Summer Memories

You may remember, I joined Faces of Hope's monthly writing challenge (FOHMWC). I missed June. Let me catch up.



I didn't get to make any summer memories with our Livy. The only connection summer and Olivia has is her due date. Her due date was August 20, 2007. On that day, months after she was born still, we held a balloon release at her grave. We invited family and friends. Trissy, Sam, their boys, Stefanie, Stacy, Paula, her little son, and Amanda came. We placed six beautiful pink roses in her vase for the six beautiful months we had with her. We released six pink balloons. Paula and Amanda each brought a balloon too.

Momma and Aunt Mickey did a balloon release in my hometown. Aunt Janis and family did one too with yellow balloons. I felt so grateful.

Every due date we visit her grave. We usually leave a "thinking of you" balloon and release another to find it's way to her.

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4th Birthday Visit

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A Box In The Ground

Four years ago today hubby and I drove to the funeral home to say goodbye to our daughter's perfect little body. We were led down a hall and into a small room with a couch and side table. Across from the couch was a rectangular table against the wall with the tiniest of coffins on it. Our daughter's body was laying inside. She was a little over half way bigger than that tiny coffin. Yet there she was, ten fingers, ten toes, button nose, knees, elbows, Daddy's feet and Momma's legs. Somewhere behind those closed eyelids there was the color blue. My daughter that had grown in my belly for six months or so. My daughter that was so much wanted by her daddy and myself. My daughter that I planned so much for, that had a full nursery waiting for her with pink clothes and towels and sheets and stuffed animals and blankets. There lay my daughter who I wanted to show the world and who I wanted to show the world to. No one would ever see her but us. Not in this life. There lay all my hopes and dreams of becoming a mother to a bouncing baby girl. Dead were the possibilities of potty training, pre-school, first day of kindergarten, Girl Scouts, scraped knees, first love, college graduation, wedding, her children. All gone. And it happened so quickly. Just seven days, one week, earlier we were expecting all these things. Instead we held her, cried over her, sang to her, spent one-on-one time with her, made sure her clothes were perfect, enclosed a tiny teddy bear, and a picture of us with her, wrapped her in one of the blankets from her nursery, kissed her goodbye, and sealed the lid.
Hubby carried her to the funeral home car. I sat beside him with that box in his lap. That box that held all his hopes and dreams. That box that we would have to put in a deep, dark, cold hole in the ground. That tiny box that held so much. He carried her to the grave site. After the grave-side service I couldn't leave. I couldn't leave my baby laying out there in the open unprotected by momma's arms. Doug could not pull me away. The fellow from the funeral home asked the cemetery workers to bypass protocol and bury her with us watching. A man came and lowered my daughter into that hole. Then came a machine with a scoop of dirt. She got covered and I felt she was safe. The man arranged the flowers on top of the tiny mound of dirt and was gone. The fellow from the funeral home waited a ways away in silence. It took a few minutes, many, many tears, and a slight nudge from hubby, but I was finally able to leave. Only to return hundreds of times later.

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Acceptably Painful

Last month was the first time I haven't been to Livy's grave at least once a month. She had no flowers or figurines or anything at her place last month. I thought about it every couple of days. I never planned on going though. Each time I'd think about it it felt acceptably painful. I no longer had to go. I wanted to go. But I'd let the idea of going sit in my brain for a minute or two and the thought passed. October came so so quickly. Before I knew it it had been a whole month and I had not driven that drive up the hill. I was a little shocked. A whole month. I do feel guilty because our little Olivia's place had no flowers for a whole month, but as far as how I feel just about the fact that I didn't go to "see" her, it feels acceptably painful. No longer a dire need. There is no longer an insurmountable urging force. And I think that's okay. Maybe.

It's Personal

Some gals who check this blog regularly ask why I never post anything personal. I'm really not sure why. It's not that I don't still grieve a little every day. It's not that I'm worried that friends and family will read it and judge me. I don't know why. Lately I've been wanting to post something personal. It's some feelings and thoughts I've been having. I've been thinking it over in my mind for about a week now and had all the perfectly formed sentences in my brain to correctly express what I wanted to convey. Now it's all left me. However, it seems important to me so I'll press on.

Olivia's third angel day or birthday, or whatever you'd like to call it was May 1st. It's never overwhelmingly depressing. Actually a little bittersweet. The reason for the bitter is obvious, but the sweet seems surprising. Just now I'm wondering where that comes into play and I think it must come from the knowledge I have of where she's at and that we are an eternal family and that I will see her again one day. Point is that it wasn't a horrible day/week. Of course I was sad and cried and had a tough time, but it wasn't horrible...until the next weekend.

