. What kind of support did your immediate family offer? Did they lose themselves in action, like cooking and cleaning? Or were they emotionally supportive?

Angie: In the early throes of grief, my mother was distant. I thought she blamed me for Lucia's death yet I was unable to reach out. She grieved very deeply, I realize now, but at the time, I thought it was an indictment of me.

Josh: I feel like I keep repeating myself here, but my parents and sisters were very supportive. They took care of my living child, they asked questions, they cooked and cleaned...more than we could have asked for.

Jess: They were practical and protective. I think they almost froze other people out. My family turn inside, I think. 

Julia: The day of the funeral my dad decided that the thermostat control in our house needed to be changed/updated. He needed something to do, and this he could do. My dad doesn't talk much, and certainly not about grief. But he held onto our sholders when we held onto the casket, and that is how he said what was there to say. My sister has been the person I can talk to the most, but all of them have been supportive practically (in the early days) and emotionally then and since.

Catherine: My father was immensely practical. My mother has always said about him, don't listen to the words, watch the actions. Sometimes, even when his words were unintentionally hurtful, his attention to the running of my car, his purchasing of the lunches, the driving to the NICU when I was too shaken to do so for myself, spoke of the love that he had for his children and grandchildren. My mother knitted little blankets and covers for the NICU. I think they were as emotionally supportive as I would let them. I was not easy to be with in those early weeks and months. 

6. What was it like to bear witness to your family's grief? In what ways could you be present for them? In what ways could you not be present?

Angie: I couldn't see their grief through my own. Now I can. But I told them very directly that I could not be present for them, that I couldn't hear about their grief. I don't know why. I just didn't want to comfort anyone.

Josh: I think my parents probably grieve together and then set their own grief aside in order to meet me where I'm at. The times when they do cry or talk about their grief, I feel comforted by it. It's so nice to see others who are missing her.

Jess: With my family, they made it all about me. With David's family it was also about them. I resented their grief, and utterly rejected it.

Julia: In the first year there was a several months long rift between me and my mother. She grieved deeply, but, at times, in a way that seemed like she thought she was the worst off. I think mostly it was inartful phrasing (she was talking about how hard it was to both grieve and watch her child grieve), but a the time it was more than I could deal with. 

Catherine: I'm ashamed to say that I didn't even consider them. I was intensely focused on Georgina's death and Jessica's condition in intensive care to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. I wish I had been more present for them, particularly my younger sister who was more shaken than I realised. It is a source of deep regret to me that I did not bear witness to them or try to help them.  

7. When you reflect on deaths in your extended family, how did the treatment of your child's (or children's) death differ from, say, the death of a grandparent?

Angie: My grandmother died two months after Lucia. And my mother said something to me like that funerals were important rituals, and she felt robbed of that with Lucia's death. I didn't have a funeral for her. That is one of my many regrets of that time, because I think it would have given a voice and opening for many of my friends and family to grieve with us and do something. That was our mistake.

Josh: There haven't been any deaths in my extended family. I really don't have anything to compare this to.

Jess: Like Josh, there haven't been many deaths in my family. Iris' funeral was the first I'd ever been to.

Julia: We kept the funeral family only, even though friends had asked to come. But we let them organize a lunch at our house for after, and letting them do that was good for us. In the way where we were surrounded by family and friends and validated in the rightness of our grief, it was like what happened when grandparents had died. But we didn't have stories of A to tell, like we do for the grandparents.

Catherine: We had a funeral for Georgina but my family didn't want to attend, although I asked them to. My family aren't really ones for 'ceremonies' as such and I think they might have felt as though they were intruding. Several members of our extended family overseas have died over the years, some unexpectedly, and my parents did not travel for their funerals. I'd never considered that before I came to answer this question. Perhaps, unlike Angie's mother, they truly don't consider the ritual aspect important? Suddenly I find their refusal to attend Georgina's funeral a little more understandable. It's always slightly puzzled me.

Tick Tock

"Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life."

--William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

 Babyloss parents often find themselves clinging to Auden's Stopped Clocks -- the sense that life has frozen for us, and we're stuck in a (hellatious) moment while just outside our window people scurry on with no idea what it is we're experiencing.  I've known -- and sympathized with --  parents who say "there wasn't enough time," and I've known -- and sympathized with -- those who say "I just wanted it to stop."  Perhaps "fast" and "slow" aren't quite applicable; time for that awful moment  probably could be described as simply horrible.

 Time as a concept undergoes some pretty serious shifting after a major loss; gone is the sense of linearity ("This pregnancy will just progress until a baby appears in nine months!"), or perhaps a past needing escape and a future worth running to.  Time contracts, expands, flies, crawls, bewilders.

 And like grief, time is experienced differently by individuals depending on their circumstances -- those surrounding the death itself as well as what preceded and followed.

 Time as a subject seems to be coursing its way through the internet in our corner recently, so we thought it a good . . . well, er, time to examine it a bit closer.  Join us for the new Kitchen Table discussion, read our responses, and please add your responses in the comments or link to your blogged comments.

1. How much time has passed since the death of your child(ren)?  Do you mark grief in months, weeks or years? Does it seem to be going fast or slow?  

Angie: Two years, seven months. I mark time in seasons. Time goes fast now, after the first year. I think that is why I stopped counting months, it seemed slow that way.

Catherine: Nearly three years. I mark the time as I would have for a living child. Initially I measured in days and weeks, as you might for a newborn baby. Now I measure in years, more appropriate for the toddler she might be now. 

Cheryl: 3 years, 7 months. I mark time by passing events. Last night marked the third year that I have watched the exhbibition fireworks, without a baby upstairs in a nursery. Time was slow, then fast, and is now, in a very strange way, simply time.

Chris: 2 years, 10 months.  Was in seconds, then in days, now in years.  It seems like I have always been missing Silas now, but I can't believe it's been nearly 4 years.  That seems impossible

Jess: Three years, 2 months. I think in years now. Time gallops, yet some days I feel like she was one hundred years ago.

Josh: Four months. The weeks have turned into months now, which means the extra dose of sadness that used to come every Thursday now comes on the 24th of each month instead. Time seems to keep moving as it always has, but the Before Margot time of my life seems like an eternity ago.

Julia: Two days shy of four and a half years. I think in years, but sometimes the dates in a month still bite.

Tash: Four years, five months.  It's marked in years, although winter still gets condensed around months, weeks, and days.  Most of the time I can't believe it happened, let alone to me.  Surely it was something I read about.

2. Do you have an end goal to your grief?  How much time do you think that will take?  How much time did you think you'd need to get there right after your loss?  How much time do you think you need now? 

Angie: I read something like eighteen months to two years was when acute/active grief stopped after a stillbirth, and I held that as a place to get to. In the beginning, that felt terribly far in the future. Now, I feel like my grieving isn't acute or debilitating.

Catherine: My inital end goal was to stop the awful pain. In those first few weeks I felt as though I had been caught in a bear trap, one of those big, toothy affairs that snaps around your leg? I think it took about six months before that started to ease, that absolutely desperate time. Now I don't think I have an end goal in sight. My grief has not progressed along the nice, neat timeline of about a year in duration that I had assumed it would. It meanders about, taking its own sweet time. I don't know how much longer I need but that doesn't trouble me any longer. Perhaps this is as close to resolution as I get?

Cheryl: A family memember commented a few months ago, that she noticed in April of 2010 that I had come back into the light. It took almost two and a half years. After Gabe died, I couldn't imagine ever being whole or sane or normal again. I just wanted my life back. I know that I will never have that life back, but that I have the rest of my years to forge a new life for myself. Strangely, this is less frightening that it used

Chris: Nope, no goal for my grief.  I'll always miss him, I will always be sad for his absence in our life, and I'm perfectly fine with that.  From the moment of his death I've known it would be like this.

