Pip Hanrahan’s remembers feeling incredibly calm in first pregnancy.

“We tried for about 18 months, so when we fell pregnant it was very welcome. I was 35, but it was a beautiful, perfect pregnancy. I was swimming in the sea and taking calm birthing classes. I was very trusting,” Pip said.

Pip went into labour on a Sunday night, 10 days past her due date in February 2011.

“They were going to induce me the next day. I laboured for about 15 hours on and off and was calling the hospital. They said to stay home. At 5.30am the next day, I said to my other half Michael I didn’t want to be stuck in morning traffic so we went in.

“When we got there the midwife was being passive aggressive as they’d told me not to come in. She got the doppler, was moving it back and forward, but couldn’t find a heartbeat.”

Pip remained calm.

“In my head, there was not going to be a problem. Michael was pacing back and forth though,” she said.

Another midwife was called in, then a doctor and Pip was told it might have been a faulty doppler.

“Normally we could hear the heartbeat really clearly and we’d even given the baby the nickname “Beaty”,” Pip said.

Pip eventually exclaimed, “can everyone stop and tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry there is no heartbeat,” the doctor responded.

Pip said shock surged through her as she tried to process the news.

An ultrasound confirmed the baby had died and Pip was encouraged to give birth naturally.

“I said no way but the doctor said yes you can. I requested an epidural, had a bit of a sleep and in that time my sister, mum and dad and Michael’s family were called.

“By 5.30pm it was time to push. Normally I don’t think I would have had anyone in the room but I needed my mum and sister. Mum had one leg, my sister the other as Michael was just broken. I delivered a perfect little baby boy, Patrick.”

The umbilical cord was wrapped tightly around Patrick and an autopsy was inconclusive.

“You’re so trusting of your body then this happens,” Pip said.

After Patrick’s stillbirth, Michael went straight back to work while Pip faced a day-to-day battle.

“The grief was all-consuming. Some days I’d feel ok and then it would hit me again like a tonne of bricks. I felt like I was living my life with a big heavy, grey scratchy blanket over my head. I could see, but things were dark. I was too exhausted to push it off. That lasted a couple of years,” she said.

Pip and Michael struggled to fall pregnant again and suffered a miscarriage in mid-2011. Finally, they had a daughter Millie in July 2012 followed by twin girls, Lotte and Bella in September 2014.

“Having three girls was hard too, I don’t think many understood. Everyone just assumes you’ve got your babies now, like they were meant to replace Patrick,” she said.

Pip now realises, happiness and sadness can sit side by side.

A few years ago Pip trained to become a parent support group facilitator.

“My heart needed to help people. I knew it from the moment I held my son for the first time. I feel as though being part of Red nose and Sands was all meant to be, to honour Patrick and help families like mine,” Pip said. “It’s something I feel honoured to be able to do.”

Pip said she missed her innocence. She said she was passionate about ending the stigma around stillbirth and that her daughters helped celebrate Patrick each year by throwing frangipanis out to sea and making a birthday cake.

Pip sees the support that Red Nose offers families as incredibly important and unique.

“Donating to Red Nose Day, really makes a difference to so many peoples lives. The trauma and grief thousands of people experience annually is not to be underestimated. Red Nose support is so needed in our community.”

Pip recently spoke on the Deb Sarah Podcast about Overcoming Grief, Setting Boundaries and Giving Back with Red Nose Listen here.

Listen here

In 1996 Debbie’s son Brent was stillborn at 28 week’s gestation. Three generations of Debbie’s family attend the Brisbane Walk to Remember each year. She shares with us why it is so important to her and her family.

Since the stillborn of Brent I have had more children. Brent’s younger sisters are Dannielle, Alyssa and Jade. He also has a stepfather Kerrin, and 2 stepsisters Jaymee and Emily. Dannielle now has 2 sons Darcy (5) and Archie (2) and they know that Uncle Brent is watching over them.

Debbie says about the walk

It’s important to keep my son’s memory alive and say his name. It’s about coming together as a community, supporting each other, making new friends with people who have experienced the same loss.

We were incredibly honoured to have the opportunity to walk in front of the other families attending one year and to hold the banner.

Taking the steps my son couldn’t and now his nephews are also walking for him brings me comfort. It is important to spread the word, so having people going about their daily lives and possibly reading the banner, gives them an opportunity to learn more about the Walks. They may even be prompted to tell a friend or to even just learn something they didn’t know about.

For other families experiencing loss, Debbie shares her own advice with us.

1. It was never for a reason!

2. Don’t hold it in, it’s ok to cry

3. It doesn’t get easier, you just learn to cope a little better every year

You will come out the other side, you will find meaning, but it will take time and support.

- Debbie, Brent’s mother

Register for a Walk to Remember today

Edwina’s beautiful boy Sebby died from a rare genetic condition at 10 months old. She is now one of our peer support workers and as wells as being the mother of Sebby, she is also the mother of two delightful rainbow babies. She has been kind enough to share her experience of moving forward through the grief and her insights for other families who suffer the same devastation as hers.

Don’t rush your pain

Grief is private. Grief has no time frame. Grief knows no boundaries. Allow yourself to grieve your baby in whichever way you choose, for as long as you choose.

In time, the pain will become your companion, and you will feel ways to thrive with it by your side. But in the beginning, when the pain is too much, this is impossible. If anyone tries to force you to rush your grief, quietly step back from those relationships. They are not helpful and they are more of a reflection on that person than on you.

Your tribe may change, embrace that

The loss of a child is all-encompassing, but now that you have become part of this silent community, you may find that your long-term friends don’t remain the closest people in your circle. Some friends and family won’t know what to say or how to act. They may offend you or they may just start ignoring you altogether as they can’t handle your pain. Unfortunately, this is par for the course. But this is ok. Sometimes it can take a tragedy for true friends to come out of the woodwork. You may rekindle old friendships or build new ones. The connections made from losing a child will not always be a sad, morbid one. These friendships are just based on a solid foundation of loss. And we all realise in time, that grief is something we will all experience, parents who lose children, just get there sooner.

Be kind to your partner

The first few months are so hard. You may be grieving in completely different ways, but always remember you are both grieving. There is no “right” way. If you can weather this storm together, your relationship will be stronger than most. There are few worse battles to endure, so when we say “for better or worse”, this is the worse. Ride it out, be gentle, give space when it is required, but come together when you can. Particularly in talking about and commemorating your child together.

Take your time with commemorative decisions

Many late-term losses and post-natal losses mean that you will be given the ashes of your child. So often decisions around these ashes are made quickly and these decisions cannot be changed later on. Allowing the box of your baby to ‘live’ in your home for a few weeks or months before you choose what to do with it, can be a comfort to some and allow you to understand the importance of what is in the box. You may want to plant a tree, or sprinkle the ashes at your special place, take some on your family holidays, have them made into precious mementos. The modern possibilities are endless, so take your time with this step.

Know that you will be ok

This path has been tread many times over. Whilst your pain feels immense right now and you feel so alone, there are shining examples everywhere of men and women who have survived the loss of a child. So many examples in fact, that you don’t even see them all around you when at a busy shopping centre. One day you will laugh again, one day you will say their name with a smile, one day you will feel energised again. Your time will come and whilst you don’t need to believe that just now, other people will always believe in you. So just grieve and be, and things will improve.

If you need to talk to someone we are here for you 24/7 on our support line 1300 308 307.

On the empty path of life I stand

Blankly fumbling my way through

Unsure of the next direction to go

Guidance seems hard to locate

As I crumble to the ground unheard

Your hand reaches out to support

Standing in the darkness together

Unaware of what is beyond shadows

Safely you guide my life towards light

Choices constantly confront us

Calmly you provide reassurance

Timidly I tread through the mess

Detangling with each step forward

Meanwhile you never leave my side

Offering words of inspiration daily

Compassion you deliver deeply

My soul feels blessed by your love

Forever you support my choices

Free from judgement every time

You may not always agree with me

My heart knows you will never leave

Connected by invisible threads

Of eternal support for one another

– Jadei Brown

In each re-telling

there comes a little bit of healing,

a little more acceptance

of the reality of our loss.

In each re-telling

there comes another acknowledgement,

of the uniqueness of the personhood

of our precious missing child.

In each re-telling

there comes a little less uncertainty,

a little more internal peace

of the finality of their death.

In each re-telling

there comes a greater recognition,

an important affirmation

of the memories we hold dear.

In each re-telling

we seek a patient audience,

who’ll graciously accept our need

to tell them one more time.

Miriam Blake 1997.

Companioning is about honouring the spirit;
It is not about focusing on the intellect.

Companioning is about curiosity;
It is not about expertise.

Companioning is about learning from others;
It is not about teaching them.

Companioning is about walking alongside;
It is not about leading or being led.

Companioning is about being still;
It is not about frantic movement forward.

Companioning is about discovering the gifts of sacred silence;
It is not about filling every painful moment with talk.

Companioning is about listening with the heart;
It is not about analysing with the head.

Companioning is about bearing witness to the struggles of others;
It is not about judging or directing those struggles.

Companioning is about being present to another person’s pain;
It is not about imposing order and logic.

Companioning is about going to the wilderness of the soul with another human being;
It is not about thinking you are responsible for finding the way out.

Courtesy of the Centre of Loss and Life Transition

With the birth of my first child,
A beautiful baby boy,
It was said that the gods had smiled,
My life now filled with joy.

A life that was so innocent,
A soul that was so pure,
An unconditional love,
Was ready to endure.

A life time of memories,
Were about to start,
Now all that is left,
An empty and crushed heart.

When my baby died,
My whole world fell apart,
For a long time I cried,
Emptiness still fills my heart.

I’ll never hear him laugh,
I’ll never see him walk,
I’ll never see him smile,
I’ll never hear him talk.

Two unanswerable questions remain,
What if ? And Why ?
What if I had done this ?
Why did he die ?

Sorrow and emptiness,
In my heart I now keep,
With no end in sight,
The pain is still too deep.

Time is said to heal the pain,
How much time is yet to be seen,
My baby boy who I cannot hold,
I’ll forever wonder what could have been.

Forever in my thoughts,
Forever in my heart,
Till we meet again,
Never again will we be apart.

In Loving Memory Of My Son
Corey William Anthony
26th April 1990 - 9th August 1990
Aged 15 Weeks
Happy 21st Birthday Son..
Love Dad

Written 26th April 2011

“All men have the stars but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For businessman they were wealth. But all these stars are silent.
You–you alone–will have the stars as no one else has them–”
“And at night you will look up at the stars.
My star will just be one of the stars, for you. “In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night
And so you will love to watch all the stars…
You–only you–will have stars that can laugh.
I shall not leave you”
There is sweetness
in the laughter of all the stars….
and in the memories of those we love.”

My first book, My Life of Loss, is based on my personal experience of pregnancy - losing four babies to miscarriage and stillbirth, and then being blessed with two healthy babies.

I wrote My Life of Loss to help me heal. To release the burden of grief during my loss, to help other mothers and fathers in my position understand that they are not alone, to bring awareness of pregnancy and infant loss, and to bring hope.

After the book was published, I wanted to do more. I envisioned a collection of stories written personally by people that have experienced first-hand complications that can happen when trying to start or add to their family.

I decided to dedicate my time in search of finding people to write about their own experiences and become part of another book.

I gave these people the opportunity to share their own experience of pregnancy struggles to give light to the grief they have endured.

My book Comfort for the Tears, Light for the Way has become this story.

It is a collection of memoirs, written by these parents and their families, who have also endured the loss of a baby or infant, have struggled to fall pregnant or have had early births. It is inspirational, heartbreaking and heartwarming. It is full of tears, but also filled with hope and love.

Reading real stories of pregnancy and infant loss will give an understanding to readers that everyone grieves differently and everyone has their own story to tell. Some you may even relate to.

This book has inspired me to continue my journey helping families find comfort and healing during or after their loss.

Comfort for the Tears Light to the Way will be on sale by 10 October 2016. For more information, please visit www.Mylifeofloss.com.

When my husband and I first talked about having children, we imagined many things: how it would feel to take that pregnancy test, holding our hands on my tummy to feel the baby kick, my emotional outbursts that would be inevitable due to my messed up hormone levels.