The little boy across the street was born a week after Livy. I remember being pregnant right along with his mom and chatting a couple of times about the babies. And about a month after Liv was born, on my first venture to the mailbox, her husband asked if we had our baby early because I was obviously not pregnant any more, I said we did, and because of the smile on his face that told me he was going to say congratulations or something of the sort I immediately spat out that "she didn't make it". For some reason I remember the exact words I used. Which somehow reminds me of how the cleaning ladies at the hospital the day after Olivia was born and we were in a postpartum room told us congratulations and I somehow smiled and said thank you.

Anyway, every time I see this precious little boy playing in the yard I remember Olivia. Every time he falls I want to run to his rescue. Every time he does something big for his age I feel a little proud. It is odd. It feels odd to me. But it just happens.

Well, this little fella had a huge third birthday party in his front yard with balloons, decorations, a big bounce house, lots of family, and tons of presents. That was a horrible day. I couldn't tear my eyes away. I sat just inside a front window in the shadow and balled. I tried to move. Then I walked away a few times, but I always came right back. I watched this family celebrate the third anniversary of this precious boy's birth and grieved at the emptiness of our home. Yes, we have been blessed with a rainbow baby. But that rainbow baby should have an older sister. There should be half deflated balloons in our home from the previous weekend when we had his sister's third birthday party. There should be a room downstairs painted pink with lacy curtains. I should have been telling her to hush as not to wake baby brother from his nap. It was the worst day I've had in a long time.

Then came Mother's Day. I didn't go to the first hour of church because our rainbow baby was napping, but I doubt I would have went anyway. I have gone every Mother's Day in years past, but because of that birthday party this Mother's Day was harder somehow. All in all it turned out to be another bittersweet but not horrible day.

Then there was Memorial Day. This day has never really gotten to me. I think I recall in a past post saying the same thing. Where I grew up, in the South, Memorial Day was a day to honor the deceased military. Not until I moved to the West did I learn that people used it as a day to remember all their beloved dead. My first Memorial Day after losing Olivia was spent in frustration at all the children at the cemetery who trampled the lawn and played with all the flowers, wind chimes, and toys left at the angel's graves. The next year I bought and put up a picket fence around Liv's grave to keep the kids away. It actually worked. It's been more of a day to protect "her" than to remember her/grieve for her. When I went the day before Memorial Day this year to put up her fence it was dusk. As I started to push the stakes of the fence into the ground tears started to fall. Angry tears. Anger from having a daughter's grave to have to protect. Angry that she wasn't here and I had to care for her grave instead of her. Then they turned to tears of sadness and I wept. I got all the fencing put down except for the piece at the bottom of her headstone. Though there were people around I knelt down, laid my head on her headstone, and wept. I felt I had no strength to do anything but that. No strength left to hold back the tears. No strength left to pick myself up and walk away. It just happened. And gratefully the few people there just let it happen. It didn't take too long for me to use the happy thoughts of where she is and how I'll see her again one day to drive the sadness away and dry up those tears. I suppose it was a needed cry. Well, anyway aren't all cries needed cries? I drove home sane again, for every mother of an angel goes through seconds of insanity during these brief and intense grieving moments.

The next day we visited her grave. The cemetery was absolutely gorgeous. It seemed every grave was decorated with flowers and/or balloons. Driving to "Baby Land" Liv's place was easy to see thanks to the pretty, white fencing. Our earthly family of three got out and placed our gifts there for her. Sometimes my visits are unfeeling, like I just haven't got the energy to let myself feel anything. This was one of those times. We took our pictures and left.

Just now while typing this I realize how the fencing is the only way I can show my motherly protection for her. I've always realized how the flowers, ribbons around the top of the vase, dolls with bottles, figurines and trinkets are the only gifts I can give her, but just now realized what that fence truly means to me.

So, it's been a tough month or so, on and off. I do feel. I do grieve. Though I don't post it often here I am experiencing these things right along with you angel mothers, and I wanted to share this most recent span of grief with you. You are not alone. All my love.

Another Birthday

What If?