Jess: I'm... I'm kind of mixed up about this question. I don't have an end goal. I find it unlikely that I will ever think "Yes! Success! Achievement!" in an Iris context. Today I am OK. It seems likely that tomorrow I will be OK. And next week. And next month. So perhaps I'm there already. I don't know.

Josh: In the very beginning, I thought maybe the horrific grief would take a year or so, or maybe when (if) we had another baby. Now, I have no clue. I'm in for the long haul, or however long it takes. Timelines (and expectations) freak me out now.

Julia: I think I always thought the goal was to incorporate it, so it is as normal part of me as something like this can be. Learn to live with it. I think, for the most part, I have. Though there are still moments that are sharp, most of the time it is just what it is.

Tash: Early on I read somewhere it took two-five years in order to "integrate" the experience and I about broke down -- it seemed like an eternity, it might as well have been twenty.  When I spoke about hiding out in my cave, I wanted to be there for twenty years -- I thought that was enough time to be able to hold my head up and function.  I think my goal became functioning without pain and I seem to have achieved that around the three year mark.

3. Rather than a clear end goal, is there a milestone or marker to indicate that you are feeling grief less acutely, i.e. going to a baby shower, listening to a song that made you cry early in grief, driving past the hospital?  How long did it take to get there?

Angie: I really wanted to get to a place where I didn't care who acknowledged our loss or not. Where people could just be at a dinner party, and I wasn't anxious about whether or not they acknowledged her death or our grief. I am at that place now.

Catherine: When I could join in a discussion about children without the whole sorry story bubbling up in my throat. Now I can make a conscious decision as to whether I will speak about my daughter's death. Or not. It used to be a compulsion, to blurt it out. Sometimes that isn't appropriate. Sometimes that isn't kind. It took about two years to get here.

Cheryl: It was the moment that I realized I could carry Gabriel in my heart, but put him down from my arms. It was the moment that I realized that it was ok to carry on my life, without him.

Chris: Father's day destroys me every year, as does his birthday.

Jess: I don't seem to have obvious grief triggers to test myself against. It always takes me by surprise when the deep yearn strikes. Three days after I gave birth to Iris, I went to a child's birthday party in the certain knowledge that I would be seeing newborn babies and pregnant women. When I went back to work, 6 weeks after Iris died, my first meeting was with a group of midwives in a maternity hospital. I was fine. But just last week I met a sad-eyed man, and the fiction I created in my head about his imaginary baby, lost or dead, was enough to make me weep on the train home.

Josh: I hope one day I can hold my best friend's baby, who was born a week before Margot died, and feel okay about it. I think that would be some kind of milestone.

Julia: I don't think I sat out markers to begin with, except for having to meet and engage with a good friend's baby who was supposed to be A's best buddy. I did that the day after he was born, barely two months into my grief. But I do notice that I am better at certain things-- holding back the story if it doesn't come up naturally, not feeling overwhelmingly anxious that new people I am meeting and want to be friends with don't know this important thing about us. Not that I don't care if they do, I am just not tormented if they don't. And I still tighten up in a whole ton of situations.

Tash: I couldn't look at, hold, consider, comprehend, a baby.  I avoided them like the plague.  Then at two years, two months, I offered to hold a baby on a plane for the woman sitting next to me.   It didn't produce a heavenly choral symphony, but I didn't fall apart, either.  I think I realized then I'd be ok.

4. How do you view the time you had with your child, either alive (within or outside) or already deceased?  Before you all answer "Too short! Not enough!", did you have time to "bond" or develop a future imagination about what this child would be like?  Perhaps depending on whether yours was cut short, how do you now feel about the nine-month period of gestation -- too long or not long enough?  

Angie: My daughter died at 38 weeks. It was a beautiful pregnancy, and I felt like I knew her spirit, even though I didn't. I would have loved to see her open her eyes, to breathe. The first time I laid eyes on her, I saw the marks of death on her face and body. I wish she died closer to birth, but really, I wish she hadn't died at all.

Catherine: I feel as though I knew my daughter or perhaps that is just what I want to believe, hers was a tiny flicker of a life. She died when she was 3 days old but she was born at 23 weeks. There is always the tantalising possibility that if she had remained in the womb for longer she would not have died. Her life outside the womb? Perhaps that was too long. I fear it was. But I can't bring myself to wish for any less of her.

Cheryl: I didn't have 9 months. I thought I did. And that was the most remarkable thing. Everything was ordinary, I had just enough time for everything, right up until I didn't have enough time. The pregnancy was ordinary time, the hospitalization was sped up time, and the time we had with him, that was almost nanosecond. It was almost a singularity.

Chris: I have another life, another future, another past that is beyond the veil of his death.  That what-if, what-should world will never go away.

Jess: I was 41 weeks pregnant when I went into labour and learned that Iris had died. And I was sick of being pregnant, it was loathsome. It had been too long. And although my answer will always be of the too-short-not-enough variety, I still have her life in my head. I have all the time I need for that. 

Josh: I held her for nearly nine hours straight after she was stillborn at 39 weeks. Since my wife was near dead for many of those hours, her presence, however dead she was, practically carried me through the worst day of my life.

Julia: I've had a subsequent pregnancy since A died, and it was frought with complications and hospitalizations, and was only slightly longer than A's. The anxieties (and I felt them for A a lot too) sort of blend in my head now, and I split. I would've wanted more time, but not more anxiety. The time we held on to his body after his birth? I thought that was enough, I thought we were ready. At the time it felt right, to let go after only a couple of hours. Now I am not sure.

Tash: I had six days with Maddy, and it was all at once so brief as to be a blink or an illusion, and so fucking long I found my (atheist) self praying for it to end.  Maddy's pregnancy was so complicated I never really thought ahead much except to the birth which I assumed would be the happy release into the rest of it.  The subsequent nine month pregnancy with my son was an eternity of denial; it's hard to tread water for the better part of a year.

5. One grief book suggested that it took 2-5 years to incorporate your grief into your life.  Where are you on this timeline, and you do you find that to be true?

Angie: Two years and seven months. Yes, absolutely. I feel like I am just starting to appreciate the ways I have integrated Lucy's life and death into our daily lives.

Catherine: Nearly three years. Grief is tentatively creeping in and settling down, making itself at home, reminding me that it is still here with the occasional murmur. It doesn't rage about outside as often as it used to.

Cheryl: 3.5 years or so. I understand that timeline. I see the goal of grief as to bring that grief into the light, to find the way back into the light.

Chris:  Yeah, that makes sense to me.  I feel like I have definitely incorporated this grief into my life, and I'm not the same person I used to be, in many ways.

Jess: Three years in, this feels true to me. Three years in, my husband would not find this to be true at all. I think it will be his life's struggle.

Josh: At four months out, I'm no where close. In the sense that it doesn't take four months for grief to be incorporated, I can say, hell yes it doesn't.

Julia: I think to dull the really sharp edges, it took more than two years. But I think I am feeling pretty incorporated now, and I think I've been here for a bit already, not exactly standing in one place-- it's still all dynamic and flowing, but the changes are more subtle these days.

Tash: I think I've woven Maddy's death into my life, and I think it happened around year three, but I couldn't put a day or experience on that.  The experience has sort of melded into my being, so I can acknowledge it's existence and carry on. She was here, she wasn't meant to be, she died.  I'm hungry, and really need to go get dinner ready.

6. There's a familiar saying, "Time Heals all wounds."  Do you think this is true?  Or do you subscribe to Edna St. Vincent Milay:  "Time does not bring relief, you all have lied"?