What we got instead was heartbreak, a river of never ending tears and a rollercoaster ride through depression and grief. The pregnancy we talked and dreamed about for so long ended in a miscarriage.

To me, it signifies the end of one part of my life and the beginning of a new one where the path wasn’t clear, my purpose was lost and I wondered how life should look like with part of my heart and soul missing. The journey through grief is a challenging one to say the least and one that never ends. That is not per se a bad thing. Grief teaches us many things and we grow as humans immensely when we experience loss. After all, it takes an awful amount of strength to go through the worst (losing a child) and continue on living and finding joy, love and happiness again.

For me, my journey began back in May 2011. Life was pretty good. We had moved to Melbourne from overseas and had finally settled in a bit. Michael found a good job he enjoyed, we lived somewhere we liked and after months of searching I found a job as well. I didn’t like it but it meant work and getting back into the workforce. You would think a baby was the next logical step. As it happened, I fell pregnant. I had an inkling about it but it was the weekend and our local pharmacy was closed. So I went on Monday to buy a test and took it. It was positive. I couldn’t believe it. I went and bought another test, took it – and got the same result. Wowsers!

I didn’t quite know what to make of it. We wanted children but I was not ready, I thought. My job sucked and it was stressful and I was worried how I would go being pregnant and working ridiculous hours in a toxic environment. My husband was on cloud 9 when I called him to tell the news! I, on the other hand, felt nothing and everything at once. I was scared, anxious, terrified, not ready and a little bit excited. A baby! We would have a baby! I went through the motions on a daily basis. I woke wanting the baby very much and went to bed crying because of the uncertainty of our future. I spent the first six weeks of my short pregnancy worrying and stressing about things I shouldn’t have. One day I woke up and decided that things will be alright and we can do this! I went to work feeling elevated for the first time in weeks. At 11am that day, I started spotting.

On the drive home from work I was crying, pleading with my baby, ‘please, stay with me. Please, stay with me.’ It was not meant to be. I got home and as the day progressed, I experienced strong stomach cramps and the spotting turned to bleeding. We went to emergency, hoping for reassurance and hope. We were met with disinterest, a long wait and no kindness. We were just one of those couples who tried and lost so let’s all move on, shall we?

I was in complete shock. I wanted the doctor to tell me everything will be alright. Instead, I was told to go and have an ultrasound the following week. This was the start of our two week ordeal where we had three ultrasound appointment, one technician worse than the other, and doctors who would send us home with no support or encouraging words. I remember how every day was going by in slow motion. I kept bleeding and it would not stop. We didn’t know what to think or feel. The baby had grown a little bit between scans but there was no heartbeat. What were we to make of this? We received our final answer on July 1 2011. Finally, a lovely technician who started her findings by saying ‘I am sorry.’ Our baby had died.

This day is etched into my memory forever and so deep, I can remember details of the technician’s office, what she wore and how she spoke, what she said!! When I think of that day, it feels like I am reliving my worst nightmare over and over again. Only it wasn’t over then. Not by a long shot.

Losing my baby at 8 weeks of pregnancy was my first real experience with death and grief. I remember vaguely that my grandfather died when I was six but we weren’t close with him so I had no idea what his death meant. Now, I knew very well what it meant. My baby died inside me. I never met my little bean but despite my worries, I had loved the baby from day one. And now someone I loved so dearly was gone – just like that.

I tumbled and fell into a deep dark hole. I was overcome with intense sadness and sheer terror. My baby was dead but my body wasn’t able to abort it by itself. We had to go back to hospital where I was admitted straight away. Later that night, a D&C was performed. By the time I woke up, my womb was empty and my baby gone.

Days and weeks of confusion, tears and an overall feeling of walking through thick fog with no direction followed. I couldn’t get a grip. In my desperation to make sense of my feelings, I turned to writing. I am a trained journalist and writing has always been part of my life when things got complicated. Poems, small stories and sometimes nonsensical sentences poured onto paper. One day I thought about what kind of advice I would have liked to get in those early days after my loss. That is how I started writing my ebook ‘How to survive a miscarriage – a guide for women, their partners, friends and families’. I never intended to write a whole book but it just happened over time. On my grief journey, I spoke to many other women who had suffered a loss just like me or a similar one. This felt like a fresh breath of air. After month and months trapped in sadness and feeling so very alone, I started to realise that I was not alone. I remember the loneliness I felt still very well. It felt like no one cared and even worse, I was pressured by my environment to stay silent about my loss. No one cared about my baby other than myself and my hubby. It was an awful experience to go through on top of my ‘normal’ grieving. I kept wondering if I was entitled to my pain. Was I just carrying on? Was I being overly dramatic? I was hurting. I was sad. I was angry. But above all, I missed my baby and all the things that could have been. Yet, it was just me, missing my little bean. To this day, I sometimes wonder if I am entitled to my pain. The truth is, I am. My baby was real, my child existed and so did yours. If you struggle after a miscarriage to make sense of life then that is normal and one of many challenges grief has thrown our way.

My loss happened five years ago. In this time I suffered and cried countless times. And not a day has gone by when I didn’t think of my little bean in one way or another. He will always be with me – and that is how it should be.

Without You

I thought I lost you
But you are still here
You have been patient
Waiting for me
To acknowledge you

I ran from you
Because people denied you for me
But now I realise
You are in my soul – forever
Your memory is stronger than I ever thought
And I didn’t let you in

Is the dark cloud above me
From your sadness as well?
Do you crave an identity?
You are more to me than just a tiny thing
You are real to me
I am sorry I did not tell you earlier

Know that you have a place in my soul
And one in my heart
Don’t be afraid of the dark hole next to it
I will protect you from it
Because now I know – you are part of me

I miss you, my child.

About the author

Karin Holmes is a Canberra based writer and the author of the ebook ‘How to survive a miscarriage – a guide for women, their partners, friends and families’. Karin is mum to one angel baby in heaven and two little girls here on earth.

www.karinholmes.com

My story starts a while back now, and I have learnt something very important from it, and it’s a lesson I will always remember.

When my Dad died in 1991, I was determined that I wouldn’t cry. It was hard, but I did it. It didn’t make me feel any better. It was just the biggest loss I had ever endured.

Nearly eight years later when my sister died, I tried to act the same. One of my other sisters even said that I should cry to ease my tension. But no, because when I was a boy growing up, I was told men don’t cry. The tension after losing my sister grew, and one day at work, I collapsed and woke up in hospital.

Then in June 2000 I learnt I could cry, and not be ashamed about it.

A phone call to our house from our daughter Joanne at about 7:30 am on June 27th changed me forever. She was crying and shouting into the phone saying “Kacee is dead”. It only took me a couple of minutes to get there. I will never forget the look on Joanne’s face. I took Kacee from her and went inside to start CPR. I knew it was too late to save her but I just had to try.

My training as First Aid and Safety Officer at work came to me and it was just instinctive to do what I had to do.

When the Ambulance and Police arrived, they told me to stop, as it was too late. They were so understanding and caring and we will always be very grateful for that, as were the staff at the Logan Hospital when we arrived there. We couldn’t have asked to be treated any better than we were…

Our little treasure had been here with us for less than seven months, and now she was taken away from us so cruelly.

Then the tears started. My Rock, my wife, Jan rang and said she could hardly understand me as I was crying so hard. The next weeks passed in a blur and a lot of tears. The amount of crying I have done, I don’t feel any less of a man. Losing Kacee had everything to do with the next part of my story, and how I dealt with my grief and anger.

Jan and I were at the Kmart Plaza doing the shopping a couple of months later. I saw a young fellow giving his girlfriend a hard time about their baby crying in the newsagents. When they came out he was still abusing both the mother and baby. I just snapped .I followed them outside the Plaza doors and I grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and said he didn’t know how lucky he was to have that child. I told him when I let go, don’t look back, just go and fast. He sure did just that. I was just wishing Kacee was still here and I could hear her cry.

I realised later that what I did was very stupid, and I could have ended up in trouble with the police, but it was something I couldn’t control at the time.

When Jan came out she asked what was the matter as she could tell my blood pressure was sky high. I told her about it on the way home and she felt the same way.

I guess what I am trying to say is that there is no shame showing emotions and crying. If you need to cry and don’t want anyone to know, go cry in the shower and “That damn shampoo got in my eyes”, is the greatest excuse for the red eyes when you come out.

I didn’t know you could learn so much about yourself from someone so small who was here for such a short time. I know I’m not alone with this, but with the love of my wife and family I know I will make it and maybe also be able to help others along the way.

I still do all the men things like fishing, football, and speedway, but if I need to cry on a bad day, I don’t feel less of a man for doing so.

We also received so much help and understanding from the people at SIDS and Kids (now known as Red Nose Grief and Loss) Queensland, and Sonia and Dot especially are like another family to Jan and I and our daughter Tamara. They are always ready with a big hug when we meet, and they are always so available on the other end of the phone when we have needed them. We will always be indebted to them for their support during the last two and half years.

But to finish my story, and in memory of our “little mouse that roared”, as we so often called her, our precious Kacee, you may be gone, but we all still love you and miss you so much. We will never forget you.

Love from Grandad…

My name is Paul. My wife, Mari, and I are parents of Harrison, Mia, Lachlan and Poppy.

Harrison is 6, Mia is eternally 5 days old, Lachlan forever 4 days old and Poppy is 18 months old.

Mia & Lachlan would have been three but were born at 25 weeks after Mari had spent a considerable amount of time in hospital. From the day they were born we were made very aware of the struggles that lay ahead and what the ultimate outcome was likely to be. During their four and five days with us, Mia and Lachlan fought on bravely, making us extremely proud parents. Upon their passing we had to organize their funeral and for us it was a time to share what we shared with Mia and Lachlan and do the best we could to make them proud of us.

The moment we set about arranging the funeral was probably the time I started grasping what it meant to be the father of deceased children and what I had to do to keep their names and the memories of them alive. During Mia and Lachlan’s funeral we shared stories, pictures, hopes and dreams. For some reason my thoughts kept coming out in rhyme.

Mia & Lachlan

It’s not meant to be like this
There are meant to be two more hearts that beat
There are meant to be four more hands to hold
There is meant to be the pitter-patter of four more feet

It’s not meant to be like this
Harrison is meant to set an example
There are meant to be two little people to give caution to and tell to be careful

It’s not meant to be like this
There is so much for us to teach and for you to learn
There are meant to be cuddles and kisses
Our hearts aren’t meant to ache and yearn

It’s not meant to be like this
We’re not meant to look at stars and know it’s you up there that make them shine
We’re not meant to dream precious thoughts forever that will only lead us to cry

It’s meant to be
The two of you running around with your brother
Getting bigger and growing with a special connection between one and other

It’s meant to be
Mum and Dad waking in the night
Going into your room to stroke your head, say some words and make things right

It’s meant to be
Diggers, dolls, dinosaurs and teddies
Spinning you round and around and blowing raspberries on your bellies

It’s meant to be
The five of us, our family
Mia and Lachlan with Mummy, Daddy, Harrison and of course Maggie

So it is
That you rest in peace
Your time with us cherished
The two of you,
In our hearts and minds to keep

We love you Mia
We love you Lachlan

To this day, even though it’s not meant to be like this - when the appropriate opportunity arises I still share these same stories, pictures, hopes and dreams. It’s unfortunate as a father of deceased children that these stories, pictures, hopes and dreams will never change. There will be no updated photos to hang around the house, no first steps to encourage, no conversations filled with baby babble or no paintings to decipher.

Recently the nine-year-old daughter of our friends inexplicably and unexpectedly died. At her funeral I said to her Dad “It sucks to be THAT Dad”. We’re fortunate to have Harrison and Poppy with us now but you will always be THAT father - the father whose kids have died, the father who will have people second guess if they should talk about new born babies or new born twins, the father who will have people be taken aback when you mention the names of your dead children. In time you learn to deal with this.