I know we've very most likely figured out the things that caused me to lose Olivia and have chemical pregnancies, but what if? Since we buried Olivia I've kept my eye one the plot below her, just in case. It was logical then, but not since we've been blessed with our baby boy. I still kept my eye on it. Recently it has been filled. Every new grave there breaks my heart a little more. But when this particular grave was filled I grieved a little. Weird. Strange. Wrong?

Poem Without A Name

This was sent to me by a friend who has babies in heaven:

"The following poem was sent to us by a mother who received it from a friend. The friend had no idea who wrote it. Surely though, whoever did must have been someone like us, to capture not just the pathos of stillbirth, but the emptiness that greets mothers when they step back into the world.

"What is it in our culture that causes so many to fear death so much that they will go out of their way to not even discuss it? Is this aversion like the blinders horses wear, so they are not startled by peripheral events? If so, we’re going to miss a lot of life along the roads we travel for not accepting that all roads have endings.

"We have experienced the best and the worst life has to offer. And yet is there any one of us who – were we given a chance knowing the outcome – would not have gone through the fire? We are not to be pitied for our loss. It is they, who have 'died', but not yet stopped breathing or fallen over, that deserve the pity."


Poem Without A Name

To those who look away when I grow teary-eyed in the baby department,
look a little deeper.
Surely you have some compassion in your heart.

To those who change the subject when we speak our baby's name,
change your way of thinking.
It just might change your whole life.

To those who roll their eyes and say that we barely had her at all,
how could we miss her so much,
in our hearts we have seen her live a thousand times.
We have seen her first steps, her first day of school, her wedding, and her children.
We have had her forever in our minds.

To those who say we can have another, we did.
I thank God for that everyday,
but even if I have twenty more babies,
I will forever have one in the grave,
and that is one too many.

To those who say to get on with my life, I have.
It is a different life,
the life of a grieving mother.
One with a tremendous amount to be thankful for,
but also one with a lot to mourn the loss of!

Do not judge the bereaved mother.
She comes in many forms.
She is breathing, but she is dying.
She may look young, but inside she has become ancient.
She smiles, but her heart sobs.
She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works,
she IS, but she IS NOT, all at once.
She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.

Do not dismiss us; we have shaped more than just the future generation.
We have released all the tiny angels who are watching over you.
Open your eyes to US,
and you just might see THEM.

-Author Unknown

First Due Date Anniversary

If things had gone the way we planned you would be turning one year old some time around today. Learning how to walk. "Momma" and "Daddy"ing. But, it was not meant to be. Still, it's hard not to think about what might have been.

Oh how the absence of your giggles and cries hurts our ears, and our hearts! How we've ever made it through to this far is beyond me. We notice you not being there the most when we're around family. Someone is missing. How wonderful that they all have you for an angel though!

We remember you this time of year, dream about a non-existent present, and know how happy you must be with the view you have from where you are. A visual view and a spiritual view only someone like you can have.

We love you and miss you every single day. We can't wait to hold you in our arms once more.

You Are a Mother

A mother's love persists
Despite the time or distance
Weathering storms of adversity and absence
A mother's love persists
Despite tears and heartaches
In spite of all enemies
And until her own last dying breath
A mother's love persists
Beyond the grave
Stronger than death
Enduring and everlasting
A mother's love persists
You are a mother, even in the physical absence of your child
You are a mother.
Because a mother's love persists.

-Unknown

I Am a Mother

I am a mother
But like most others
I am a special mother
I held my daughter
Even though only in my womb

I am a mother
Even though my daughter is no longer
At least...not on earth
He lives in heaven
With our sweet Father
Which is far better

I am a mother
Like most others
To an angel...to whom I gave birth

I am a mother
Like most others
Who doesn’t get to throw parties
For those special occasions…like birthdays
Instead, we hold a silent party...in our hearts and heads

I am a mother...unlike some
Who hold their babies in their arms
I am a mother...who holds her daughter
So close to her heart

I am a mother...some beg to differ
I am a mother...though some may not agree
I am a mother
Who’s child is no longer with her
But...I am a mother

I am a mother...who can only dream
Of the day she holds her baby
For the first time in her arms
But never lets her leave her heart

I am a mother
Far from my daughter
But I am a mother…who will never forget
The day she lost her first baby

I am a mother...who dreams
Of a rocking chair in heaven
Where I will someday...hold her close
When she cries or when I kiss her goodnight

I am a mother who…
Instead of holding my daughter’s hand
For the first day of school
Holds onto memories
That will never come true

I am a mother...who visits a cemetery instead of a school
I am a mother...who will never see
What her child will grow to be

I am a mother who cries herself to sleep...sometimes
I am a mother who sometimes rocks herself

I am a mother who gets to wonder what would be
I am a mother who wonders...What would she be?