Angie: I think time affords you the space to get used to suffering. And in that way, I don't suffer as much as I used to. If that makes sense.

Catherine: I think it is true that time does heal. What people don't always remember to tell you is that healing is not the same as restitution, time may not necessarily return you to your original form. Healing brings scars. But scars do not form on the dead, only on the living.  

Cheryl: I struggled for a long time. I wanted to say it got better, or it got easier, or something. I wanted to mark how things could change, how things wouldn't always be the way they are. I now say that I don't know if it gets better or easier, it does get different. The difference is important. The difference is what makes me wake up, what makes me look for the next stage in my life.

Chris: Time passing has helped me heal, but only to a certain point.  Beyond that it is all still the same and probably always will be.

Jess: This made me think of a line in Coriolanus: "For, if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them." I don't speak for my wounds as much as I once did. I don't lick them and pick at them in the same way. I am scarred though. And the scars ache. 

Josh: I have hope that time heals, or at least allows me to understand my grief in different ways. I can already feel my grief in deeper, more profound ways than I did a month out, so I guess that is something.

Julia: It doesn't heal in the sense that it fixes you right up, but it does give you room to get better, to bear weight again on what was once torn to shreads. So I find myself put together again, though different than I was.

Tash: I used to throw around that Milay poem in HS regarding relationships.  Boy, talk about green.  Time heals wounds, but sadly time doesn't erase memories.  It's true, I do feel better and I truly believe the majority of that healing is owed to simply the passage of time and distance from the event.  I also believe Milay and I could do with a lobotomy to fully cover the rest of it and those horrible flashbacks.

7. Has your relationship with the future (immediate and far) changed since the death of your child(ren)?  How about your relationship with the past?

Angie: I try to live one day at a time, as cliched as that is. Both for my sobriety and my grief. Someone left this quote on my blog, "Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could have been any different." And I think I am finally at a place of forgiveness for myself and about Lucy's death.

Catherine: I try not to plan too much for the future but I do find it hard to resist the lure of schemes and dreams. I feel a mixture of embarrassment and fondness when I think of the past and the person I once was. An oblivious and silly person in many ways but I kind of miss her. I certainly miss being her on occasion.

Cheryl: I try to live in the now. I try to avoid romanticizing the past, but even more than that I try to not live in the future. I did that after Gabe died. I did that when I waited for the next baby. I had all of these plans for when I got pregnant again. Finally I realized, everyone was right. Life is what happens when you are waiting for things to happen. I wanted to live my life, so I stopped living in future.

Chris: I don't trust the future anymore and I can't believe the past me was so naive that I used to.  I focus on right now and what is coming up next.  Looking too far down the road seems foolish to me because I know now there is no way to be sure of anything.

Jess: It has made me fiercely ambitious, losing Iris. I suppose that speaks to a future-focused shift in me, since her death. I feel like I just can't waste any time. Life is such a capricious little creature. Right now it's hurtling along and so I feel compelled to race alongside it, before it changes its mind. 

Josh: I don't really count on much in the future anymore. My innocence regarding death has been stomped on. I'm taking life one day at a time. I'm not exactly embracing life one day at a time, but I am thinking about life in terms of what today brings.

Julia: Planning far ahead is still hard. A few days at a time is as far as I am comfortable looking. Though I am beginning to take joy in putting some things on the calendar for a bit out and anticipating the fun of these.

Tash: After Maddy died, for years I was stuck in the present.  I was too chickenshit to plan ahead because I had been so burned by what I assumed was a given outcome.  I honestly thought if I didn't plan out more than two weeks, how bad could anything hurt if it didn't come to fruition?  But it became really debilitating living like that, every day a fire drill, and my calendar remaining empty.  I'm up to a few months now and it's odd, but I'm trying.  As "integrated" as I've become, I definitely still think in "preMaddy" and "postMaddy."  It's impossible not to, given the changes in our social and familial lives.

8. How long did it take to answer these questions?

Angie: Exactly fifteen minutes.

Catherine: Twenty minutes for the answers that came easily. Nearly three days spent mulling over one particular question.

Cheryl: 16 minutes, with a cup of coffee and a call in the background.

Chris:  about 15 minutes

Jess: Thirty six minutes. I made and drank a cup of tea in that time too. Multi-tasker!

Josh: Three days, or twenty odd minutes, however you look at it.

Julia: 30 minutes. Typed and erased a few answers a few times.

Tash: 15 minutes, give or take.  But it took me a few days to get over and actually put my mind to this.

Ghosts and Rituals

The holidays around the change from summer to fall are rife with ancestor worship, death, and touching the spirit-world. Samhain. Halloween. All Souls’ Day. Dìa de los Muertos. Something about the end of October conjures the thinness of the veil between the land of the living and the land of the dead. In many cultures we invite the dead into our homes, places of worship, and communities. We show lost loved ones a good time, with feasting, sweets, games, and offerings. And we prepare for visits from the unloved as well—the restless, unhappy, malevolent spirits who might pop by to instill fear, extract revenge, or just toilet paper our lawns. Frightening costumes are donned to “Boo!” them back across the veil. Communities light bonfires, or pumpkins, to fight the darkness, and to guide the path home for our beloved dead.

Even in this secular community of grieving parents, we use October to remember our children, grieve our losses and remind the world that we are still here. October 15 is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Dìa de los Muertos blogfests will be featured in our corner of the internet later this month. Today we are sitting around the kitchen table talking about ghosts and rituals. Want to join in? Post the questions and your answers on your own blog, link to us here at Glow in the Woods meme-style, and share the link to your post in the comments below. If you don't have your own online space, simply post your answers directly in the comments.

1 | Do you believe you can communicate with people in the afterlife, or they with you?  Do you believe you can do this with your child?

Eric: I believe in connection, if not actual communication.  It may sound strange, but I have a hard time imagining that my children and I can communicate because they weren't here long enough to learn a language.  This was a big mental block for me in the months following the loss; it may have been an emblem for everything of this world they would not be here to learn.

Angie: I want to believe, desperately.

Jenni: I used to believe, but I’m not sure any more. I no longer trust my own perceptions. I thought I had two after-death communications from Angel Mae. The messages make sense to me, but I’m no longer sure it was really her. Maybe just my brain.

Julia: I've never tried contacting anyone in the afterlife, A included. Even if I believed that I could contact them, I don't feel like I can or should bother them. The idea that the dead do or should watch over the living bugs me. I see it as imposing, as settling the dead with a responsibility to ensure the happiness of the living, and I don't like it. I don't like it for those who died as adults, and especially don't like it for dead babies. On the other hand, I do believe I've heard from A twice since his death, and both times have been sweet and comforting. I think part of that was the feeling that I didn't make him come, that he did it on his own.

Tash:  Once, while driving through a terrible snow storm, I "talked" with my husband's dead grandmother (whom I never met, but sounded like a Saint).  I may have done this on other occasions like when my plane took off, or perhaps even during my pregnancies.  And then I realized talking didn't help me whatsoever and if people heard me, they didn't have special powers to change things, so I lost interest.  I haven't "talked" to anyone dead, Maddy or otherwise, since.

Chris: No, I don't. 

2 | Do you believe in ghosts?  Has this changed since the loss of your child(ren)?

Eric: I believe in something, though not necessarily ghosts per se. 

Angie: Sometimes. I think I believed in ghosts more before Lucia's death. I am equally fascinated and skeptical of the supernatural. I did once hear a ghost scream at a local Civil War historical site during a "ghost tour." For a good month, I totally believed in ghosts.'

Jenni: I believe people have some eternal essence to them. I’m not sure that it hangs around here after death. I do not want my baby to be a ghost. I think that would be terrible for her.