How do you deal with it though? It totally depends on you. I told myself that I now had to adjust to a new type of normal and that there is know right or wrong in my situation. I’ve never felt like this before and no one else has every felt like I have or do, because they’re not me. When hearing about our story many people respond by saying “I don’t know what to say”. To them I would say, “I don’t know what I want to hear, so I don’t expect you to know what to say”. Perhaps because of this I felt the best way for me to deal with my emotions was when I had time on my own, it’s not that I’m afraid of showing my emotions I just don’t feel as though anyone knows exactly how I felt or feel. For me - a long run, a long bike ride or time on my own to listen to music was and is my therapy. It was a chance to cherish what I have and imagine what could have been. Soon after Mia and Lachlan died, I decided it was best not to seek any answers, as in my mind there didn’t sound like there were any and if there were answers, then there is a greater chance that this wouldn’t have happened to my family.

What I have just detailed was juxtaposed to my wife and because of this, in the first couple of months after Mia and Lachlan’s death we did a fair bit of bickering. It was lucky we had the innocence of a three year old in our house to help us keep things together and adjust to the new type of normal. We also had amazing support from our families. When Mari and I realized there is no right or wrong way to deal with our feelings and that we were going about handling our emotions in totally different ways it was probably when we started moving forward -!together. It’s a situation like this that amplifies the differences in men and women.

I will always miss Mia and Lachlan but I have and expect that I will always have days, where my sense of missing and emptiness is more apparent. These days are not confined to birthdays or what could have been milestone days, they’re also random days or moments in time. It’s usually when I’m alone and it can be an opportunity to cry, an opportunity to tune out to the world around me, an opportunity to listen to the songs I now call Mia and Lachlan’s songs or look at the pictures that we have and think about what could have been – the length of hair, the colour of eyes, what type of football would have been kicked or how our four kids would have played together.

I often say you never move on from losing your children but you do have to continue to move forward and you always take your children with you and do the best you can for them, whatever or however that may be.

My world changed the instant that we found out that our first child was going to be stillborn. Everything fell apart. Very little seemed to help me cope except the love and support of my family and friends and writing.

I had always kept journals/diaries and found that writing helped me to cope with my grief. Getting the thoughts out of my head and on to paper allowed me to start dealing with my emotions. I wrote and wrote in the early days after our daughter’s stillbirth and continued to write throughout our subsequent pregnancy. But, with the birth of our son, life got busy and I didn’t feel the ‘need’ to write as much. It wasn’t until I became involved with SIDS and Kids SA as a volunteer parent support worker for the bereavement service, that I decided to start writing again. It became obvious to me that many of the thoughts, questions and feelings expressed by the bereaved mothers I came into contact with, were similar to those I had experienced. The women that I supported found it extremely comforting to know that they weren’t alone. So, with the encouragement of the counsellor, I entertained the idea of turning my writing into a manuscript. I knew that it could be really helpful and could give comfort and hope to bereaved mothers to know that they weren’t alone on their grief journey. I wanted to give them hope for the future. I wanted them to know that life does get better and the pain will ease, as in the early stages of my grief journey I had desperately wanted to know if life would get better and would the sense of emptiness and hopelessness go away? I found that by talking to or reading about people further along their grief journey, it gave me hope for my future and I hoped that my book would do the same for anyone that read it.

Over 5 years ago my daughter gave birth to my third and fourth grandchildren, identical twin boys, however Zachary died before birth. I have a section of a display cupboard in my lounge room that has a framed photo of the twins together. Over the past few years I have added special things / mementos collected mostly from an annual Remembering Our Angels memorial service (Tobin Brothers) I attend with my daughter. Each year has a different theme and it is really lovely. I also have special items I hang on our Christmas tree, including a Christmas bauble with Zachary’s name on it. Visiting the cemetery when in Melbourne is also a nice way to remember.

I had always thought that no experience could be more wondrous and exciting than holding each of my own babies after their births. But in fact, as I watched my daughter hold close her precious, newborn son, Lucien, my heart was filled with double happiness, as I not only celebrated with Niki and David their exquisite joy on the birth of their beloved son, but at the same time rejoiced with my husband, Richard, in proudly and lovingly welcoming this beautiful little grandson into our lives.

During the short time he was with us, four and a half months, Lucien transformed our lives, giving new purpose to everyday routines and bringing us so much love, pleasure, excitement, fun and laughter. The whole world was fresh again as we cuddled him, sang and read to him and generally introduced him to the world, seeing everything anew, as if with the wonderment and fascinated interest of a child. Those months will always stay vivid in our memory, treasured forever.

The loss of a child leaves everyone bereft. The grief and longing are unbearable and the passing of time only slightly eases the pain. Of course, no words can describe the inconsolable anguish of the child’s parents; there can be no greater agony than theirs. And for the grandparents, there is a dual ache: not only the heartbreak of witnessing your own child’s (and their partner’s) terrible suffering, powerless to “make things better” for them; but at the same time you feel a dreadful void in your own heart, where previously there had been pure joy and sunshine.

Precious grandson, Lucien, our beautiful baby boy, thank you for enriching our lives with your happy personality, gorgeous ready smile, animated chatter and infectious laugh - and for bringing us so much love, delight and fulfilment. We treasure all the wonderful memories and hold you close in our hearts every moment of every day.

Your Mum and Dad, Niki and David, are always in our hearts and minds too. Their deep, ever-enduring love for you, and each other, has given them strength - and we trust that our loving care and support will help them in the journey ahead.

We lost our precious grandaughter Kacee Michelle Price on June 27th 2000, just one week before she would have been 7 months old.

This was surely one of the hardest things any family would ever have to deal with.

Kacee had older siblings, so we decided to help them through their grief & remember their sister, we would buy fairies if we saw a special one, and at Christmas time we made Kacee her own Christmas tree with just her special decorations with some tinsel & lights. Over the years we have had to get 2 bigger trees to fit all her special token along with those for 3 other family babies who didn’t make it over the years, although none of them were SIDS babies.

During our journey we have met some wonderful people through our association with SIDS and Kids Queensland, and also heard some very, very sad stories from other families.

Because we got such wonderful much needed support from everyone, we decided we would like to be an ongoing member of the SIDS & Kids family so that we can give back to others who are going through what we did.

During our wonderful journey with SIDS and Kids Queensland, we have been involved with a Grandparents group, (which is sadly no longer), Coping with Christmas workshops every year, the Memorial/Remembrance Service every year, & Merv is actively involved in Mens Den.

In the last couple of years we have become involved in fundraising with 2 groups of motorcyclists and currently our family is working hard to put together an event to be held on September 17th 2016. At present we are holding sausage sizzles/ barbecues at Pattons Big Gun Butchers every few weeks to raise funds for the outlays for the September event & we will still also be involved in the IWI Riders one day bike ride in May, and also off to Byron Bay to attend the Bbq & send off of The Great Australian Ride in August.

In December 2015, we also got involved with Darryl Ferguson with his Family Fun Day to raise funds for him to participate in a 2016 Trek for SIDS and Kids.

We really enjoy doing what we do so we can give back to others who need support on their journey of grieving.

Jan & Merv QLD

(Aggy)

My grief, unique to me, but oh how unfortunately common.

I used to think about the legacy I was leaving my grandchildren when I died, what would they remember about me? I never thought I would have to remember them.

The hopelessness, the frustration, the rage I felt, that not one but two of my grandchildren had died before I got to know them and just as important, before they got to know me. How unfair of life to cause my beloved daughter and son-in-law so much hurt after the expectation of so much joy, terminating in heartbreak.

What could I do, what could I say, no words could heal the pain, but I needed to show somehow that I too grieved for and loved those my daughter and son-in-law had buried.

I have donated a plaque at our place of worship, I make an annual donation to the Treasured Babies’ Program in the names of Jake and Jonathan, I have donated books in their names at my Bridge Club. Has this helped, no not really, but it’s something.

Every year is another year I might get to see them again in a better place, this I have to believe.

Written by Margaret, bereaved Nanna of Jake and Jonathan.

Lisa Gelbart

I sit here thinking of a sweet little face

I sit here wondering why such sadness is in place.

I sit here pondering of what our Maya would now be like

I sit here dreaming of a laughing busy little tyke.

I sit here and know what I feel and see in on the inside of me.

I sit here and know that it is in my mind’s eye what I see.

I sit here full of love for our Maya I cannot touch

I sit here with a sorrow that at times is too much.

I sit her and look forward to the joy of Maya’s little sister or brother.

I sit here and feel a love for them that will smother.

I sit here and think of the pain the young ones have had to endure.

I sit here and know that I so treasure them to be sure.

Life must go on I know we cannot return on retreat.

Our memories and love must sustain us on our feet.

There is no point to ask why oh why.

Life is too precious and short to try.

Thoughts, memories and love keep us moving on.

My darling girl, I so wish you were not gone.

Love your Nanna Nola. (July 2005)

For our darling granddaughter Maya Louise

In this special garden so fair

Sleeps peacefully our little Maya Louise

With you safely in the Lords care

Our love for you will always be

Locked in our hearts with our special key.

A small verse I wrote for Maya’s burial which I gave to Michael & Jessica. I added more on but I did not keep a copy of the whole verse. (It is a private piece)

Baby Hayden beautiful boy,

Brother to our Maya so precious, he is such a joy.

I love him so much even his pink little bum.

His sweet little face looking just like his Mum.

His Dad playing with him is a sight to see.

Changing him gently when he has had a pee.

His Mum feeding him lovely mother’s milk.

Stroking his soft skin just like silk.

All these joys can never be bought.

The love for a child can never be taught

Our precious Maya lives on in my soul.

To have our beautiful boy is a joy too great to behold.

I love you both so much.

As a man who lost his son at 7 days of age almost 9 months ago, I guess the advice I would offer a newly grieving father is simply this -

Slow down!

You have had a serious shock to your system! You are hurt, injured! Like it or not, admit it or not!

Don’t try to make “moving on” happen, let time do its work, I think it is the only thing that will work.

You may not recognise the depth of your injury for several months. I didn’t. I thought like every other aspect of my life I would take the setback in my stride, embrace it, learn from it and bounce back twice as far.

Someone told me when I was young, “It does not matter that you fall, everyone falls, what matters is how you get up again!”.

I don’t remember who told me that but I have always lived by it. Get up, and get on with it. And in every other aspect of my life it has worked exceedingly well!… Except in accepting my son’s death.

Callum’s birth, 7 days of intense life and beautiful passing surrounded by the love and tears of two adoring parents was in some ways the best life anyone could hope for. He was so loved his entire life, he never experienced an insult, never hurt anyone in retaliation, never judged or told a lie. He never knew anything of the worst parts of our world.

He did however know love, feel the comfort of family, knew how to fight without fear, he knew the value of hard work (as the machines were slowly removed from ICU, as he “recovered”) and the rewards it brings (being held in the arms of loved ones).

Ultimately he learnt how to let go, peacefully and relaxed. I can only hope I will achieve what he achieved in his short life. Having him was an honour and an inspiration.

That said, I still have not fully accepted his death. Will I ever? I don’t know, but at least now I can see where I / we have been…

As the days of his life turned into the days after his life. Then into the weeks and months after his funeral, we (Julie and I) committed to just take advantage of every “grief coping mechanism, service or advice” we were given or could find. Whether we actually thought they would help us or not, we would just use/try them all… what can it hurt to try right?

I’m really glad we decided to do this early.

It started with our Funeral Director. A Saint in my book who specialised in baby funerals. A wealth of wisdom, he recommended many things that we now fondly look back on.

Like bringing Callum’s body home and showing him where he would have lived. Or like getting his big sister Rosemary to decorate his “forever bed” (coffin) with stickers and drawings in what was to be his bedroom. Making it a loving happy place and time.

We also read books on grief early (in first weeks after his death) – this was really important I think.

Just understanding that the surreal experience you are having is a natural and predictably unpredictable response. (We found “Coping with Grief” form the ABC shop very good)

Later we attended counselling services (SIDS and KIDS), first Julie and I with a counsellor, then in a group environment.

Of this I was particular sceptical, but the monthly routine of revisiting our wounds in detail actually helped a lot! Hearing how others with similar but different stories have had to face the same challenges as us is support in itself… organising the funeral, mourning, going back to work, facing everyone for those first conversations, your loss becoming old news, bumping into old acquaintances that have not heard and asking “so how’s the family?”. All of this we have all been through. You will too.

Aside from this, we both took time to grieve in our own ways. Be it tears hidden by sweat at the gym or sinking into despair each morning in the shower.

We had a memorial stone put in at Karrakatta cemetery – “The Butterfly Garden” a beautiful place to sit and reflect and remember.

