We hear from author Alice Jolly on stillbirth and the processing of grief - no matter what age you are.
Alice Jolly on a parent's right to grieve the loss of a child - at whatever age.
Seven years ago I was raising money for Sands (The Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Charity) and persuaded our local supermarket to put a collection box near their door. A week later, I walked past that box. An elderly lady was standing near to it, absolutely motionless, tears running down her face.
As a bereaved mum myself, I understood. It doesn't matter how many years pass, you can still be ambushed by overwhelming grief.
Initially that crying woman didn't want to talk to me. But once she knew that I'd lost a baby as well, she agreed to a coffee.
Her name was Clare and she told me about her son, who died at birth forty years ago. He didn't have a name, she never saw him, she doesn't know what happened to his body. Since he had disabilities, she was meant to feel grateful. She went on to have three living children, two daughters and a son.
But still, occasionally, something apparently quite harmless sets it off. As a result of that coffee, Clare came along to our local Sands Support Group. That was hard for her, as she felt she had no right. Her husband and surviving children would think her morbid. She was sure everyone else at the group would be 30 years younger than her.
She was wrong. In fact, there were men and women of all ages. And it wasn't long before someone suggested to Clare that it was time for her baby to have a name and a funeral. After that, Clare disappeared for a bit. But then, with the support of that group, she talked to her local vicar.
As a bereaved mum myself, I understood. It doesn't matter how many years pass, you can still be ambushed by overwhelming grief.
He understood immediately and Clare decided to call her little boy Benjamin.
Within Clare's family, things were stormy. Her husband wasn't happy - but her children were. They had always wanted to talk about their brother but his death had seemed like forbidden territory. Initially Clare's husband refused to come to the funeral, but eventually he changed his mind. Clare said later that the whole family had lived with a wound they didn't even know was there – until it started to heal.
So the point is – it doesn't matter how long ago it was. It doesn't matter if it was a stillbirth, a cot death, a miscarriage, a baby given up for adoption, whatever. You have a right to grieve and you don't have to
suffer alone. The support is out there. And why is that? Because if, like me, you are a more recently bereaved mum, no matter how grim you feel, you know that actually you are lucky.
At least now there are support groups. You may find the wider world shutting you out (sadly that still does happen) but you'll find others who have lived through a similar situation will open their arms. We know how tough it was for our mothers and grandmothers. We want to help.
I hate the saying – laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone. It just isn't true. Often extremely close friendships are built on grief expressed. Right now I happen to be talking about the loss of a baby but there are many others kinds of loss, of course. And many different support groups, counsellors, books, courses.
You might decide to light a candle on an anniversary, create a memorial, make a memory box, put a letter in a bottle and drop it into the sea, tie a message on a helium balloon and let go, make a quilt, hold a service – it doesn't need to be formal or religious. You can make it up yourself.
If you've suffered a loss (who hasn't?) and you want to process the difficult feelings that brings, then you are not being morbid or self indulgent. If people don't understand what you need, ditch them, and find others that do. You may have a few false starts but, if there's one thing I've discovered, it's that the kindness of strangers can be endlessly surprising.
Alice's book Dead Babies and Seaside Towns, about a very personal battle through miscarriage, IVF and failed adoption attempts, is published by Unbound and available from Amazon.
By Alice Jolly
Twitter: @JollyAllice
I was complaining to my aunt about being the eldest and always having to be responsible for my brother and sister, and was shocked when she snapped at me. 'You weren't the oldest, you had a sister'. Nothing had ever been said by my parents, and she made me promise never to talk to them about her. She was born in 1940, at the beginning of the war, and lived for a few days as she breathing difficulties too. They named her Patricia which means 'peace' and recently while doing genealogy research I found her death certificate. I wish now that I had talked to my mother about her as I would have liked to comfort her but in those days family secrets were kept from children. I still feel sad about her death. 
I want to send love and hugs to everyone who is suffering grief and or fear. 
And add to the hope for those who have suffered miscarriage before; I have a neice in that situation who now has a bouncing beautiful 3 year old.
kentgran - I can't find the words
Oh this is such a heartbreaking thread but healing too.
My mother lost her first child a baby girl, at the age of 13 months. I was born 10 months later. My parents couldn't understand why I didn't grieve for her but of course I never knew her. There were no more children.
Now I'm older I sincerely wish I had her. A big sister would have been a huge reassurance in the last few years when my Dh died and my son's life was threatened by cancer.
I lost a baby at 14 weeks and no-one would let me grieve and treated it as a miscarriage and I had to just get on with it. I had two sons and that was supposed to make it all OK. which in some ways, of course, did make it easier.
I had another baby about 2 years later a fine healthy boy but I still think of the baby I lost.
My mother was quite cruel about the miscarriage and said it was the daughter I never had.
I wrote a poem about the lost baby called My Shadow Child, but sadly I lost it somewhere across the years.
I'm 63 and was always called an only child...however at some point during my adult years, my mother mentioned that she had, during the war, given birth to two little boys - each one had only lived for 6 or 7 hours. That was all she said.
This played on my mind on and off over the years...I became a parent myself, began to conceive of the anguish which my mother and father must have suffered, not once but twice, having to bury their newborn sons.
Finally now that I have retired, I set about trying to find out about my brothers and was lucky enough to find a lovely lady online who helped me to discover where each one is buried. "Brief Lives Remembered" is the name of the organisation and they were so very helpful.
Now as a result of the kindness of strangers, I have a little photoframe with a snapshot of my brothers Roger and Roger Anthony's final resting places - no gravestones - it was during WW2 and I think that notwithstanding everything else that was going on - bereaved parents were encouraged to 'get on with it' and not dwell on their loss - so my eldest brother shares a grave with ten other newborn babies...our other brother does at least have his own little grave, albeit unmarked.
Willow Tree figurines make one called 'Angel of Mine' which is a mother holding a very tiny baby close to her heart and my little photos have this figurine beside them...I was able to go to an All Souls Service at our local church at the end of October and lit a candle in memory of the boys... I like to think that my parents would approve - I think that they were denied the time or space to really acknowledge or grieve their baby sons - and I can only imagine, from being a parent myself, how many tears they may have shed in private.
My brothers would have been nearly 76 and 73 respectively now - so it has taken a long time to restore them to their rightful place in the story of my life and I too have shed tears, for them, for my poor parents...and for anyone who loses a child and did not have the opportunity to grieve and mark their loss.
Love and hugs to all of the brave gransnetters who have posted their stories on this thread xx
Such poignant posts. Thank you for sharing your special stories. Condolences to those of you dealing with the grief
Just so much sadness.
My mum lost twins 64 years ago, a boy and a girl born 12 weeks early.
I lost a baby in 1980 at 19 weeks, I was told the baby 'had malformations incompatible with life'; he or she had died at 12 weeks. Strangely I had never felt pregnant, and told my lovely GP that I felt something was wrong right from the start.
I didn't grieve really at all, it suddenly hit me 24 years later when I was sitting with a dear friend who was dying of beast cancer. Why then? I have no idea, but it took me several weeks before I felt okay again.
((Hugs)) and to you all x
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