Julia: I don't think I believe in ghosts per se. Especially not the part where the ghost is "stuck" inbetween.

Tash:  Before Maddy, I liked the idea of benevolent ghosts though I never experienced one.  I asked about them, and was open to encounters on a few occasions, but nothing ever happened.  Now, I just can't imagine my neurologically damaged baby as a ghost -- would she just hover there immobile?  So I've sort of scrapped the whole concept entirely.

Chris: I don't believe in ghosts, but I believe that Silas's light and energy is still somehow a part of this Universe.

3 | Have your feelings changed about Halloween?  How do you respond to Halloween humor such as zombie and ghost costumes or macabre gravestones as decorations?

Eric: They appear to me with a little more... pointedness, but I would not go as far as to say my feelings about them have changed.  It was cheap plastic before and it's cheap plastic now.  What made me furious, though, was when one or more of M's colleagues, decorating the office for Halloween, strung a graveyard that ran right up to her door.  (Who thought that would be okay? If there is such a thing as ghosts, I would have gladly added to their numbers.)

Angie: Yes. I also hate/don't understand/find myself repulsed by graveyards and images of dead people in front yards, displayed as whimsy.  I don't think this is cute. Graveyards seem sacrosanct. I have a neighbor who hangs handsewn stuffed babydolls with x's for eyes off his porch. They are toddler size and done up in pink and light blue. I can't help but see them as baby effigies.

Jenni: I find it more creepy and depressing now. If most people really knew what death was, would they send their children out into the streets dressed like zombies? The origins of the holiday are sort of about looking death in the face, though, which should make feel better, but it doesn't.

Julia: I didn't grow up with Halloween, so I didn't develop deep feelings about it. It seemed fun when I was in college. But chaperoning my daughter for the last three years as she trick or treats in the same neighborhood (a close friend's) we were the year I was pregnant with A has been tough to varying degrees. Very glad I don't have to do it this year --I am out of town.

Tash:  Halloween used to be my favorite holiday.  It still may be, with some caveats.  I'm also a bit taken aback by the whole graveyard motif, because I'm working very hard to teach myself and my daughter that death is not creepy.  I actually don't mind most costumes -- even zombies, mummies, and ghosts -- but dressing up as though injured (disclaimer:  I actually did this one halloween a decade or so ago) bugs.

Chris: I still enjoy this holiday, but there is a deeper resonance for me now.  I feel death closer than I have ever before and it is somehow comforting to see others facing it with me for a day.

4 | Does your religious or cultural background have a day or holiday where the focus is honoring the dead? How do you use this experience to honor your own child(ren)?

Eric: On Judaism's holiest day, Yom Kippur, there is a special service called Yitzkor.  In some communities, it is traditional to leave if you are not commemorating a lost parent, spouse, sibling, or child, so children seldom stay.  That's how I was raised.  Now I stay, and it is the most adult I feel all year.

Angie: Dia de los Muertos is an important Latino holiday where the dead and ancestors are honored and celebrated. I make a day of the dead ofrenda, or altar, for Lucia. I have really created rituals for myself from all the religious and cultural backgrounds of my family.

Jenni: I was raised Protestant, among the “frozen chosen” who were going to live forever. I don’t remember any rituals for honoring the dead or for lengthy goodbyes. I remember Good Friday services really feeling like a time to grieve – but it was all over by Easter morning.

Julia: Like Eric, we stayed for Itzkor the first year, and we put A's name into the Yitzkor service program that year. Because of timing, I haven't made it to Yitzkor since, but I plan to go again in future years. That first year we also got to say kaddish, the prayer of mourning, every time we came to the synagogue. Comorting and sobering at the same time.

Tash:  As an atheist, I guess I really never thought about the dead.  Hell, it took studying military history in grad school for me to focus on Memorial Day.  Sometimes I wish I had a framework in which to go through a rite or mourn with a prescribed language.  I guess I feel Maddy's death and our reaction might have been more supported and/or accepted that way.

Chris: I don't associate Halloween with Silas, but I try to honor him and live a little extra for every day.

5 | Do you ever reach outside of your spiritual/religious framework for comfort from other practices/religions?

Eric: I don't.

Angie: I am very attracted to the Zen Buddhist bodhisattvas for stillborn, miscarried and aborted children--mizuko jizo. Personal rites or rituals associated with mizuko jizo are performed by each woman, and can range from writing, or going to a mizuko jizo park, or meditating. I paint mizuko jizo for my ritual.

Jenni: I am attracted to the mizuko jizo ceremony as well, and to Day of the Dead celebrations, but I can’t seem to find my way into them. They aren’t a comfortable fit.

Julia: I don't have much here. Except that I buy long-burning candles in tall glass jars in bulk and burn them when I feel the need, for A, for myself, for others. This seems like a rather universal thing, though, so I don't know whether this counts as reaching.

Tash:  Before Maddy, I was very interested in Buddhism, and now I find the basic lessons and tenets very frustrating so I've pretty much scrapped that line of thought.  I recently went to a Quaker memorial service for another child, and found it rather intellectual and somewhat calming, but still perhaps a bit too chipper for my taste.  

Chris: I don't, I don't know why, but I don't.

6 | Is there a season or holiday, other than your child(ren)’s birthday, that inspires you to perform a ritual in memory of your child(ren)?

Eric: Like many others, lighting candles on October 15th.

Angie: Yes, as Eric said, October 15th. I also celebrate the change of seasons as a way to acknowledge us moving into another season without our daughter, who died on winter solstice.

Jenni: I find myself lighting her candle and feeling more “connected” to her at each change of season, spring to summer, summer to fall, etc. I acknowledge how she would be growing and what she is missing. We also acknowledge her due date, which is some months from her birthday.

Julia: Nothing really set in stone. I light candles when I am moved to do that, but there's rarely an obvious seasonal timing to that. I think I've forgotten what day  it was on October 15th more years than I've remembered, but some years I've remembered the December (international) date instead.

Tash:  For some reason, I always forget about October 15th.  Perhaps this is subconscious?  We always attend a memorial on the second Sunday of December, which is International (I believe) Children's Memorial Day where they light candles and read the names of children who died at Children's hospital.  

Chris: The day of his birth and death is completely his day and I never know what to do.  Being with friends and family is all I can count on.

7 | Is there a ritual you perform everyday? Weekly? Monthly? Yearly?

Eric: Since losing Gus and Zoey, we were blessed with another set of twins, Ben and Ellie.  Ellie's name is short for Eliana, which means, God has answered.  Once a day, usually within eyesight of photographs of Gus and Zoey's names, I say her name in full, out loud.  Also, when I pray, I thank God for the memory of Gus and Zoey and ask Him to bless my efforts to keep it alive.

Angie: I light candles most days on Lucy's altar. I paint jizos for her and other babies. I change her altar based on the season.

Jenni: I have a charm necklace with her name on it. It is like my rosary. I finger it and turn it on its chain many times a day. I also go to my blog daily, even if I don’t write; it is our space together, mine and hers. Now and then I burn incense on her altar.

Julia: I think of him many times a day, but no real outward rituals. Though everywhere we go, we bring back small rocks. Jewish tradition is to put small stones on graves, as a way of acknowledging that you've been there. We take some of our rocks to the cemetery, and keep some at home. The growing pile is a stark illustration of time and space since he died.

Tash:  I have a bracelet I wear all the time on my left wrist, which is where the hospitals put her bracelets.  I sometimes pause to look at her pictures, or jog by her tree.  Otherwise, no.

Chris: My only ritual is to cry when I can't handle that he's dead.

8 | Do you perform any public rituals (in real life or online) on October 15? How do your friends, family, or community respond to your acknowledgment of loss?

