Hope, always

There are not many days set aside for the grieving to stand still for a while and reflect on what is, what will be, and more painfully, what might have been. In the beginning it seemed the world expected us to resume our place in it much sooner than we had anticipated. Now, in the days, weeks, months or sometimes years since the day we last laid eyes on our dear son or our darling daughter, we find ourselves looking for a chance to remember. It's not that we need one, we who have committed to heart the very essence of that little person who is no longer with us. But give us permission, open a dialogue, and we'll very quickly fill the space with our little one's song.

Our eagerness to speak our babies' names - to claim a place for them in the everyday conversation that makes up our lives - is often troubling, especially for the ones who love us. They want us to 'move on' as it is painful for them to see how much we are hurting. They're afraid to ask questions lest they make it worse. And, the truth is, for most of those who know us the passage of time distances them from our tragedy. For us to talk openly about our babies who have died is to remind everyone within earshot that sometimes even those we would give our own lives to protect can be taken from us. 

Today, August 19th, is a special day we claim for publicly acknowledging and remembering our babies. It is a day of hope, the origins of which you can read more about here.

I am privileged to know Hope's mama, Sally. She has been an incredible source of comfort, support and inspiration for me since I found myself a part of a whole community of women grieving the loss of a cherished child. I met her when I was just a few months out from losing Max, when I was broken, confused and fumbling every which way to find answers, to find peace, and to find a way to express my love for a baby that no one else could see. I was drawn to her as if she was an oracle. I sought her out as a kind of mentor for my grief journey. She is one of the only other people I've met in real life whose baby died. She has generously listened to my story countless times and has always responded kindly to my regular pleas for reassurance and comfort. 

Today is the day Hope would have turned five. Today I, and so many others, think of her and her beautiful family, all of whom must face another day, another week, another year without her.

For me it has been a day of solitude, spent in quiet reflection of how incredibly grateful I am for both of my babies. Though Max could not stay, I am still so happy that he was here. It is impossible for me to separate the joy I feel that my baby lived with the sorrow that remains now that he has died. Those feelings are forever entwined. 

Today, in the company of my beautiful rainbow baby, I contemplated all the reasons my family has to hope that our future with this little girl in our lives will be bright and joyful, even though someone so integral to our family is missing. And I know Hope's family will show us the way - one which they have paved so beautifully for themselves in the five years since their first child was born.  

I told Alice Hope's story this afternoon, and she had her picture taken with one of the gorgeous fairy tale prints that are raising money for The Stillbirth Foundation in Hope's name. There are still some for sale, and hanging one on your wall, or the wall of a special child in your life, is a way that you can help us acknowledge and value the impact that our babies have had on the world.