Most of all...I Am A Mother

-Patricia Hollie

Happy First Birthday Olivia

Thank you to Marie's friend Vickie for creating this graphic as a gift for Olivia.

Today it is snowing while the sun is shining. This weather fits our emotions today.


Thank you to Hubby's friend Becky for the "My First Minnie".

Thank you so much to everyone for the heart-felt emails, card, text, and gifts. It means a lot to know you're thinking of Olivia today, and sending us well wishes.

Before she was born:

After she was born:

Just Once

Just once I wish I could have spent a late hour rocking you in my arms.
Just once I wish I could have gently lain you in your crib.
I wish I could have changed a diaper,
chosen an outfit for the day,
given you a bath,
soothed your skin with lotion.
Just once I wish I could have heard you cry out in loneliness for me.
Spent time alone with you,
Just the two of us,
strolled you proudly through the shopping mall.
Just once I wish I could have heard the words
"What a beautiful, healthy baby girl".
Just once.

-Author Unknown

Spring

I don't know what it is, but spring brings sorrow to my heart this year. Is it that new life is springing up all around me? Is it that winter is gone and the world no longer matches my feelings? Is it that I am missing buying an Easter dress for my daughter, like we were looking forward to doing when we found out she was a girl?

Thankfully spring also brings a reminder of the atonement, the plan of salvation, and the gift of eternal families. Reminding myself of these things helps me get through the hard times. Though I don't show it as I should, I am thankful for the undying love of our Father in heaven.

Valentine's Day

October

Fireworks!

On Tuesday, July 3rd, we went to the cemetery at night to see Livy's solor-powered butterflies light up. They were surprisingly bright. They blink. You can see them from a good ways away. While we were there the fireworks at the golf course started. We could see them perfectly, so we stayed and watched the fireworks with our little Liv. It was pretty neat. If we can remember, I think we'll do that every year.



Livy's butterflies

Olivia's Headstone

Olivia's headstone is finished and placed. We were surprised one day, and thrown off a little. It turned out exactly like we hoped it would. You can't really tell in the picture, but the headstone and the vase are shades of pink.

Our Memorial Day

A million times we needed you,
A million times we cried.
If love alone could have saved you,
You never would have died.
In life we loved you dearly,
In death we love you still.
In our hearts you hold a place,
No one can ever fill.
A light from our household is gone,
A voice from our future is stilled.
A place in our vacant home,
Which by you won't be filled.
Some may think you are forgotten,
'Cause on earth you are no more.
But in our memory you are with us,
As you ever were before.
It broke our hearts to lose you,
But you did not go alone.
A part of us went with you,
The day God called you home.
Your precious memories are keepsakes,
with which we'll never part.
God has you safely in his keeping,
But we have you forever in our hearts.

-Anonymous



"Baby Land" at Olivia's cemetery. Olivia is just right of the middle of the front row.

For Friends and Family

The Mission of Share -Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support, Inc. is to serve those whose lives are touched by the tragic death of a baby through early pregnancy loss, stillbirth or in the first few months of life.

The primary purpose is to provide support toward positive resolution of grief experienced at the time of or following the death of a baby. This support encompasses emotional, physical, spiritual and social healing, as well as sustaining the family unit.

The secondary purpose is to provide information, education, and resources on the needs and rights of bereaved parents and siblings. The objective is to aid those in the community including family, friends, and employers, member of the congregation, and caregivers and others in their supportive role.

Share is a non-denominational, not-for-profit (501c3) organization, providing support, comfort and hope. Additional information about Share can be obtained by contacting:


National Share Office
St. Joseph Health Center
300 First Capitol Drive
St. Charles, MO 63301-2893
Office Phone: 636-947-6164
Toll Free Phone: 800-821-6819
Fax: 636-947-7486
E-mail: share@nationalshareoffice.com
Website: http://www.nationalshareoffice.com/
Office Hours: Monday-Thursday 9:00 am – 4:00 pm Central Time

Dear Friend:

Someone very special to you has just experienced the death of a precious child. This is an extremely difficult situation because most people never expect a child to die and after the initial grief, they do not know how to interact with the grieving parent. As a parent whose baby recently died, I would like to mention some things that might make the situation easier for you and the grieving parent:

1. Realize that saying “I’m sorry” at any time after a baby has died is never inappropriate or too late.

2. Understand that the length of time a baby is carried or the amount of time a child lives does not determine his/her value or the impact that the child has on the parents’ lives. To ignore what has happened in hopes that the grief will pass is to diminish the worth of a child that was loved from the time of the awareness of its existence, long before its birth.