Eric: The first year I did, by attending a vigil.  This second year, apart from lighting candles, I did not.  We do not receive much acknowledgement from "the civilians" (but did receive one email from a good friend who had suffered a loss of her own).  This doesn't bother me.  What bothers me is when the anniversary of Gus and Zoey's births and deaths pass without much acknowledgment.

Angie: I light candles at 7:00 pm with the rest of the community. I like knowing that my private ritual is performed privately by countless families around the world. It feels important.

Jenni: This year I wrote the names of 25 babies on paper hearts, photographed them, and sent the photos to the families. That might become a ritual in the future. I also acknowledged October 15 in my FB status. Not a ritual, but a gesture. It was a big deal for me, because I am so private in my grief. It was interesting to see who responded and who did not.

Julia: I don't do it consistently, but in the past I've posted the pictures of my candles for October 15th and the December date on my blog. I've also posted some times when I've lit candles in honor of other children, to tell their stories and to support their families.

Tash:  As I said, I usually forget about this day for some reason.  We do our memorializing on the second Sunday of December, and I take the names of all my internet friends with me to simply hold close during the service.  My FIL stood us up the first year we invited him to attend this service with us, so I have a rather skewed view as to how other's must perceive this day (not remotely important and too cold to be outside) and it's importance to us.  Fortunately, I know my mother and my SIL light candles that evening at 7:00, and my aunt and uncle have attended with us in the past so maybe it's not all bad?

Chris: We light a candle and our friends and family do the same and it feels good to feel that light and warmth.

on community, writing, and public grief

1 |  How would you describe your presence on the internet?  Does your online voice differ from your real life voice? If so, how? And why?

Chris :  I have a fairly active online presence, although in recent months the number of posts I've published has definitely decreased.  My online voice is different than my real life voice because online my thoughts and emotions are crystallized into a coherent structure.  That seems to bring out more of the anguish and pain I'm feeling, but it is not the same as how I walk around all day speaking and thinking.

Jen : Recently I've become much less active online and much more of an observer. Glow is really the only place I have a voice about my grief these days. In real life, I hardly talk about it at all anymore. Life throttles on for people, and I don't feel there's a lot of space or time to discuss the pain that is still so vivid to me.

Julia : I am bothered by how scaled down my online presence has been in the last about a year, but especially the last six months. I keep hoping to dig out and catch up, but I have not yet. I hate that I haven't been there for people the way I've wanted to be, and I hate that I haven't been able to write as much as I've wanted and needed to.  My online voice has a bit more flourish, a bit more zing. I sound a bit more the way I wish I actually sounded.

Kate : I've felt like an ambassador. I've had selfish days -- you know, those days when you'd like to forget for a few hours that your baby died -- when I've felt weary of the continued emotional commitment of ambassadorship. Then I snap out of it. And I see again what a humbling and profound gift it is that I can, with the others here, hold this door open and keep the fire stoked.

Tash :  I started writing for me, and now that I'm in a position to try and help other people through my writing I still find that it helps me. Whadaya know. I find it humbling to read names, I'm honored to be let into people's stories, and I do my best to leave behind -- either in my blog or in other's comments -- useful words. I wish I was as brazen and forthright in real life as I am on my blog, but sadly three years later I'm still a bit concerned about other people's reaction to my information (though it's diminishing considerably). And I swear like a longshoreman in real life, too.

2 |  Why did you begin blogging, or reading blogs? Was this before or after your experience of babyloss?

Chris :  I started blogging back in early 2006, but I've always loved writing.  Blogging about Lu's pregnancy was something I decided to do on a whim and it was wonderful.  The decision to continue to write about losing Silas was a conscious one, because I thought it would help me sort out the terrible grief, anger and all the other emotions this experience has generated.

Jen : I started blogging in 2007, about a year and a half before Sadie died. I had been reading blogs for a few years before that. These days finding inspiration for my own blog is difficult. Lack of free time is a huge issue for me. It's something I'd like to get back to, because I do miss it.

Julia : I started reading IF blogs sometime in '03, more than a year after my own primary infertility was resolved with the arrival of Monkey. I loved the voices and the community. And I was a little envious of not having had that when I was in the thick of it. I continued reading and commenting, more or less frequently for the next three and a half years. But I didn't really feel the need to start my own blog until a bit after A died. Right after he died I wrote something very short. Then I couldn't write for a bit. Then I started commenting. And then I couldn't not write. Hence, the blog.

Kate :  I started blogging in 2004, and Liam died in 2007. I'm comfortable with my blog not fitting well into any category -- I don't write exclusively about grief, nor parenting. I don't even know how to describe my blog anymore. Doesn't matter.

Tash :  I started following some IF blogs in '02-03 (definitely pre-Bella). After Maddy died in '07, I went to the few blogs I knew of where the blogger had also lost children just to see how they functioned afterwards. It hurt to read, and I stopped. And then six months later I stumbled upon Mel's great blogroll and was overwhelmed by how many babyloss blogs there were. After reading a few, I knew I wanted to do this, too. I'm constantly amazed at parents who can write hours or days after their loss(es), or continue writing on a blog that was originally geared toward expecting the child to live. I couldn't form coherent sentences for months.

3 |  Do you write anonymously? Does anonymity - or would anonymity - change your expression of grief?

Chris :  I do not write anonymously.  I've never felt the need to hide who I was.

Jen : I would never feel inclined to write anonymously. I'm pretty much an open book, from whatever angle you see me. I started blogging after moving to a new country so I could continue sharing my life with the people I could no longer spend the physical time with that I wanted to.

Julia : I use my own name, and A has his own first initial. Almost everyone else gets a pseudonym. A's name is actually rare and unusual, and I didn't want to be easily found. Very few people who know me in real life know about the blog, and for the most part, I like it that way. Originally it was mostly because I knew we would be trying again, I suspected we might have trouble, and regardless of whether we did or didn't, I didn't want my reproductive status so easily known. Now I think of myself as semi-anonymous. I like that there are certain people in particular who don't know about the blog, and I still like that I am not so easily searchable (I think). But I have also met a lot of bloggers, and there are a couple of people in real life to whom I willingly gave the url.

Kate :  There have been times I wished for anonymity. But on the whole, writing under my true name has pressed me to refine my expression. That's no reverse judgment on anonymous bloggers -- that's just what it's done for me. The presence of readers who know my name makes me think through my experience, and the words I choose, more consciously.

Tash :  With the exception of Maddy -- whose name and medical information are spelled out in their entirety -- I use nicknames so I'm rather anonymous. I'm sure some enterprising person could figure out who I am fairly quickly. I did this mainly so that family couldn't seek me out because I didn't want them invested in the emotional ride I was on -- it seemed as if it would make the whole endeavor less useful for me if I had to carry them along, too. In retrospect, I don't regret this decision. It's allowed me to be brutally honest without worrying that my mother would show up at my door.

4 |  Do you have a responsibility in how you express yourself on the internet? To whom, and why?

Chris :  I don't see it so much as a responsibility to write in a certain way, but I do know what feels appropriate to me, and I just stick with that.

Jen : I feel a personal responsibilty to always be honest, because I'd hate not to be.

Julia : I feel the need to be honest in my own writing. When I comment, I write as if I am signing my full legal name. That is I never say anything I wouldn't say standing face to face with the person. Though this certainly doesn't mean I won't engage in an argument. But since I do that face to face too, it's no big surprise.

Kate :  My only responsibility is to what my mother taught me. To be hospitable and kind no matter where I am.

