Our grandson Isaac was born on Christmas Eve and died on Christmas day. He only lived on earth for thirty-four hours. He has lived and will live in our hearts as long as we live. For thirty-three of the hours he lived, no one could touch him or hold him. He was too tiny, his skin so fragile, and he was too dependent on the incubator and the machines to allow any contacts from us. Just before he died, they brought him to a room where both sets of grandparents joined his parents to hold him and bond with him as his life slipped away.

He was so tiny we had to buy doll clothes for him to wear to be buried in. I remember thinking that buying those clothes was the only thing I would ever have a chance to do for him. We stop to remember him each Christmas just before we open our gifts, and each time a pang of sadness runs through my heart as I realize how old he would be now and how much joy he would bring to our lives.

With all of that said, and all of my being involved in his birth, his death and his memories. I still have very little concept of how my daughter felt or feels about the loss of a son. The grief following stillbirths or miscarriages has a heightened dimension of loneliness that can only be understood by the mother. She is the only one who truly knows the baby. The husband may have some feeling of being connected and he may have felt the baby kick in the mother's stomach, but even he cannot begin to comprehend what the mother feels nor can he know what she knows about the child. She bonded at the moment of conception and somehow understands who the child is and what kind of personality would develop. I sometimes think she knows where the child would have gone to college and who they would have married. 

It is left to the mother to explain how significant the child is to a world that looks upon stillbirth or miscarriage as minor grief and will almost inevitably leave the impression that, since she did not have the child long enough to get attached, her grief should be a passing thing. 

A person who led grief groups decided to form a group for those who had suffered the death of a child either by miscarriage or at birth. The first person to arrive was a seventy-five year old woman. She was early enough to allow the leader time to hear her story. Since her experience happened long ago, she was not sure she qualified to be in the group, but really wanted her story told. She said her son had died at birth fifty years ago. In those days, grieving over such a death was not allowed. The husband had arranged to bury the body immediately and when he returned he said that was over and done with and he did not want to hear anything more about it. She said she had spent fifty years wondering what her son would look like or be like. Every time she saw someone who would be his age she felt a surge of sorrow and questioning. She said, "My family is all gone now, and I want to talk. The first thing I want you to know is, I named him Tommy. No one ever knew he had a name." The group leader happened to be a Catholic Deacon, and with great insight he led her in a prayer service to honor Tommy fifty years late. 

I have met two funeral directors who found a way to respond to this lonely journey. One is in New Zealand and the other in Canada. Both acquired a lot in a cemetery and erected a large grave marker dedicated to babies who either died during the pregnancy or at birth. The marker in New Zealand reads, "For All The Un-Named Babies. There is never a time when fresh flowers, balloons, or toys are not suddenly appearing as parents find a way to at last honor a life long forgotten by most of the world. In Canada, the funeral home will have the name carved into a headstone. The first person to ask that this be done was a seventy-five year old man. His wife had died, but he knew she would have wanted her stillborn son remembered and they had never found a way to do so. I heard recently that the headstone is now full of names on both sides and two more have been placed there. They have turned the area into a small garden of remembrance.

The loss of a baby is not minor grief, it is a lonely walk among a world that has no idea what pain is there or what significance needs to be expressed. I have asked my daughter, Kathy Burns,  to share a few words about what helped:

As Doug mentioned, this type of grief is very lonely. I was fortunate to have a two friends that really saw me through the worst of it.

My friend, Debbie, had lost 3 babies to miscarriage. She knew my pain in a way that few others could. I don’t remember a word Debbie said to me. But, she met me for lunch once a week for months. Debbie let me tell her the same story about losing Isaac over and over again. She let me vent my frustrations and sorrows over and over again. Debbie listened to me describe every event, every emotion, every thought I had and then she listened to me describe them all over again.  Not once did she indicate that it was time for me to move on and get over it. Not once did she ever indicate that she was tired of hearing the same thing over and over again. Not once did Debbie use a cliché on me. She shared her story with me and we talked for hours. 

Tammy is a true treasure that has wisdom beyond her years and an unwavering source of support. She made it a point to mention Isaac by name. I don’t know how she knew that would help, that I longed to hear his name, but she knew and wasn’t afraid to say it.  Tammy also listened. She heard the same stories Debbie did, because that was the only thing on my mind. Tammy, too, listened and never once complained or acted like she did not want to be near me. When I had exhausted everyone else’s ears and could tell that they did not want to hear about Isaac anymore, Debbie and Tammy continued to listen. 

What helped? Doug says that people in grief need three things. They need you to “Hang Around, Hug them, and Hush.” That’s exactly what my two friends did for me. They hung around long past when others had gone on about their business. They hugged me or held my hand and gave me the human touch I needed. And they hushed. They knew that there were no words they could say that could “cure” me. The only words that would help were mine. . . telling my story over and over again, explaining my feelings over and over again. . . that helped.

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