3. Realize that just as no one can replace a mother who dies, a new baby cannot replace a child who has died. All children are individuals, conceived separately, born separately, and loved separately. It is no different with a child that dies before, during, or shortly after birth. A parent cannot and should not be expected to “save” the love they have for their dead child to give to the next child. The ability to create another baby is not a way to resurrect a dead child therefore, it should not be thought of as a complete comfort. Not only is it unfair to the dead child, but it makes the next child a substitute.

4. If you are uncomfortable about discussing the death of the child with the parents because you think they won’t want to talk about it, don’t shy away. Simply say something like “I just want you to know that I want to listen if you need to talk”. Call frequently to ask how the parent is adjusting. If you live close to the parents, take the initiative to get together for lunch or some sporting activity (offer frequently, but don’t force it). Let the parents set the pace but constantly show them that you are open and interested. It may be horrifying for you to hear some details of the death, but it is much worse for the parents to experience the trauma and then have to keep it to themselves because they know it will be hard on you. When they tell you how they feel, refrain from making judgments and setting timetables.

5. Realize that a child is still the product of the parents’ love and the joy of their lives. There is joy and pain. The joy doesn’t end when the child dies, and the pain doesn’t end as soon as the funeral is over and the cards are sent- accept both. Don’t try to take the pain away. Parents need to feel it, hard as it is to see their pain, they need to grieve.

6. If the child has a name, use it. Try to remember the parents with a note or a phone call on their first Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, as well as the baby’s predicted due date and the first year anniversary of the child’s birth and death (even the first few monthly anniversaries).

Finally, if I can convey one thing to you in hopes it will make a difference, it is this: please make an effort not to underestimate the depth of the pain, the length of the grief, and most importantly, the difference your support and involvement can make during this painful adjustment. There may not be any other time when you are needed more than now. If you distance yourself because you’re uncomfortable until you think a reasonable amount of time has passed, you may find a different kind of distance and hurt between yourself and the grieving parent. If you share the experience, everyone will come out of it stronger.

Praying that God will guide and strengthen you.

A Mother

National Share Office, St. Joseph Health Center, 300 First Capitol Drive, St. Charles, MO. 63301 - May 1999





TO OUR FAMILY & FRIENDS
OUR GRIEF EXPERIENCE SHARED

We want to share with you some of our feelings and how you can help and support us. We have suffered a tremendous loss, and we need to grieve. Even though this may be uncomfortable for others around us, it’s something we MUST do. We won’t be over this in a few weeks as most people expect. We will be able to adjust to the loss of our precious child if we are given the time needed to grieve. (Average intense grieving is 18-24 months). However, we will not be the same people we were before our loss.

We may need to talk about our baby, how much we loved our child and the details of our experience. Even though we may not have many memories we suffer from broken dreams. During this time we need others to be there and listen to us time and time again. This is the kindest thing a person can do for us. We do not want to forget our baby and we will need to mention him/her in the future. It would be appreciated if you would remember our baby, especially on difficult days such as anniversary days, birthdays, Christmas, and Mother’s and Father’s Day.

In our struggles with our grief, we may have difficulties with the following:
· Understanding our many emotions and feeling emotionally balanced.
· Coping with feelings of guilt, anger and jealousy.
· Dealing with normal daily functions due to lack of energy.
· Deciding what to do with our baby’s belongings.
· Coping with the individuality of our grief as a family and as a couple.
· Sharing family celebrations.
· Seeing babies/children that are the same age our child would have been.
· Needing to make major decisions such as subsequent pregnancies, moving, job changes, etc.
· Visiting the cemetery and purchasing a tombstone.
· Remembering our baby in special ways that are acceptable.
· Feeling different and subsequently feeling isolated.
· Dealing with physical symptoms that arise due to grieving.

Dealing with these many emotions takes a lot of courage and tedious work. It is worth it so we can have peace of mind and a physical well being.

Many of us will attend support group meetings. Support groups are not for weaklings. The meetings are a safe place where we can share our feelings and love for our baby. Others who have been through similar experiences validate our feelings. These meetings give us comfort and hope for our future.