We did what we each needed to do, let our feeling and emotions dictate how we grieved.

All in all – I think we followed 95% of the advice we were given and as such were “model grievers” to a certain extent.

But ultimately – did any of it really help? Really?

Here I am, some 8 months and 15 days after his passing (yes, I still count the days) and I’m trying to think what advice I would give to a father who is only one week in.

Look – I really don’t know!

Everything we did had some effect, and where we are today in our ongoing journey is certainly a better place than we were.

But really, deep deep down inside… I think the one thing that has really helped is time. It cannot be rushed.

Let time pass. Just sit it out. Let time do its work.

For what it’s worth, sincerely,

Christopher Hudson.

Josie and Gino, both of Italian background, had two daughters and a son Justin who drowned when he was almost three. They separated five years later, reconciled and had another daughter. However, they separated again and are now divorced.

Initially Josie was overwhelmed and she broke down, totally absorbed in her grief. She had no energy for anyone else, just enough for survival, separating herself from her family, and relying on Gino to keep it afloat.

“Totally absorbed in my own grief I felt that I wouldn’t survive and became suicidal. Totally passive I relied on Gino to carry and support us, but didn’t communicate this to him as I was so absorbed in my own pain. I just accepted what was happening.”

Gino returned to work in his own business, after a week, working long hours. He thought this was the best way to support his family. While he appeared to be resilient, Josie thought he was not grieving, at least not as much as she was, and that he lacked compassion. She believed that he couldn’t show his love for their son as much as she did.

“How could he keep going? How could he function and ignore ‘the elephant in the room’?

I felt too disconnected from him and the anger and resentment at this perceived lack of grieving on his part grew. I didn’t understand that he was grieving differently.”

Josie also felt responsible for Justin’s death but the guilt was too hard to acknowledge.

“I felt very guilty as I was the supervising parent when Justin drowned. I transferred the blame, the guilt, onto my husband as he was not there. He was working to get money for his hobby car. I was angry that his need for this was more important than the family unit. He was not the partner I needed.”

She had expected Gino to remain strong and keep the family going, while at the same time feeling her emotive way of grieving was more profound than his. Reading about the different styles of grieving between men and women didn’t register in her as much as it should have.

“I still resented that he was not there for me … wanting him to mourn with me, grieve with me, cry with me, and share the grief. I wanted the impossible.”

Long hours at work meant that Gino was physically and emotionally exhausted and would fall asleep in marriage counselling sessions. Josie never fully understood this, feeling that he was oblivious to there being issues in their marriage. She over simplified things, regarding his attitude as “we’re eating, we have a roof over our heads … what is the problem?”

Josie went to several support groups and there found the empathy that she needed and didn’t have in her key relationship which continued to deteriorate. Five years later they split up as she had no room for him, as he was then, in her life.

“I was not only separating myself from Gino but also from my grief. I connected him to the pain of losing Justin. By removing myself from Gino, I felt I was also removing myself from the grief.”

Two years later they reconciled briefly and had another daughter, but this didn’t resolve anything. They later divorced.

“I had tried to put it all behind me and reunite the family but I was only kidding myself. I realised I had to separate from Gino completely for the sake of my mental health. I couldn’t cope with the grief as well as the void in my marriage. I felt I was drowning like Justin. There were too many pre-existing problems in the relationship which were magnified by the death. Even if Justin hadn’t died we probably would have split up as these fundamental differences needed to be addressed.”

Gino neither understood nor agreed with this position, feeling that Josie had put her own needs above that of the family unit and didn’t ‘hang in’ long enough. These days Josie does have some regrets:

“I wish I had tried harder to keep the family unit together because no matter where you are or who you are with, you take the grief with you. You can’t run away from it. There is no escaping the work you need to do to come out the other end. As much as you desperately wish you could snap your fingers to remove the pain, grief takes its own time.”

Fundamentally, they could never agree about how they wanted to live. Gino was happy being a family man, focussing on working hard to be the provider; for him it was enough. He didn’t want change. However, Josie’s values and priorities had fundamentally changed and she yearned for a life that was less ‘materialistic and superficial.’

“I wanted to be a role model for my girls, a positive, strong individual, who is a

community-minded citizen, a valued asset, an ethical contributor to society. I not only wanted to be a family-focussed person but wanted to extend beyond myself and focus on the needs of community and beyond. I also wanted to be embraced, supported and encouraged by Gino. This didn’t happen so we parted ways.”

Josie also felt that no-one in her insular, personal networks understood her grief and that many had responded in totally inappropriate ways.

“I distanced myself from these people to protect myself. I separated key relationships by maintaining them on a purely functional level. I migrated towards other bereaved people and learned strategies to live in this world of grief and pain. Mutual support groups became my lifeline.”

She has changed profoundly and learned much from this experience:

“Being understood and in turn understanding others, through the lived experience, becomes a powerful form of healing like no other professional therapy available. It creates an instant bond and connection between those with a similar experience that is authentic, supportive and effective. It provides safety for the giver and normalises feelings.”

“Reaching out to other mothers is particularly important. Through the power of story-telling and shared experience, bereaved mothers can become invaluable role models for each other. The bond is awesome, a relationship of strength - an energy so powerful you cannot express it in words.”

“At the same time we must all still travel our own journeys, finding our unique way forward; there is no right or wrong way to grieve. Be gentle with yourself, your partner and significant others. You will emerge discovering a new you and be ready to forgive yourself for what has happened. Only then will you be able to accept and be loving to yourself, thus enabling you to begin to embrace your future.”

Today Josie‘s vocation is in grief and loss. She has worked in the bereavement sector for over a decade and is passionate about mutual self-help and peer support. This honours her son’s life. His legacy is one of her being there for others, in the same way that they have supported her. This is how the bereaved network grows, strengthening all concerned.

Reference: den Hartog, P.N., Bereaved Parents & SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria (2014). When Relationships Hurt, Too: The Impact of Grief on Parents’ Relationships after the Sudden Death of their Child. , Malvern, Vic.: SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria.

Amy and her husband Jerome were living in the UK, where his parents lived. Amy’s mother and other close family members and friends were in Australia. Their son, Marcus, became seriously ill and died at 14 weeks. Amy also had another son Leo who lived just 14 months. They are now divorced and she has a daughter from another relationship.

Amy and Jerome’s relationship had been loving and nurturing and they communicated openly. She had been at home with Marcus every day while Jerome was at work. Initially their sadness was shared, as they both felt lost and cried together. However, she soon fell apart as she became very needy and couldn’t cope with any external stresses. She also expressed her grief very differently from Jerome, grieving openly and becoming very depressed.

“I wanted to fall into my grief and let it take me along and heal naturally. I didn’t think it was something that could be rushed or minimised.”

Jerome tried to remain strong and to fix her grief. Amy had always been a person who took care of everyone and everything. Seeing her unable to cope was very disconcerting for Jerome, as she had always been the stronger partner.

They attended counselling together and Amy also went on her own to another counsellor. This helped them to express themselves and to work through some issues. However, arguments and friction arose as they both wanted to move in different directions, continuing to grieve differently

“Ultimately we were drifting. I wanted to focus on family and having another child while he preferred to have fun again and return to a simple existence. I felt there was no turning back.”

Their support structures were also different and this concerned Amy.

“My partner had his family to support him but mine was in a different country. I became resentful and hostile towards his family, as they couldn’t cope with my outward display of emotion. This was particularly true of his mother, who said she was ‘moving on’ after the funeral and couldn’t cope with my ongoing tears and devastation. Jerome found this difficult and it caused friction between us. We began to withdraw from each other, me into myself and he moving closer to his family.”

Eventually, they separated and Amy returned to Australia. They divorced and Jerome repartnered but has had no other children. Amy said they have remained friends.

“Although we divorced and live in different countries, we remain in close contact by written communication. Our relationship improved once I’d left and we could move forward in our lives separately. We are supportive of each other now, once again.”

Some of Amy’s relationships have grown stronger while others she has let slide. She is also now closer to her old friends in Australia, has reconciled with a sister and is in contact with her ex–sister-in-law. She has learnt much from this experience.

“I look back now and see that my marriage needed to end and it wasn’t only because of the death of our son. Our lives have gone in vastly different directions but we are still able to support each other from afar on those special dates. We never argued or fell out but had we stayed together it may have been a different story. He has not had any more children and is still heavily burdened and defined by our loss. I went on to have another son, now also deceased, who solved the genetic mystery. Then subsequently, finally, a healthy daughter. I never gave up the dream of motherhood and I’m proud and thankful for that determination and resilience. I’m also glad to be raising her here in Australia surrounded by my family. Life feels very much as it should be and my sons each have their pride of place within that life. I’m ever thankful for them and to them, for they have helped shape the woman I am today as everyone’s children do. I am happy.”

Amy is now a trained parent supporter and studying to be a counsellor. She believes that it is important to keep lines of communication open with the parent of your child and that the process of grief and one’s needs change. She offers this advice:

“Change is not necessarily a bad thing and relationships can get stronger through loss.”

“Be patient! Grief is a long and painful process, perhaps endless, but the way you deal with it and the way it affects your life and relationships change with time. Don’t rush anything and don’t make any major changes in the first eighteen months following the death of a child.”

“You may drift from your partner but don’t burn the bridge. They are likely to be the only other person who really cherishes and keeps alive the memories of your child the way you do and it’s invaluable to have someone to talk to about your child when you want or need to. Even if it’s just a text message on birthdays and anniversaries to say you are both thinking of the child, it helps.”

Reference: den Hartog, P.N., Bereaved Parents & SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria (2014). When Relationships Hurt, Too: The Impact of Grief on Parents’ Relationships after the Sudden Death of their Child. , Malvern, Vic.: SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria.

Jenny and Robert’s first daughter, Emma, was born earlier than planned so they had responsibilities early on in their marriage. Jenny had severe pre-eclampsia in her next pregnancy which couldn’t be controlled by medication so she became very ill. Lily’s birth was induced and she lived only one hour. They now have another daughter, Luci.

After the birth Jenny’s health issues meant that Robert had to care both for her and Emma. Feeling that this was the best way to support her, he tried to shield Jenny from his pain, thinking she wouldn’t be able to cope with his grief as well as her own. He needed to work, in the process avoiding his grief which he didn’t acknowledge for some time.

Jenny tried to focus on becoming well again but after a few months she, too, returned to work. She wanted to get out of the ‘cycle of thinking’ while at home which was also stifling Robert’s own need to grieve. However, she felt that only Robert could fully understand her grief and that she could not move on without having another child. Her doctor advised her to wait a year for her health to be restored.

Robert was not ready for another child, concerned about the potential impact on Jenny’s health. He had been traumatised when Jenny nearly died during the birth and feared a repetition of this with a subsequent pregnancy. Compounding this he wanted a normal life, ‘to have fun again’ and resented the impact of grief on their relationship. Despite having several sessions with a counsellor, he felt he couldn’t support Jenny or listen to her grief.

“She was miserable for one hundred per cent of the time and I couldn’t fix it. I didn’t have the energy or the resources to be Jenny’s counsellor and I felt like going away by myself.”

The tension between them grew. It angered Jenny that Robert wanted her to move on. The tension between them was impacting on their daughter, so they sought couple counselling. Without it they feel that they would probably have broken up. This gave Robert space to grieve and he realised he had pushed aside his own grief to keep the family going. Jenny gradually understood that she had been oblivious to what he had been going through. His needs had been obscured by her illness and having to care for their daughter. Counselling also helped them to learn new ways of handling conflict.

“He had been scarred by his time with Lily while I had no memory of that at all. I had never heard him talk about that until we had counselling. It was good for me to see him grieve as I thought he had pushed it aside. There is a limit to how much you can do to help yourself. It is valuable to get professional help.” (Jenny)

“Regarding conflict, I would want to talk it out while he would try to smooth it over and avoid it.” (Jenny)

“In time I acknowledged that I had been resentful that the grief had been overtaking the relationship.” (Robert)

New strategies helped, such as texting each other when they were angry instead of confrontation, writing down what they were angry about and giving Robert ‘time out’ (e.g. playing sport, socialising with mates). They accepted that they had different ways of handling stress, Jenny by having time alone and Robert by having outlets. They began to share more and communicate about the ‘tough stuff’. After two years and considerable medical support Robert accepted Jenny’s need for another baby, despite the potential risks.