Tash :  I feel I have a responsibility to be honest, medically and emotionally, to myself. Medically because god forbid someone else out there gets slammed with the same series of issues that Maddy did -- I'd hate for that to go unnoticed or unquestioned (I get a lot of hits from medical institutions). Emotionally because I don't feel this would be a worthwhile exercise for myself if I weren't brutally frank about how I was feeling, or question why I sometimes feel differently than the majority of my readers.  However, I do feel that my responsibility stops with what I write. We all can't be everything to everyone.

5 |  Do authenticity and honesty matter to you, both as a reader and a writer? Or does unconditional support matter more? How do you think readers perceive your truth?

Chris :  Authenticity and honesty are more important to me than unconditional support, at least at this stage.  If friends or family saw something alarming or dangerous in my writing I would want to know.  I think my readers get what I'm talking about most of the time, but I'm sure I'm not always perfectly clear, because sometimes things are not perfectly clear to me, either.

Jen : Honesty is paramount to me, online and in real life. I trust that as long as I'm honest, as a result I will be authentic as well.

Julia : As a writer, I feel the need to be honest. Emotionally, because, really, what's the point otherwise? But also, I always imagine that my living children will read the blog one day. And I think this thought has a lot to do with why I am also very truthfull factually-- I imagine that some day some of the details might matter to them. I hope that this also means that I ring true to the readers. When reading, there are boundaries (or triggers?) beyond which I can't offer unconditional support. If I feel that the topic is that important, or if I feel that I know the blogger well enough to engage in a respectful discussion, I will. But sometimes I just have to let the post go, or I have to stop reading the blog.

Kate :  The only authenticity that matters to me is my own.

Tash : As I said above, honesty is key to why I find blogging beneficial for my psyche -- I don't think it would be fulfilling if I weren't. I started writing for me and was surprised when people started reading and (gasp) commenting. I have a rather eclectic set of readers and I think they appreciate the brutal frankness, even when it's tough to read or comprehend. I guess I rather assume that anyone who lived through a similar mess has more than enough shit to spill without having to make stuff up, so I rather go into blogs assuming honesty. What I find depressing is not when the story rings false (this is rare) but when the writer's voice isn't genuine. I read writers who are Religious, spiritual, prosaic, florid, straightforward, funny, clinical and sometimes combinations of these and It's pretty easy to discern when a writer has adopted a language that they're not used to wielding. Sometimes I poke at this in the comments a bit (because I think it's unhealthy, really) and sometimes I just stop reading.

6 |  Have you ever been in the crosshairs of a troll? How did you deal with it, and what did you learn from it?

Chris: I've found the best way to deal with trolls is just to ignore them, they usually go away.

Jen : Gratefully, no. If it ever does happen I'd like to think I wouldn't dignify it with my time.

Julia : Once, and really, it was a baby troll. Hardly worth a mention. I've also had people who kinda walked close to the line, but could be reasoned with. A lot of emotions we live with are not intuitive to the unaffected, and sometimes, though it is extremely taxing to be the educator, and though it can feel beneath your dignity to have to explain yourself, sometimes, it can help that not-really-a-troll commenter understand (and other times it will be a complete waste of time and electrons). And maybe that will help them be nicer and kinder to someone else someday.

Kate :  I have. For the most part, I don't internalize negative energy from the internet. People who let trollish comments remain -- and even publicize them -- are generally trawling for sycophants to balance out the sting. My point is that trolls are ridiculous. They shouldn't sting. They should just be shrugged at, deleted, ignored. Dissenting but respectful opinions are fine, but cruelty -- even countered cruelty -- makes a space toxic. When you let it remain, you court it. And no matter how many irate readers flock to your side, you've lost by indulging a gong show. It's not dignified.

Tash:  Only once, and thank goodness enough time had passed that the troll came off as stupidly humorous rather than irritating or hurtful (it was as if they hadn't read a single thing I had read for umpteen months -- I couldn't have created a better straw-man-conflict if I had tried). I kept up the comment, I responded as did others, and the person never came back. I try and watch other's backs. I really don't understand why if people are so perturbed by what we write that they bother to keep reading and respond. Life seems too short.

7 |  How do you feel before going online - either to write on your own blog, or to absorb the writing of others? How do you feel when you shut down the computer and walk away?

Chris :  It varies for me, how I feel before writing.  Sometimes I'm bursting with something that I have to get out.  Other times I know that writing would help me figure out what's going on, but I just don't feel like it.  I always feel immensely better after writing, though.

Jen : I think before I'm eager to absorb the emotion, entertainment, and to find something moving or thought provoking. After I usually think, "Wow, did three hours just pass? It felt like ten minutes."

Julia : Both depend on what else is going on in my life. When I have something I need to write, depending on what it is and how much time I have to get it done, it can be anxiety provoking or calming to sit down to that draft window. When I am behind on my reading (like I have been forever now), I feel bad about not being able to offer what I'd like to. When I am caught up (ahhhh), anticipating-- news, resonance, things unexpected. After writing I usually feel better, released. But sometimes also anxious about whether I said it right or well. With reading, I almost always feel like I'd like to stay longer, read and comment more.

Kate : Before: vibrating. After: bled, scrubbed, breathing again.

Tash :  Before: Anticipating, anxious at how it all (my writing, other's news) will turn out, eager for connections. After: Able to exhale, hopefully unburdened, and sadly -- lately-- wishing I had more time to stay on and offer more than I did.

8 |  Do family/friends know you write/commune online? If so, have they told you how they feel about it? How do you respond to their opinions?

Chris : I have a few friends and family that continue to read, but most people I know do not read my blog or Glow.  Family members have told me it's too painful for them, and I'm sure that is also the case with friends that don't read.  I'm not surprised that they have stopped, but I hope they understand that even though they are not reading, that I am still in the thick of it all.  I think they would rather forget our loss and pain.  I cannot, ever.

Jen : I think a few people close to me know I write at Glow. Many more know about my own blog. But they've probably given up hope on me over there by now. Before Sadie died, I was encouraged by how many people found me funny. I'm just not that girl much these days. I don't mope around sobbing, but I'm generally more reserved I think. I'd be interested in hearing what they think of what I contribute here.

Julia : My sister knew from the beginning. In fact, she came up with the name of my blog. She reads, and she used to comment on occasion, but not in a while. I told my husband after a couple of posts, and he's been reading since. As far as I know, only two friends who weren't at first friends online know. I haven't told anyone else, and I like it this way. Like Tash, I sometimes wish both the good ones and the bad ones would see. But then I come back to the part where I wouldn't want the bad ones to read all of it because I feel that they don't belong near the rawest of it, that those parts are too intimate to allow them to see, that their presence would almost desecrate those words. For the same reason, I think, that I don't want them at the cemetery.

Kate : Some have been supportive. Others have been utterly baffled. The only way I can respond is to respectfully not be too concerned by those who are baffled.

Tash :  I kept my family in the dark because I didn't want the burden of carrying them along for the emotional ride -- it was enough that I had to fasten my own seat belt. Sometimes I guess I wish the good ones knew what I did, and that the bad ones could read exactly how much they hurt us, but overall I don't regret the decision to keep this my own space. I have told some friends/neighbors and they've been remarkably supportive, but I'm pretty selective in who I tell.

9 |  Have you ever met any other loss bloggers in real-life? How did it feel to share food and air and space, and how did it make you feel about your own storytelling and healing? If you haven't experienced this, would you want to, or not? Why?

Chris :  I have not met other loss bloggers in real life.  I would like to at some point, especially the husbands so we could all just go get beers and hang out.

Jen : A friend of mine was blogging when she lost her daughter on the same day she was born. We shared a phone call after Sadie died, and I think it shocked us that we could both have gone through something so deeply tragic and painful. She was supportive and it was easy to talk to her, knowing she knew just how I was feeling.

Julia : I met Niobe even before I was blogging myself. It was remarkable to have so much instant understanding, to resonate so deeply. I have since met many others, and the common language, common understanding thing has happened every time.