If we sound a little selfish, please understand. Only after we are able to adjust and experience the journey of grief can we reach out and help others. One day we will be able to live life in a fuller manner.

We try not to criticize others. Before our baby died, we didn’t understand the full impact this loss had. We want to share this painful experience with you so others can understand our need for support. No one will be able to take our pain away, but perhaps they can be there and listen.

National Share Office, St. Joseph Health Center, 300 First Capitol Drive, St. Charles, MO 63301 - Catherine Lammert, May 1999





SUPPORTING A GRIEVING FAMILY

How to Help:

1. Be supportive-Visit or call to say, "I care and want to help."
2. Treat the bereaved couple equally. Men need as much support as women.
3. Be available. Parents need direct help providing a meal, doing errands, and baby-sitting their other children.
4. Allow the parents to talk about their child; ask but don’t pry.
5. Learn about the grieving process. There are many books available.
6. Don't be afraid of reminding the parents about the child. They have never forgotten. Letting them know you remember is comforting.
7. Be liberal with touching a grieving parent. They often have a need for contact.

DO Say:

1. I'm sorry.
2. I'm so sad for your loss.
3. I know this must be terribly hard for you.
4. How are you managing all of this?
5. What can I do for you?
6. I'm here, and I want to listen.
7. Talk as long as you want. I have plenty of time.

DON’T Say:

1. It's all happened for the best.
2. You're young. You can have others.
3. Now you'll have an angel in heaven.
4. You're better off having this happen now, before you knew the baby.
5. This was God's way of saying something was wrong.
6. You should feel lucky that you are alive.
7. Forget it. Put it behind you and get on with your life.
8. I understand. (If you have not had a similar experience)

National Share Office, St. Joseph Health Center, 300 First Capitol Drive, St. Charles, MO. 63301 Catherine Lammert, National Share Office, May 1999





Typical Behaviors of Grief

1. Expressed frustration
a. Direct – could not see/hold the baby.
b. Indirect – picking clothing and other signs of restlessness and insomnia.
2. Bizarre searching
a. Playing with doll
b. Hearing the baby cry from the grave
c. Empty aching arms
i. Reaches intensity within 2-4 months
3. Preoccupation with experience
A. How they were treated during prenatal and delivery experience
4. Disorganized
a. Unable to accomplish ordinary activities
5. Residual anger
a. Anger focuses on spouse
b. Refusal to talk about the baby
c. Possible hostility toward to deceased

Signs of Normal Grief

1. Sighing, tightness of throat
2. Dullness of perception
3. Volatile emotions
a. A marked change in behavior or taking on the behavior of the deceased
b. Those who don’t cry need more attention
c. Feelings of guilt
d. Aloof – removed or distanced physically or emotionally

Reprinted with permission: National Share Office, St. Joseph Health Center, 300 First Capitol Drive, St. Charles, MO 63301 - May 1999

A Mother's Grief

by Kelly Cummings



You ask me how I'm feeling,
but do you really want to know?
The moment I try telling you
you say you have to go.

How can I tell you,
what it's been like for me?
I am haunted, I am broken
by things that you can't see.

You ask me how I'm holding up,
but do you really care?
The second I try to speak my heart,
you start squirming in your chair.

Because I am so lonely,
you see, no one comes around.
I take the words I want to say
and quietly choke them down.

Everyone avoids me now
because they don't know what to say.
They tell me I'll be there for you,
then turn and walk away.

Call me if you need me.
That's what everybody said.
But how can I call you and scream into the phone
"My God, my child is dead!"?

No one will let me say
the words I need to say.
Why does a mother's grief
scare everyone away?

I am tired of pretending
as my heart pounds in my chest.
I say things to make you comfortable,
but my soul finds no rest.

How can I tell you things
that are too sad to be told;
of the helplessness of holding a child
who in your arms grows cold?

Maybe you can tell me
how should one behave
who's had to follow their child's casket,
watched it perched above a grave?

You cannot imagine
what it was like for me that day.
To place a final kiss upon that box,
and have to turn and walk away.

If you really love me,
and I believe you do;
if you really want to help me,
here is what I need from you.

Sit down beside me.
Reach out and take my hand.
Say, "My friend, I've come to listen.
I want to understand".

Just hold my hand and listen.
That's all you need to do.
And if by chance I shed a tear
it's alright if you do too.

I swear that I'll remember
till the day I'm very old
the friend who sat and held my hand
and let me bare my soul.