“If it was for me I wouldn’t have tried for another baby. I had been happy with my family; for me it wasn’t incomplete. However, it became clear to me that only by having another baby would Jenny have resolution of her grief; otherwise we wouldn’t move on in our lives.”

Jenny and Robert felt comfortable about asking family and friends for practical support while, at the same time, learning to accept that some people couldn’t always ‘be there’ for them.

“Accepting that friends won’t be able to support you, won’t be able to cope with your grief, meant that we didn’t lose friends. I too would be at a loss with someone else’s grief.” (Jenny)

They didn’t feel the need to attend support groups, preferring couple counselling which helped them to realise that grief puts a lot of stress on relationships.

“Don’t underestimate the stress on your relationship and its impact on daily life. It is easy to see your partner wound up over little things and not realise it is really part of grief. Today we understand that we totally underestimated the length and breadth of grieving for Lily.” (Jenny)

“With time the grief does change. It won’t disappear but it need not dominate your lives as it did in the beginning. For us, just ‘hanging in’ and time itself, helped. Gradually as grief moved into a new stage, being less dominant, less intense, Jenny wasn’t in that black hole as often. Be patient, especially in the first six months. Life does return to normal, even if a new normal. Be conscious that you and your partner will be at different stages at different times.” (Robert)

Another baby was very healing for Jenny and she feels she approaches motherhood very differently now.

“In the past I was torn between career and motherhood. Now I realise that being with children is where I want to be”.

Their lives have been transformed in many ways, both with their daughters and each other.

“I have so much joy in the kids, and have realised how precious children are. You become conscious of every little stage they go through.” (Robert)

“I’m pretty strong and I am calmer than I have ever been. Luci’s birth marks the end of that period for us. It’s been very healing for us, especially for me. Luci doesn’t replace Lily but she fills the gap of wanting a second child. We now understand each other more and accept our differences. We communicate better than we used to. Time has helped us.” (Jenny)

Reference: den Hartog, P.N., Bereaved Parents & SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria (2014). When Relationships Hurt, Too: The Impact of Grief on Parents’ Relationships after the Sudden Death of their Child. , Malvern, Vic.: SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria.

Danielle and Jake already had one son, Alex, when Bennett was born prematurely and died soon after birth. They come from very different backgrounds – Danielle from a Mediterranean migrant family and Jake from an Anglo/Irish background. He was born in a small Australian country town. They now have another son, Dominic.

Even before their son’s death, Danielle and Jake had a high maintenance relationship and undergone couple counselling. Jake found fatherhood particularly difficult and to compound this situation, they came from very different families.

“We’re loud, and we let others know when we are upset while Jake’s family are more introverted, avoid conflict and don’t talk through issues.” (Danielle)

“Danielle is a talker, a screamer, whilst I come from a family which doesn’t talk through issues. We weren’t encouraged to talk about feelings at all.” (Jake)

People in Jake’s family, especially the men, talked about things such as sport and never about relationships, feelings or anything which could bring on conflict. They were taught to be stoic and undemonstrative.

“My dad was not a good role model. The only time he touched me was a pat on the shoulder after Bennett died.” (Jake)

Jake thought he was laid back and that nothing worried him, but realises now that he was very much out of contact with his emotions. Danielle’s family was demonstrative and there was always lots of yelling and arguments which Jake found difficult to cope with.

“I tended to want to escape the emotion but the more I withdrew, the more emotional Danielle would get. I became the conduit for her emotions.” (Jake)

Initially they were supportive and sensitive to each other’s grief but different issues emerged as they found it increasingly difficult to cope.

“Life was simpler than it is now. We could regroup and just focus on Alex and each other. Later on we lost this focus as our lives became busier and more complicated. We couldn’t cope with even the most minor day-to-day stuff and I just felt paralysed. The grief seemed to destroy our resilience. This put a lot of pressure on our relationship.” (Jake)

Jake retreated from friends and felt very much alone. They began to attend a support group together and Jake also went to a men’s group. Later they had counselling, both together and apart. Jake’s GP was very helpful and, for a while, saw him monthly.

“Three months after the death Jake was diagnosed with post- traumatic stress and went on anti-depressants. He realised that depression had been an underlying condition for some time.” (Danielle)

Gradually Jake found ways to express his grief:

“Go to a men’s group. To have a male perspective, to just be with other bereaved Dads helps; not to feel alone, having a couple of beers with mates, a time without grief. Let mates know how it is for you – even if they don’t respond, you have put the genie out of the bottle. Telling them is enough to make you feel better. Get a tattoo of your child; it helps to start the conversation.”

Jake has had to change as a person and relearn everything in the process of finding himself, particularly how to process issues. He feels he is now more sensitive and that grief will be a lifelong journey for him, as will coping with depression:

“It is normal to feel there is a yawning chasm between you for a while. Danielle has taught me to talk. … I am a very different person now. I am not yet fully positive as to date I have lost more than I have gained. I can see that continual changes will bring me to a better place, a different direction. I am a work in progress. I am still way behind Danielle but I am on a different path. I am slower and still negative. I realise this but it’s part of the journey.” (Jake)

With counselling support, Danielle has learned to change her way of communicating:

“In time I realised I had to channel my emotions and to learn how to really listen to him. I didn’t hear things until much later. It took me time to really ‘hear’ him and not just to ‘let rip’!”

In time she has learnt to embrace the changes.

“It’s sad but I can now focus on the positives, can embrace Bennett as part of the family. It’s not all negative. We both cherish him as someone special. I am now more sensitive to losses in society but I can cope with that.”

Danielle has also accepted that they needed to deal with things at a different pace and Jake agrees:

“Accept that your partner will process the grief differently, may need much more time than you do. We are very different people and we went on different paths in our grief.” (Danielle)

“Grief has highlighted how different we are at processing things, how we do things differently. Slowly we are getting better at addressing these differences and not falling into a pit.” (Jake)

She had friends who supported her well. Yoga and meditation helped her immensely and seeing a naturopath was invaluable in relation to stress and diet. Unfortunately her father also died and she needed time to support her family, especially her mum.

She has grown enormously through her grief, both spiritually and as a communicator, and now helps others as a parent supporter and as a yoga teacher.

“I have learnt so much about myself which has been life changing. It’s been good for my growth. I have learned strategies to help myself. It’s a good path, the right path. I am happy to be on it. I have made a positive out of a negative. I have come into my own as a person.”

Jake has also come to important realisations:

“In the past I was ‘laid back’ and could brush things off, get over things. I can’t do that now as I am more sensitive. I have slowly become more aware of my responses …and now I have to handle things very differently … for me the changes have been evolutionary, not revolutionary.”

Their relationship has survived and their fundamental values are strong. Thirteen months after Bennett died they decided on having another child and this has given them a common purpose.

Reference: den Hartog, P.N., Bereaved Parents & SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria (2014). When Relationships Hurt, Too: The Impact of Grief on Parents’ Relationships after the Sudden Death of their Child. , Malvern, Vic.: SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria.

Nathan and Naomi had three miscarriages before the stillbirth of Ethan, who was diagnosed with severe abnormalities. Working in the area of disability, Naomi knew Ethan had no chance of any quality of life were he to survive the pregnancy. They now have two daughters and a son.

At the time of the birth Nathan worked six days a week, enjoyed time with his mates and watched a lot of sport on TV. Before the pregnancy they met up with friends at the pub but this stopped when Naomi became pregnant and focussed on her health. Nathan and Naomi had different interests and lived quite separate lives.

Most of Naomi’s friends lived interstate and she found making new friends difficult. Her work in disability was important to her but she found it too difficult to return to work after Ethan’s death.

“I now work in a different area, not disability [since our disabled son was stillborn]. I had little support from management and I couldn’t talk to workmates who were supporting families with a disabled child – it was too confronting and I didn’t volunteer our situation.” (Naomi)

Nathan worked very hard, needing to keep busy and to distract himself from his grief. He felt that everything he suggested to Naomi to help her wasn’t taken up, or didn’t fix her grief, leaving him feeling helpless and frustrated.

Naomi was at home and very much alone, and when Nathan returned at night, she needed to talk and talk. Exhausted by her grief, he would escape by going out with his mates. She felt cut off by him, fearing that their relationship would break up and her dream of a family would never happen.

“We lived very separate lives, had different interests. I felt shut out by him, feeling he didn’t want to spend time with me. A chasm was developing between us and I feared losing him as well.” (Naomi)

Nathan came from a family which didn’t talk about feelings and emotions, so he didn’t want to discuss the loss or listen to her. He has since realised he was afraid of feeling the grief, couldn’t accept her fears that they would never have a family and believed that he was quite okay about never having children. They were poles apart.

Naomi lost much of the confidence she had always had at work and even simple decisions, such as what to cook for dinner or which couch to buy, became too hard. Nathan, unhappy, unsupported and lacking confidence at work, was frustrated by Naomi’s indecisiveness. Tension in the relationship worsened.

This was the first big test of their relationship and it became obvious that both had problems communicating effectively, especially about intense feelings and their expectations about life and marriage. They needed to learn how to listen to each other and find interests in common. Naomi also needed to find others to listen to her grief, so there would be less pressure on their relationship and on Nathan, and to become assertive about her own needs.

“It’s important to tell others of your needs, because if you don’t, how would they possibly know? For example, when Nathan returned to work and I was at home, I should have told them I needed company.” (Naomi)

Counselling and attending a support group helped immensely. She made new friends and was able to express her grief. She read about patterns of grieving and realised that while she and Nathan were grieving in different ways, both approaches were normal. Developing her own interests became important to her.

“Accept differences; people do get through this differently, they do survive. I could do things for myself and then give Nathan information. I couldn’t make him do anything, couldn’t fix it for him, I had to give him time. I had to deal with my own stuff and go somewhere else to have my needs met. This helped put less pressure on our relationship.”

She realised that she wanted Nathan to grieve but also to be the strong one and to fix her grief — quite unrealistic expectations. Gradually Naomi came to understand that Nathan didn’t have the energy or skills to do this, especially as he was grieving too, and that he needed to be with his mates.

“You have to have part of your life that’s normal, where you can talk the mundane stuff – have a grief-free zone.” (Nathan)

Six months after the death Nathan crashed emotionally and his health suffered. So much energy had been taken up with work and bottling up his feelings. He started to attend some support groups and gradually realised that he didn’t have to be the strong one and he should talk about his feelings too.

Naomi, supported by others, became less needy and their relationship less intense. Feeling under less pressure Nathan now had time to deal with his grief. They decided to try for another pregnancy and today they have three subsequent children. Family is of great importance to both of them and they have more interests in common.

Naomi has learned to accept responsibility for her own grief and needs and to communicate better, realising she has been emotionally closed as well. In turn, Nathan feels that he has changed positively and they both have a better appreciation of family and friends. Today they have many more friends and their life is child centred. Nathan no longer meets up with drinking buddies and Naomi keeps in contact with many people she met through the support groups as well. They accept each other’s differences and are more tolerant of each other.

“I have kept maturing since Ethan died and now deal with things more calmly. I find it easier to talk to people about my problems and am more empathic to others and can cope with their emotions. Naomi says that my family find me easier to be with and I am now closer to my brothers … there are now more family functions.” (Nathan)

“We are closer to people with whom we didn’t expect to be and not as close to those we expected more from – unfortunately you find out who your friends are. Old friends aren’t friends anymore and priorities change. My mother didn’t come over from Adelaide to support me and I know now why and that she regrets this. It is still a wedge between us. It’s taken time for me to accept that my sister will never be there for me for the important stuff.” (Naomi)

“We are now very close to Nathan’s mum. It is almost a shared grief. We are so touched she has grieved for us and for Ethan; she really loved him.” (Naomi)

Naomi and Nathan feel they have learned a lot about each other and what is important in life, especially family. They now communicate in more respectful and assertive ways.

“We are now more protective of our relationship and worry less about what others think. We assume less and check in with each other more and do more together. We now accept the ‘new normal’ – this is the way it is and that’s okay.” (Nathan)

Reference: den Hartog, P.N., Bereaved Parents & SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria (2014). When Relationships Hurt, Too: The Impact of Grief on Parents’ Relationships after the Sudden Death of their Child. , Malvern, Vic.: SIDS and Kids NSW and Victoria.