Kate : Yes, I have. It's been wonderful, meeting both loss bloggers and those of many other persuasions. I've been amazed at how faithful online impressions have been to real-life people. I've never experienced a jarring sensation. Except for when I met Bon. That was weird. She has eight toes on her left foot, and her husband can only communicate by singing showtunes.

Tash :  I have, and it was so strange and comforting to see the faces and hear the voices that go along with the words. It made everything extremely real and on the surface, in a good way. It's lovely to meet people and already know the backstories so in the event it comes up, it can comfortably turn into a full-blown discussion . . . . or comfortably not at all.

10 |  How did you/will you know it's time to read fewer grief blogs, and write less of grief? How did you/will you redirect your energy, creativity, and persona online -- did you/will you go offline? Disappear and start again? Or transition in your current space, hoping to find a new voice? If you've done this, how did it feel?

Chris :  I just sorta listen to myself and do what feels right.  I take breaks if I need to.  I write more when it feels right.  I will probably always write and publish posts online, but I imagine eventually I will focus less on losing Silas and more on the children we hope to have someday.  When Lu gets pregnant again will probably be a moment for me to consider how I want to move forward with my writing.

Jen : I'm barely online now, but not particulary by choice. I'm not sure when it will be time to read and write less about grief. I'm not quite there yet.

Julia : I never thought of my blog as the grief-only place. The short description on the side panel says "[d]ealing with life after the death and stillbirth of my son." I always meant it to be about all of me, even if at first colored almost entirely by grief. I've posted political rants and little things that get my goat. Now I feel like grief and missing are blended into my palet, that they are a part of me in an integral and not-weird way. I don't know that it will change. I don't feel stuck at all. I feel right.

Kate : For a while, writing less about Liam felt like an identity crisis. I worried, in going to BlogHer in Chicago, that people would see me and remember his story while I was on the dance floor with a beer in each hand -- and that they'd think it unsettling somehow. But then I saw Mel of Stirrup Queens in fishnet stockings, kicking it at the community keynote in front of 1500 people. And I decided not to worry so much about who I am online versus what I project in-person. We all have a thousand faces. I write about Liam when I need to, and about expensive jeans and toddler root canals when I need to. My blog is as diverse as my life has been. I'm okay with that.

Tash :  It just happened, it wasn't really a decision, if you look through my archives I've definitely slowed down. I think not only is this because grief doesn't slap me upside the head on a daily basis anymore, but because it's a lot harder to explain how it's incorporated into my daily life without seeming like an alien appendage.  I think my voice has changed over the course of three years, but I still drop f-bombs just as much as when I started.

7 by 7: april 2009

1 | Give us a few words you would have used to describe your body, your health or your sense of physical vitality before the experience of babyloss—and a few that you’d use to describe it now.

Chris : Before I felt solid, strong & purposeful.  Now I'm just amazed that I can get my body to do anything at all.  My muscle memory for how to be correct in the world is what carries me along a lot of the time.

Gal : I am stronger now physically, and healthier. My pregnancy with Tikva actually strengthened me - her gift to me. I am older, though, more weathered, so a new kind of doubt is there too.

Janis : confident, proud, trustworthy, miraculous (in terms of making and birthing babies). Now, I see it cannot be taken for granted, yet it is still such an important vehicle. So the word for after is: mixed feelings.

Jen : Before: always plump, somewhat abused by the cigarette habit I’d been trying intermittently for years to give up. During pregnancy I felt generally better than I had since my teens. After: tired, entire lives older than it should feel, too soft in all the wrong places. Whereas I’ve never been confident in myself physically – at best it would have been content – it would now likely register at below zero. It’s something I’m working on. Emotionally, however, I am astonished at what I can apparently handle. Or at least survive.

Julia : I've gone through phases with my body. Right before my pregnancy with A, I was, I think, confident even if not satisfied. Now is a hard one. Both A's pregnancy, and my last one, with the Cub, as well as the aftermath of each, have been hard on me, in somewhat different ways. I made an effort to be kind to my body after A. I have succeeded, mostly, but the body isn't much better for it. The cumulative effect of these last two pregnancies is that I am tired. Just.so.tired.

Kate : Before: presumptuous. Oblivious in my skin, and which had me focusing on stuff like saddlebags and zits. After: seasoned, appreciative, solemn. Which doesn't sound like much fun, but I'm better for it.

Tash :  Before: petite, athletic, strong, healthy, feeling as though there was still potential for growth -- a triathlon maybe, or scorpion pose. Now: flabby, overweight, stout, stiff, feeling as if I'm over the hill and the best is long behind me.

2 | What do you do to take care of yourself? Has this changed?

Chris : Eat well, relax, read.  I am hoping for hikes as the spring rolls in.  I was never one to exercise or go to the gym and I still hate it.

Gal : I do yoga once or twice a week. I get acupuncture monthly. I take walks in the park and breathe fresh air. I get good sleep. I eat as much chocolate as my soul desires. Not much is different, except that I feel more deserving of it all now.

Janis : Yoga and chocolates are my lifelines. They still are, and I also need a lot of time for myself. Solitude for the heart and soul.

Jen : I’ve recently gotten back into the habit of going to the gym regularly. I feel worlds better now than a few months ago when it would have been an accomplishment to step on a machine once a week.

Julia : Not much, physically. I make an effort to walk during the work day. It helps that most of the parking available by my job is far-far away. I give myself breaks, let go of things that would've driven me mad to neglect, before. Alone time, when I can. Blog time, or I feel suspended, unconnected. Time with friends. Time with friends from the computer, who are now most definitely corporeal. A small drink here and there (between the pregnancies, the drinks were larger and more frequent, as they will be again, some day).

Kate : What restores me is the illusion of my own space and time, even for a few hours. I lack the discipline for regular exercise, and am totally mystified with admiration for those that have it. The guilt associated with this has always been there but since losing Liam, it's exacerbated with the 'ohmyGOD get off your ass, life is a fragile thing!'

Tash : I still run, go to the gym, and eat a low-sugar balanced diet. Just none of it as disciplined as before, with a steeper climb to start off with, and it shows. I've only recently got back in the swing of preventative medicine like the dentist and gynecological annuals.  

3 | Give us one or two words to describe sex or physical intimacy before, and then after the loss of your baby.

Chris : Before it was fun and hopeful.  Now it is both fraught with uncertainty and a  balm for my pain.  We enjoy ourselves but there is a great sense of purpose and intent.

Gal : It's hard to explain, but now it feels even more intimate. We've been through the unimaginable together, so our intimacy - of all kinds - is just more, deeper. Dave is the only one who really knows what it was like to know Tikva. I think of that often when I look at him.

Janis : Before: intense, fun. After: intense, emotional.

Jen : Before: regular, fun, satisfying. After: fairly regular, satisfying, much more intimate and intense. We’d both admit that we’re still terrified of being pregnant again before we’re ready.

Julia : Before: fun, important (as in a priority, not as in fate of the world in the balance). After: entangled, involved.

Kate : Before: carefree. After: loaded.

Tash : Before: Freeing, confident. After: Overthought, naked (in an on-stage-at-the-talent-show kinda way, not a sexytime-fun kinda way)

4 | Has loss and/or grief left a physical mark on you (a scar, a chronic condition, insomnia, a tattoo)?

Chris : The lack of any physical expression of my loss and pain was intolerable to me.  I don't have Silas here, so I needed something to mark me.  I have a tattoo on my right forearm that provides a powerful connection to my absent son.  For a while I had headaches every night around 3am but thankfully those stopped.  Now a sour stomach plagues my nights.

Gal : Almost 10 months after Tikva's birth, I still have a faint pregnancy line down my belly. I love it, I hope it stays forever. I still have tears running down my face at least once each day. My gray hairs are more abundant, and I definitely look older.

Janis : I have aged. I am flabby and old. I feel extremely tired and ravaged in every sense of the word. When I look into the mirror I do not recognize myself, but my friends seem to still recognize me. I dunno how that works.

Jen : Certainly a c-section scar. A few stretch marks. About 30 extra pounds. The circles under my eyes have finally started to fade. Sleep has been a major issue for me since she died, but as I get my ample ass to the gym more often, the easier I’m finding it to drift off. I’d be awake for weeks at a time without the books I consume.

Julia : Do 50 pounds count? PCOS, which means dropping weight is a bitch. Post-partum thyroiditis, which means a whole host of symptoms and medications, none of them good. Including, yes, the weight thing. Both times two now. A possibility (probability?) of a medical procedure on the horizon.

Kate : Two years later I'm still unsure how I feel about my c-section scar. Some days it haunts me, and other days I feel as though it's my tattoo, chosen. I look like anyone else on the outside, as does my family, and I almost cling to the evidence of the NICU, of him.

Tash : A pooch that sit-ups don't seem to have the least effect on. And I grind my teeth now. Oh, and deep dark bags under my eyes, even though I haven't cried in ages and sleep quite well, thanks. And gray hairs. Would a tattoo divert attention away from any of this?

5 | Do you medicate or control your emotions with food, wine, altered states, prescriptions? Without judgement, what have you gravitated towards in an effort to heal, and how do you feel about it?

Chris : I just want to give a big shout-out to all the micro-brewers all across the land.  Keep those IPAs coming!  And thank you wine, for existing.  Wine is wonderful.  Food has also been a refuge.  Chocolate.  Lobsters.  Pizza.  It's sorta like an anti-celebration, but it works.  I was surprised to find that neither of us relied on things like Xanax for relief for very long.  Initially it helped, but it was always a decision of last resort and it's not something I look to anymore.

Gal : Besides chocolate, which is comforting, I really haven't felt drawn to control or stop my emotions. I'd rather feel them deeply and let them journey through me and from me.

Janis : Not really. I think I escaped into words.

Jen : I’ve been on antidepressants since just before Christmas. I was against them for the longest time, believing that given my addictive personality I’d end up on them at best for years and at worst for the rest of my life. I started during a period when things were sliding backwards for me at a pace I simply couldn’t handle. It was lower and more painful than I ever admitted to the people who love me and hiding how sad I was became more than I could cope with. Now I’m on a course that will have me weaned off by late spring, and I’m ready.

Also, wine has always been and continues to be a fairly close acquaintance of mine.

Julia : Between the pregnancies, I needed that drink. Or three. Not every night, but not infrequently. Somehow, it made it easier to think, put sentences together. It quieted the background, helped me focus on whatever it was I needed to process that day. And is there really a better way to deal with a BFN than a fruity yet stiff cocktail?

Kate : I stopped eating meat. I'm no bleeding heart, nor do I mind or judge the plates of others. It was simply an intentional way to get the fuck away from death three times a day. Being a vegetarian helps me to feel peaceful. And smaller/tidier/healthier, fringe benefits.

Tash : I was so afraid of wine in the beginning -- I opted not to drink it for the longest time until I was sure it was because I truly wanted to just enjoy it, not because I felt I needed it. I did a lot of a coffee, and still find it the most comforting substance, especially in the morning when I'm realizing for the 26th month of waking up that this wasn't some bad dream.

6 | Was physical healing important for you in the first year after your loss? What did/does physical healing entail and how did/do you work towards it? If physicality hasn't been a priority for you, what do you do that makes you feel stronger or more able to cope?

Chris : At this point, for me, physical healing is secondary to healing my emotional and psychic wounds.  I'm sure more exercise & activity will benefit me, though.

Gal : I'm still in the first year, although sometimes it feels like a piece of the loss began over a year ago when I learned of Tikva's condition in utero. Being supported by friends and family holds me together. Eating well and enough and feeling nourished. And writing, lots of writing.

Janis : Yoga really helped me, physically, spiritually, emotionally. I also went to a couple of energy healers. Being out in nature also strengthened me and inspired me, and helped me feel connected to my son.

Jen : A year passed last week for us. For me, getting a job was a major factor in making me feel stronger in the beginning. Now, improving physically has become a priority that I’m finally enjoying.

Julia : I wanted to. I had the best intentions. I got benched by thyroiditis for a while. Other things after that. I think I ended up going to the gym a grand total of four or five times. Though I surprised myself a few times that year with the things I could still do, like swimming out into the open water to chase a catamaran. And catching it.

Kate : Physical healing wasn't an explicit priority -- at least in terms of fitness. For a very long time, sex was near-incomprehensible. It felt inappropriate to relish in this baby-losing body. For me, the reclaiming of this flesh had more to do with Marvin Gaye and new underwear than it did jogging.

Tash : Oh good lord, no. I can't remember how long it took to even cut my hair, let alone think about taking a vitamin or eating something other than cold cereal. Eventually, I wanted to run again, and about four months later I did. It helped immensely, physically and emotionally. Until I blew out my plantar fascia. Moral of the story: when healing, do it slowly in small increments, not all at once.

7 | If you could change anything about your body and/or health, what would it be? What would it feel like to be either at peace with your body, or at peace with this babylost state?

Chris :  I hate my teeth, I hate my eyes and right now I can't stand my stomach either.  I'd trade any of them in an instant.  Teeth first, though.  I seem to wear glasses well.  However, I don't really feel like I'm at war with my body.  It's just how it is and I'm okay with it.  My body is strong enough to bear this loss and I can still do everything I need or want to.  Overall I'm fine with my body, but I will never be okay with losing Silas.

Gal : I would turn back the clock to be 10 years younger and have more childbearing years ahead of me. I feel at peace with my body, appreciate its vitality and resilience, and the resilience of my soul. I feel like being at peace with my babylost state is something I have no choice but to choose to be and feel.

Janis : I don't think I can change anything, because now I feel I am no longer in control. I can change this, or that, but there are a myriad other variables out there. I am not sure what it will feel like to be at peace, but I think it will be just that- feeling at peace. No wants, no desires, no regrets, no could-have-been's, just accepting, just being. (I think if anything, I wanna change my life, change what happened...)

Jen : In a perfect world I'd know that I'm perfectly healthy; able to carry and deliver a healthy child. I have no idea what being at peace would feel like.

Julia : I accept both. I am not ok with either. My body is the way it is because of childbearing and what, for me, comes with it. That makes its present state earned, but it doesn't make it good. I call my feeling acceptance, though I am beginning to suspect that it's actually resignation. One day I might find motivation to work on it, but for now, from here, it just looks daunting. As for the babylost state. It will never be ok that A is dead. Yet he will always be dead. I accept that he is gone. But it will never be ok.

Kate : I am now a night-owl, and don't get enough sleep. I'm also not physically fit. This leaves me feeling pretty ragged sometimes, but staying up late to write feeds me in ways that keep me sane, if not toned. So I'm okay with that. (This is weird, actually. I wrote this question, yet I'm shrugging at it. All I can think of to say to "what would it look like to be at peace" is "hmph. dunno.")

Tash : I keep thinking, irrationally, if I could just change one little thing about my body, I'd deal with the whole grief mess sooo much better. If I could just lose the 20 pounds. If my skin would finally lose the pregnancy blotchiness. If I could have joints and feet and ovaries that were just five years younger. If I got a boob job. And then I realize I wouldn't feel that much better at all. I suppose I've found some level of peace in the notion that I'll never be content with my body.