Like the author of this book I searched long and hard for resources to help grieving men and found them difficult to find. This book had me hooked early with phrases like “this book ain’t no Oprah book of the month club”, “There isn’t anything worse than the loss of a child, and if there is, I don’t want to know about it” and “without exception there are no dads who would not trade places with their children”.

This book is glaringly honest. It does not promise to deliver a magic solution. It just tells the experiences of the men who contributed. Part of the real strength of this book is allowing dads to tell the story of their children, and to acknowledge the important role they have played in who they are. Regardless of how our children died we are still proud fathers and we want to acknowledge our children’s existence.

The book offers two pieces of advice (for the reader to take or leave):

1. Find the help that is best for you. Some of the men found support in their faith, other through seeking professional help, some through support groups like Red Nose and other through family and friends. This book does not preach and visits some very dark places in examining the road that we as grieving dads travel.
2. Many of the men in the book found that by helping others that had suffered the death of a child(ren) they also helped themselves.

This book contains such a broad range of experience one cannot help but find a connection to a shared experience. The book can be purchased from Amazon or directly from Kelly Farley’s web page (just google Grieving Dads). I have since purchase 2 extra copies one of which I am handing around to grieving parents, and the other I have placed up at work on our reading shelf.

Sometimes I wish there was a place where grieving parents could move to, to be together. Not to share in our misery, but to be around people that understand what we are going through. I am so tired of people who “don’t get it”. The only time I feel really comfortable is when I am at a group of bereaved parents.

A year ago last March I took my youngest daughter, Siobhan, for a trip to Universal Studios, Orlando for her 16th birthday. She didn’t want a big party; she wanted to go to the Harry Potter world. I felt that because of everything she had experienced at a young age, she could have anything she wanted. We were picked up at the airport by our driver. Turns out he was from Long Island like us. We talked about places we were both familiar with and the conversation turned to family. He asked if I had any other children and I told him about my other daughter. Then he asked “no sons”. I felt I could have let it pass because I didn’t want my daughter to get upset. But I knew it would be worse. I said I have a son who was killed walking home from his friend’s house. The silence was deafening. He said he was sorry to hear that. I actually felt good because I didn’t take the easy way out for my daughter’s sake, but especially for Kieran’s memory. We shouldn’t have to take the “easy way out”. We should say the truth and people should deal with it; we shouldn’t have to deal with their inability to deal with our pain.

A year or so after Kieran died my daughter Siobhan was having some issues with her girlfriends that were typical of teenage girls. She was very upset and was in her room crying. I went in to talk to her and to let her know that probably in a day or 2 things would work out with her friends and things would be alright. Through her tears she looked at me and said nothing will ever be alright.’ Kieran, my brother is dead, and nothing will ever be alright.’ A shot of reality right to the heart. Again, I was faced with the fact that I can’t control what happens to my children. I couldn’t prevent my son’s death and now I couldn’t prevent her pain.

It’s a scary feeling to have a child die. I hate the term “lose a child”. I didn’t lose him, he died. God didn’t “take him”, he died. That’s my reality. I still have a hard time understanding that my son is dead.

My oldest daughter, Rhiannon and I were going to the same counselling centre. One night when I went for my session, Rhi’s counsellor intercepted me to let me know what was happening with her. The counsellor said normally she would have to go get Rhi from the waiting room. Rhi had been protective of her own feelings. This particular night her counsellor said Rhi came back to her office crying hysterically. She had finally opened up and said not only had she lost her brother, but she has lost her best friend.

I wish I could fix all of these things, but I can’t; none of us can. As dads, that’s our reality.

Here we are, another event that is about to occur that triggers emotions in men that have lost a child (or have lost a dad for that matter), Father’s Day. Since I have lost two children during different times of the year, I have the pleasure of dealing with multiple event triggers throughout the year. It seems like my wife and I are constantly thinking about birthdays, death days, Holidays, Father’s and Mother’s Day.

I was telling my wife that I was struggling with writing a topic about Father’s Day this year. I was looking for something profound to write about, something that will strike a cord and be different from other Father’s Day topics. My wife said, “Why does it have to be so powerful, speak from the heart and the truth about these types of days.” Excellent point. As our conversation went on, we started to discuss how for her, Mother’s Day is an internal conflict. She wants to be recognized as a mother, but she also struggles with the fact she has no living children.

I thought about that for a while and I have to say this internal conflict occurs on most of these trigger days. You do not want anyone to forget you are a father or that you have lost a child, but it’s also is a tough day. Bittersweet from the standpoint that I am proud to be their daddy, but it’s hard not to be able to spend the day with them or get a phone call wishing you Happy Father’s Day. I often get annoyed during these times because I rarely get a Father’s Day wish from my direct family, but I know others in the family are receiving them. It’s like since my children are dead, I am no longer a father. That is the conflict, I know they don’t believe that, but sometimes I allow myself to think they do. It goes back to the internal struggle of do we acknowledge the day or do we not.

Over the years, my wife and I have decided to acknowledge these days by giving cards that are not only from each other, but also from Katie and Noah. Sure it triggers emotion, but is that such a bad thing? I have come to learn that it’s not. I believe they deserve for me to feel the pain of losing them. I don’t mean all day, every day, but just for a moment.

I was on a phone call yesterday with a guy that I do business with as part of my job. I know he lost a baby to SIDS 25 years ago. I asked him, “How are you with Father’s Day?” He responded with “I am ok with it, it took me a while to get to the point, but it doesn’t trigger the emotion it did early on”. I thought about what he said and I agreed with what he said. Although the day was tough early on, it has become a day where I feel a strong sense of pride to be the dad of my two beautiful babies. I love the feeling of being their dad. Yeah, I wish they were here to spend the day with me, but I know they’re with me in other ways.

Wishing each and every one of you a Happy Father’s Day.

I have been told that in the face of adversity you must be positive.

Since the death of my son Christian I am positive about many things.

I am positive that losing my son is the hardest thing I have ever endured.

I am positive that I loved him more than words can say.

I am positive that every day without him is hell.

I am positive that I will never be whole again.

I am positive that I will mourn his death the rest of my life.

I am positive that I will do everything I can to keep his memory alive.

I am positive that I have to fight every day just to be ok.

I am positive that the only way I would feel great is to have him back.

I am positive that I would give my life if could have his back.

Christian, I am positive that I will love and miss you the rest of my life.

If you ask my Dad how he feels?

He’ll probably be as quiet as the midnight air

Because of this horrible pain he tries to bare

And If you ask him and he just quietly sighs

Look harder, you’ll see the pain in his eyes.

Even if he does happen to tell you he’s coping

Then that just surely means…….He is hoping?

If he happens to mutter out, I’m surviving today

Oh then trust me, you know he is really not Ok.

He has been so very quiet since that awful day

It’s just so hard for him to find the words to say

He really thinks he has to be stronger than steel

But he is just very fragile, suffering this ordeal.

He feels like he has to hide away all those tears

Just suck it all in, and show no one of his fears

I’m his child in heaven, and he’s hurting oh so bad

He gets up and goes every day, even though he’s sad.

He watches my mommy cry and holds her oh so tight

He always tears up, but holds back with all of his might

If you ask, how are you today, and he says oh I’m just fine

He’s really not; he needs a hug, that’s definitely a sure sign.

His heart is burdened with such terrible doubts often everyday

Please let him know, he didn’t let me down or fail in any way

I know he loves me very much and he thinks of me each day

But his poor heart is so broken, so please help him find a way.

To find peace, comfort and a voice to shed his grief and pain

For without it, he cannot start to heal and lighten grief’s stain

Also tell him its ok to lose it, break down and shed those tears

Cause it takes more strength to cry, then to hold back the fears.

I love you daddy, I’m always here with you, we’re never far apart

So for me, could you begin to heal and open back up your heart.

Hello there Mr. Hallmark man

I wrote to you in May

To ask that words of love be shared

With my mom on Mother’s Day.

Just as there is no card for Mom

To let her know I care

There is no card for my dad, too,

And I have so much to share.

It’s very hard for my loving dad

to know that I’m okay.

To protect me was his job, he feels

So he thinks he failed some way.

Although I had to leave this world,

While still considered young,

There is no way he ever failed—

There’s no more he could have done.

My dad he tends to question

those things he cannot see.

I always send him little signs

to say, “Hey, Dad, it’s me!”

I hear him crying in the car

The shower hides his tears.

He feels he has to be so strong

for those he holds so dear.

My dad he often gets so mad

at what became of me.

He wants so much to understand

He says, “How could this be?”

I somehow need to let him know

Though impossible it seems—

For him to live and laugh again

Will fulfill so many dreams.

The card I need to send right now

To a dad as great as mine

Will thank him for the love he gave

Throughout my brief lifetime.

He’s still the one that I call Dad

Our bond’s forever strong,

‘Cuz even though he can’t see me,

Our love lives on and on.

Please help me find a way

to tell my dad that when

It comes his time to leave the earth

I’ll be waiting there for him.

And also, Mr. Hallmark man

Please help him to believe,

That nothing will ever change the fact

That my dad he’ll always be.

What is traditionally a day of celebration (socks and jocks as presents) takes on a whole different meaning for grieving dads. It is truly a day of conflicting emotions. On one hand there is the joy of getting presents from my daughter on behalf of herself, Zac and Sean. On the other hand, there is the sadness that my sons are not where they should be.

In my experience, when Zac and Sean died, I entered a state of existing in the moment. I had to handle the here and now as this was all I could cope with. There was no guarantee of the future as this could change in an instant, so there was no point thinking that far ahead. I did the things I was socially expected to do, like plan the funeral. Like many men I focussed on what I was expected to do not what I needed to do.

Societal convention told me that, as a man, I am the protector of my family. I was not able to protect my sons (as one grieving dad said to me: I fix things, but this is something I cannot fix). However, I needed to protect and support my wife with her grief. I like to call this the stoic husband syndrome: We set aside our own grieving as best we can (suck it up/harden up/drink a cup of concrete) and focus on our wives because this is what social convention says we should do. We kid ourselves by saying that they are the ones that are suffering more and need to be cared for or protected.

As many men do, I went back to work, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Grief does not pay the bills. In public I put on the “I’m OK face”. I honestly don’t know why as no one was going to approach me if I broke down or really ask me how I was coping. In a strange way some people treat grief and the death of children as a disease. That in some way they might get infected by speaking to me, or they fall back on “I don’t want to say anything as it might upset you”.

I became very good at compartmentalising my grief. I would put my grief or bad feelings into a box and place it in a well inside me and this allowed me to function each day (or so I thought). Like many, I filled the day or space with things to distract me on how I was truly feeling. Eventually though the boxes in the well will break open and the well needs cleansing

It was sort of like if I pretend for long enough that I’m OK and that everything is normal then the grief would go away. I work as a secondary school teacher and in the past we have had staff and students die. So as a school and workplace we have had to deal with significant grief situations. We have had the education department crisis team visit us (to provide counselling) and the focus has always been the same: “Let’s keep the students and staff routine as normal as possible”. So that’s what I did, tried to keep things normal. I now realise that this does not work for those directly affected by the death of a child and it often causes more harm.

I do not expect others to continue to grieve with us. However, it is wrong for others to expect that after a short time our grieving should be over and we should return to the person we once were. This is never going to happen. We will forever be grieving parents. We do not move on, we change. Sometimes these changes are for the better, other times for the worse.

There is no complete solution to dealing with grief when your children die. In a strange way grief becomes part of our connectedness to our children that are no longer physically with us. I find this to be significantly true for men who have had a child die before or soon after birth. Put simply, we do not have many memories to fall back on.

When I reflect on what has worked for me they fall into two main categories:

a) Finding/reading resources where other fathers share their experiences and thoughts (online or in print media). I found Kelly Farley’s book “Grieving Dads- to the Brink and Back” and his website grievingdads.com very helpful. This book/website includes a lot of stories by real dads and their experience when a child dies. They do not purport to offer a specific solution; however, there is comfort in the fact that the ranges of emotions you are experiencing are shared in common with other dads. I think Kelly’s book and website appealed to me because it gives men their own voice. Many of the very good resources dealing with the death of a child are often written by women. These do not always connect with fathers. Kelly’s book often explores some very dark places. He sums it up well when he says: “this book is not about butterflies and rainbows” or “this isn’t an Oprah book club book”

b) Sharing thoughts and experiences with others when the rare opportunity presents itself. This tends to be through articles like this one or in the ‘local’, participating in the PEP (Parent Enrichment Program) weekend offered by SIDS and Kids, speaking with counsellors that have specific knowledge and experience in dealing with bereaved parents, or talking with other bereaved parents. In some ways the talking to other parents gives me a chance to talk about my boys. All parents love to talk about their kids. Unfortunately the majority of society, including family, finds this conversation too confronting, so they remain silent.

I should explain that as I live in a remote rural town in Victoria the opportunity to share experiences with other dads occurs very infrequently and the availability of a variety of specific support services are poor. Like other men I have good, bad and very bad days. On these days I am likely to get Kelly’s book out or visit the grieving dads website.

Readers will note that I have not used the word lost. Personally I dislike the word. I have not lost Zac and Sean. I know where they are. They have died and I feel this better expresses the true tragedy of what has happened.

Wayne

Zac, Sean and Zoe’s dad.

PS: I don’t know if there is going to be a part two, but I feel I may have more to say. I just don’t know when.

(Also see the support article “The Grief of A Dad”)

My name is Paul. My wife, Mari, and I are parents of Harrison, Mia, Lachlan and Poppy.

Harrison is 6, Mia is eternally 5 days old, Lachlan forever 4 days old and Poppy is 18 months old.

Mia & Lachlan would have been three but were born at 25 weeks after Mari had spent a considerable amount of time in hospital. From the day they were born we were made very aware of the struggles that lay ahead and what the ultimate outcome was likely to be. During their four and five days with us, Mia and Lachlan fought on bravely, making us extremely proud parents. Upon their passing we had to organize their funeral and for us it was a time to share what we shared with Mia and Lachlan and do the best we could to make them proud of us.

The moment we set about arranging the funeral was probably the time I started grasping what it meant to be the father of deceased children and what I had to do to keep their names and the memories of them alive. During Mia and Lachlan’s funeral we shared stories, pictures, hopes and dreams. For some reason my thoughts kept coming out in rhyme

Mia & Lachlan words

It’s not meant to be like this

There are meant to be two more hearts that beat

There are meant to be four more hands to hold

There is meant to be the pitter-patter of four more feet

It’s not meant to be like this

Harrison is meant to set an example

There are meant to be two little people to give caution to and tell to be careful

It’s not meant to be like this

There is so much for us to teach and for you to learn

There are meant to be cuddles and kisses

Our hearts aren’t meant to ache and yearn

It’s not meant to be like this

We’re not meant to look at stars and know it’s you up there that make them shine

We’re not meant to dream precious thoughts forever that will only lead us to cry

It’s meant to be

The two of you running around with your brother

Getting bigger and growing with a special connection between one and other

It’s meant to be

Mum and Dad waking in the night

Going into your room to stroke your head, say some words and make things right

It’s meant to be

Diggers, dolls, dinosaurs and teddies

Spinning you round and around and blowing raspberries on your bellies

It’s meant to be

The five of us, our family

Mia and Lachlan with Mummy, Daddy, Harrison and of course Maggie

So it is

That you rest in peace

Your time with us cherished

The two of you,

In our hearts and minds to keep

We love you Mia

We love you Lachlan

To this day, even though it’s not meant to be like this - when the appropriate opportunity arises I still share these same stories, pictures, hopes and dreams. It’s unfortunate as a father of deceased children that these stories, pictures, hopes and dreams will never change. There will be no updated photos to hang around the house, no first steps to encourage, no conversations filled with baby babble or no paintings to decipher.

Recently the nine-year-old daughter of our friends inexplicably and unexpectedly died. At her funeral I said to her Dad “It sucks to be THAT Dad”. We’re fortunate to have Harrison and Poppy with us now but you will always be THAT father - the father whose kids have died, the father who will have people second guess if they should talk about new born babies or new born twins, the father who will have people be taken aback when you mention the names of your dead children. In time you learn to deal with this.

How do you deal with it though? It totally depends on you. I told myself that I now had to adjust to a new type of normal and that there is know right or wrong in my situation. I’ve never felt like this before and no one else has every felt like I have or do, because they’re not me. When hearing about our story many people respond by saying “I don’t know what to say”. To them I would say, “I don’t know what I want to hear, so I don’t expect you to know what to say”. Perhaps because of this I felt the best way for me to deal with my emotions was when I had time on my own, it’s not that I’m afraid of showing my emotions I just don’t feel as though anyone knows exactly how I felt or feel. For me - a long run, a long bike ride or time on my own to listen to music was and is my therapy. It was a chance to cherish what I have and imagine what could have been. Soon after Mia and Lachlan died, I decided it was best not to seek any answers, as in my mind there didn’t sound like there were any and if there were answers, then there is a greater chance that this wouldn’t have happened to my family.

What I have just detailed was juxtaposed to my wife and because of this, in the first couple of months after Mia and Lachlan’s death we did a fair bit of bickering. It was lucky we had the innocence of a three year old in our house to help us keep things together and adjust to the new type of normal. We also had amazing support from our families. When Mari and I realized there is no right or wrong way to deal with our feelings and that we were going about handling our emotions in totally different ways it was probably when we started moving forward -!together. It’s a situation like this that amplifies the differences in men and women.

I will always miss Mia and Lachlan but I have and expect that I will always have days, where my sense of missing and emptiness is more apparent. These days are not confined to birthdays or what could have been milestone days, they’re also random days or moments in time. It’s usually when I’m alone and it can be an opportunity to cry, an opportunity to tune out to the world around me, an opportunity to listen to the songs I now call Mia and Lachlan’s songs or look at the pictures that we have and think about what could have been – the length of hair, the colour of eyes, what type of football would have been kicked or how our four kids would have played together.

I often say you never move on from losing your children but you do have to continue to move forward and you always take your children with you and do the best you can for them, whatever or however that may be.

Pete and Georgie’s son, Sam, died on the 22nd June 2012 at 21 months

On the night of June 22nd 2012, I went to check on Sam before I went to bed as I always did. I was surprised to see him on his tummy in his cot as he had always slept on his back. When I tried to roll him over I knew straight away that he wasn’t OK. He let out a big gasp of air and didn’t wake. After turning on the light and seeing his colour, it was obvious that he was gone. I had never seen a dead person before but I knew this must be it. He was blue and not waking. I would have normally got my husband for anything medical with Sam, as he is an Ambulance Paramedic, but he was working that night. I called 000 and went through the typical questions, all the while thinking that my husband would most likely be the local ambulance called to this job. I was instructed through the CPR steps and carried them out with difficulty until help arrived. For a short time I thought Sam might be coming back as his typical colour was returning, but, in hindsight, I think it must have been because he was on his back now during the CPR.

There were multiple ambulance crews that arrived on that night. It seemed there were strangers everywhere. After it was confirmed that Sam had died, we were given some time with him in his room before being told we would have to take him to the hospital. I knew this meant that I would have to leave him there, which I couldn’t imagine doing. I thought ‘just go along with it for now and deal with that when you get there … throw a tantrum, cry uncontrollably or whatever it takes’.

We dressed Sam before going to the hospital because his pyjamas had been cut off by the paramedics. His body was starting to get cold and I can remember just wanting to dress him in more and more clothes to stop it happening.

There was some questioning at the hospital and I remember the Police requesting to see his body. They apologised for having to do so and told us it was part of the protocol. Pete undressed him and it was horrible to see his body starting to change already. I was shocked that my connection with his body was deteriorating as it changed so quickly. I felt betrayed and angry that he was leaving us. I felt mixed with confusion, shock, fear and the big WHY, that we will never really know the answer to.

The Police interview began when we returned home from the hospital. I was grateful that we didn’t have to go through that whilst still having our last moments with Sam at home. The Police were apologetic and respectful despite having to ask the confronting questions. The photographing of his room was something I will never forget. Despite having no doubts about the safety of his cot or sleeping environment, the interview and photographing seemed like something straight from a crime show on TV. As I was home alone with him I couldn’t help but feel responsible. Toddlers aren’t supposed to just die in their sleep. I knew about SIDS and had always followed the safe sleeping advice but thought that the risk of this was for newborns, not a boy approaching two years old.

The planning for Sam’s funeral was strange to say the least. We took it in ‘baby steps’ I suppose, and tackled each decision one at a time. We were stuck on the choice to bury or cremate. Pete wanted a cremation and I hated the thought of either. I remember my sister saying how she can understand my indecision. “They both suck! If only there was an option C, we would take that but, really, all we have to choose from is bury or cremate”.

We had the celebrant, who married us five years earlier, conduct Sam’s funeral. She did an incredible job and I will always be grateful that she could do this for us. We lit a candle for Sam at his funeral and decided that this would be something that we would have in our home and light at all the special occasions down the track to signify him being with us always. We got a hurricane glass vase to display the big candle in and surrounded the base inside with some sand from his sandpit. I love that we have this now forever and it always warms my heart to have it lit at home.

I knew there would be a great number of people there and felt desperate to collect any memories these people had of our boy. The celebrant asked everyone to write a memory they had of Sam on little cards that were handed around and leave them in his little backpack for us to keep. Knowing there would be no new memories of him, these are always something I’ll treasure. If I could add to this now I would have requested our friends and family to send us any photos or videos they have with Sam. A few people had sent a photo after a year or so, which made me feel so cheated that I hadn’t had it to cherish before then. Someone said they didn’t think I’d want their photos as it would upset me. Clearly this was an assumption, like many others for grieving families, that are so hurtful.

Surely there is no greater loss than losing your child. For me it felt like a double hit. I lost my boy and lost my role as a mother - no one to look after and care for, except each other. We were left with a quiet and empty home that was so lonely. There was much encouragement for us to go away and have a break together, which was all from well meaning family that cared for us. I didn’t want to go anywhere. Despite our quiet home being an obvious reminder of our loss, it was also the place that we had the strongest connection with our boy and all the memories that came with it.

The process with the Coroner’s investigation was lengthy and frustrating. Neither of us were expecting answers, although hopeful all the same. There was very little communication with us which made the waiting all the more difficult. I hated having to be the one to contact the Coroner for an update rather than it being the other way around. We were his parents after all! Unfortunately our experience seems to be similar to other families we have spoken to more recently. However, at the time, I felt as though our case had to be an exception to the norm.

We decided to have Sam’s body cremated and, after ten months, we felt ready to do something with the ashes. We had a special beach near home that we had taken Sam to regularly. We knew it would be a place that we would still go to as a family in the future so we decided to scatter his ashes there. Being a public place, our friends and family would always have access to it too. We had been mindful to include our immediate families in as much as possible after his death. When you’re clouded by your own hurt, it’s hard to imagine anyone else’s, but they had also lost. Lost their grandchild, lost their nephew, lost their cousin. Despite this we just wanted to release his ashes alone so we asked a good friend who is a photographer to capture it for us. I now love these photos and it meant we were able to share them with our closest friends and family and always have them to explain the events to Sam’s future siblings.

Sam’s death affected so many people. The support we received from family, friends and work colleagues was incredible. Even from people I didn’t really know. There were people who seemed more hurt than I would have expected but, looking back, it is obvious that his death brought out people’s own experiences with other losses. Often things I didn’t know about before. This brings people together and gives us a connection like no other. I spent a lot of time with my local mothers’ group with Sam, so understandably they were affected a great deal. It was hard in so many respects to continue seeing them when they still had their own children. I felt cheated, hard done by and awkward around their children. But, on the other hand, having their support outweighed the difficulty, especially down the track. After two years, I am so pleased that I pushed through and now have some close friends that share memories of the time we had with Sam and can still talk about things he would do with us and their children.

People say the death of someone close to you makes you see life differently. For me, one of the biggest things is perspective. Things that would have normally got me stressed, anxious or worried about now seem insignificant. In a way it is liberating to have a more fearless outlook and that perspective that will never make us sweat the small things. We have surely gone through the hardest event in our lives. We will always have this loss but we are still here and still together.

Reference: Same, D. & Bereaved Parents & Red Nose Grief and Loss Services. (2016). Your Child has Died: Some Answers To Your Questions: A Booklet for Bereaved Parents whose Young Child has Died Suddenly and Unexpectedly. Malvern, Vic.: Red Nose Grief and Loss Services.

Leesa’s daughter Memphis died suddenly and unexpectedly at 15 months

Thank you for letting me talk about my experience. I hope that what I write will help another parent to deal with the loss of a young child. When speaking with the coroner they may refer to your child as a case number and not as a person; I found that, by referring to Memphis as her mother and saying her name when they referred to her as a number, by the end of the call they were saying her name and not her case number.

Memphis passed away at home, so when the paramedics and the police arrived I was taken away from her for questioning. This was so intrusive and the feeling was horrible. I was made to feel like it was my fault; I know they were just doing their job but they should have approached it in a better way. We then had to go to the hospital with Memphis and were made to walk through the emergency department with Memphis wrapped up in her blanket. They took us to a room where we placed her in a cot. We then had the social workers and doctors coming in and out of the room asking questions when all her dad and I wanted was to just hold her. The police arrived again for more questioning.

Leaving Memphis in the hospital was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do as leaving meant she wasn’t ever going to be coming home with me again.

When the coroner contacted me to say that they had done the autopsy and Memphis’s body was ready to be released, I hadn’t even made funeral plans for her. The coroner made me feel at ease by telling me that Memphis was safe there with them until I was ready to make the funeral arrangements.

When planning her funeral we had a lot of help. We wanted the funeral to be bright and colourful, just like our baby was. We made everyone wear a bright piece of clothing and, rather than having flowers, we asked people to make a donation to Red Nose Grief and Loss on Memphis’ behalf. I asked the funeral director if I could dress Memphis for the funeral as I needed to hold her and dress her one last time. It was very hard to do, as she wasn’t the same, but she still looked like my ‘li’l ladybug’. We didn’t have a viewing for family or friends, as we wanted everyone to remember the beautiful cheeky little monkey she was, always with a smile on her face and her thumb in her mouth.

Grief is such a journey - I have good days and then I have extremely low days, always up and down with emotion. Some wonder how I can go on and how I can be so strong, but strength has nothing to with it. I know my baby is up there looking down upon me and she wouldn’t want me to be sad. She would want me to talk about her and remember all the amazing things she did. Everyone’s journey is different and there is no right or wrong way to grieve. What helps me is talking about her every day and making sure that her memory is always kept alive.

I was in a new relationship when Memphis passed away and it has been hard on both of us. Steve has such a huge heart and is an amazing person to stick by me and to keep me motivated when all I want to do is fall in a heap. Talking to him about Memphis and how I’m feeling helps, although I don’t like to cry in front of him as I know it upsets him to see me sad. Communication is the key to getting through this as a couple; some days you may not feel like talking, but other days all you want to do is talk.

DON’T ever be afraid to talk about your child, if someone doesn’t like it then they can walk away.

DON’T ever be made to feel like you can’t mention your child’s name because they will always be a part of you.

NEVER blame yourself for what has happened; it wasn’t your fault.

It’s coming up to Memphis’ first year anniversary and her dad and I have decided that we will release balloons for her and write messages on them for her.

The firsts are so hard as it still doesn’t feel real. Take each day as it comes and don’t push yourself to do anything. I find that, with the anger part of grief, using a punching bag helps, as it releases the built up tension inside. So much more that I want to say, but for now this will do.Same, D. &

Bereaved Parents & Red Nose Grief and Loss Services. (2016). Your Child has Died: Some Answers To Your Questions: A Booklet for Bereaved Parents whose Young Child has Died Suddenly and Unexpectedly. Malvern, Vic.: Red Nose Grief and Loss Services.

The friend of a bereaved mum pays tribute to Jude who died at 5 years of age from an undetected heart defect in 2011.

Jude was the kind of child who took your breath away. When he died, two days before Christmas 2011, it was sudden, unexpected and incomprehensible. This cheeky, knock-about five-year-old, whom we all thought was indestructible, was my oldest friend Fiona’s boy. His death, from an undetected heart defect, left a hole so enormous I couldn’t believe it wasn’t leading the 6 o’clock news.

I had no idea about how to talk to the bereaved. Until then, I’d mostly avoided those who’d lost loved ones. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. In a culture that’s distinctly uncomfortable with pain, this is a safe position for many people. We don’t like to look that kind of loss in the eye for fear it might swallow us.

For Fiona, one of the hardest things in the aftermath of Jude’s death was feeling as if he was being erased. Some people would say anything to avoid talking about him, terrified it would trigger more hurt. It had the opposite effect.

She told me: I’m not over the death of my baby boy and I never will be, so the mention of his name doesn’t remind me that he died; it lets me know that people remember that he lived. Nearly two years on and her sense of loss remains ever present. By any measure, she will always be grieving. But she is not ill. She has simply found a way to accommodate her pain.

In December, as she prepared for the first anniversary of Jude’s death and another Christmas without him, she swapped the traditional advent calendar for a journal that marked one thing each day that she was grateful for. I was, and still am, in awe of her resilience and capacity for love.

How, I wondered, does she do it? Her explanation simultaneously reassured and devastated me: ‘I need people not to misunderstand my sense of being okay. They shouldn’t decide that I’ve moved on, accepted my loss or, God forbid, replaced my precious son. Instead people should know that it’s possible to choose to be okay whilst at the same time living with a broken heart.

I can never replace what Fiona has lost, but I can promise her I will never say, ‘enough now.’ I will never tire of hearing her talk about Jude, and I will continue to remember her crazy-beautiful boy and say his name out loud for as long as I have breath in my body.”(Published in the Sydney Morning Herald 16/10/13)

Reference: Same, D. & Bereaved Parents & Red Nose Grief and Loss Services. (2016). Your Child has Died: Some Answers To Your Questions: A Booklet for Bereaved Parents whose Young Child has Died Suddenly and Unexpectedly. Malvern, Vic.: Red Nose Grief and Loss Services.

Brenda’s grandson Riley died at 20 months in 2009

On 27th July 2009 our world came crashing down when we lost our gorgeous grandson, Riley Robert. Our entire world changed that very day and I don’t think we, as grandparents, will ever get over it.

Our grief was so real and so raw and, to add to that, we had to watch our beautiful son and his lovely wife lose their only child of 20 months for no reason. For them to continue on with life by living in the same house, which was their family home, is beyond my comprehension. Somehow we all kept breathing and attempted to comfort each other, particularly Riley’s Mummy and Daddy.

Friends and extended family tried hard to comfort us but, on my part, I preferred my husband to take their phone calls because few of them knew how difficult it was for me to actually speak and neither, for that matter, did they know what to say or how to communicate with us in our grief.

A very close friend of mine used to say that she just wanted to hear my voice. I thought that was a particularly odd thing to say to me over the telephone … my voice never changed - what was she thinking? Anything that was said to me was taken personally by me and I seemed to change from the very considerate person I was into a very intolerant one. I couldn’t put my finger on why I was changing so much and so quickly. All I knew and felt was that my heart was broken. How many of us do actually suffer from a broken heart? We think we do… like when our pet dies, when our first love is finished or even when our elderly parents pass away, but that is nothing to what a grandparent feels when their grandchild passes away.

I want to stress to people on the outside that they cannot make things better for us…we have to travel at our own time and we just have to set our own pace. Nothing in my life seemed to matter one bit other than the gigantic loss of beautiful Riley. ‘Why had God chosen to take him’ was my most common sentence used over and over in my head.

This week we celebrated what should have been Riley’s sixth birthday. Oh, if only he was with us all to hug and kiss him and to blow out his candles. To say that we still miss him is an understatement. We try to imagine how he would look now, but our feelings hit a brick wall. All I imagine is his mass of beautiful curls and, oh, how I ache to touch him.

I just want to conclude by saying life does go on and we still keep breathing. Our lives will never be the same, but we have to thank God for the other blessings we do have.

Reference: Same, D. & Bereaved Parents & Red Nose Grief and Loss Services. (2016). Your Child has Died: Some Answers To Your Questions: A Booklet for Bereaved Parents whose Young Child has Died Suddenly and Unexpectedly. Malvern, Vic.: Red Nose Grief and Loss Services.

Rachel’s daughter Iris died just before her 3rd birthday, on July 25, 2007

Losing Iris has challenged everything I thought I knew about myself and my beliefs about the world. I thought that ‘these sorts of things’ happened to ‘other’ people and maybe I naively thought that trying to live consciously, gently and with heart somehow protected me from such extreme tragedy. Of course, I have done a lot of reflecting, questioning, ruminating over the past five months. I have spoken to many good people about death and Iris’s death in particular. There is no answer to the question of how she died; and there is no satisfactory answer to the question of why she died. The only answer that speaks in any meaningful way to these questions is that ‘death is just part of life’. This, I think, is the most frightening, and yet liberating, truth I am learning to embrace.

I had an epiphany of sorts a few weeks ago as I walked, tears streaming down my face, along the riverbank with Hugo in the pram and two dogs by my side. I was ruminating on the hundreds of times I had done the same walk with Iris, pointing out birds, koalas and funny looking dogs, or explaining to her about shadows, or the wind, or clouds. Then I remembered Hugo and how he needed just the same from me. That moment started me thinking about love and about how it is truly an act of love to continue on living and living well after one has lost love in such a sudden and tragic way. Until that point, I had been rendered quite powerless in the face of death and the looming path of grief that lies ahead for me. However, I have started to feel occasional moments of peace since embracing this idea.

The following Michael Leunig poem speaks well of such things:

There are only two feelings.

Love and fear.

There are only two languages. Love and fear.

There are only two activities. Love and fear.

There are only two motives, two procedures,

Two frameworks, two results. Love and fear.

Love and fear.

Living in love, not fear, means embracing the deep grief I feel and understanding it as a continuation of the deep love I shared with Iris. Living in love means keeping my heart open to Hugo, Rob and my step-daughter, Eliza, and not pushing them away or smothering them, out of fear of losing them.

Reference: Same, D. & Bereaved Parents & Red Nose Grief and Loss Services. (2016). Your Child has Died: Some Answers To Your Questions: A Booklet for Bereaved Parents whose Young Child has Died Suddenly and Unexpectedly. Malvern, Vic.: Red Nose Grief and Loss Services.

I am an inspiration ...

The fact that I got up out of bed makes me an inspiration. That somewhere along the line I chose to live.

That I could swallow food again and even taste it.

That I no longer feel guilty about laughing.

That I walked out my front door the first time.

That I showed my face in the community, and even spoke to some people.

That I can still allow myself to cry ... and laugh ... and remember… and mention my

child’s name.

That I am a pioneer in how to ‘handle’ grief… I allow others to do the same.

That I can look at my other children and really love them.

That I can let them out the front door and they are not wrapped in cotton wool from

head to toe.

That I can allow them to spend time away from me.

That I can still feel.

That I can take my partner’s hand and choose to keep going.

That I can let my partner take my hand to keep me going.

That trivial things no Ionger matter but I can still listen to my friends “go on”.

That I can still make love to my partner.

That I can still have another child and love them with my heart and soul.

That I can look at another person who has lost a child and “just know”.

That I can still smell a rose.

That simple moments are the most important things in my life.

That I want to help people.

That I’m allowing myself to discover me.

That I can really live.

I look up at the stars and I think of you.

The stars are my guiding light,

They symbolize big changes

and a turning point in my life.

Your brief lifetime has forever changed my life.

My child, such precious, fragile beauty,

Stars are a symbol of hope and good luck,

a wish for success and good fortune.

Sparkling and shining,

the star is a tiny light in my dark world.

I look up at the stars and I think of you.

I did not know my younger brother Robert who died in hospital, just after being born. He never came home, I never played with him. Only a toddler myself, self- centred. I can’t even remember Mother’s pregnancy. I had no knowledge of my absent brother.

Years later, coming home from school, I found my Mother crying. She saw my own distress to see her tears. Hugged me, sat me down and spoke about the brother I’d not known and how a truant officer had called to ask why Robert did not go to school when he turned five.

She told me of the brother I’d not known. The nine months she had carried him. How fine he was when first she held him. How quickly he had sickened and then died. I looked into my Mother’s face - Tears like liquid stars, a constellation forming in my firmament