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Peanut has been getting her first tooth, and she doesn't sleep, and y'all I'm tired! I'm a single parent, and this is hard, and I think it's okay to admit that. Parenting, even parenting after loss, isn't just sunshine and roses. It's reality too. And I love this little girl with every piece of my soul, AND I feel overwhelmed sometimes. And I think sometimes that there is this romanticization of what life might have been like if our children had lived, and I think that's unfair. Because every child is going to be teething, and if not lack of sleep, every parent is going to struggle with something. This is just how parenting goes. It doesn't mean we aren't thankful. It doesn't mean we've lost sight of what's important in having our children here. I don't really have a point in posting this. I was just up early this morning and I am especially cranky. Cranky AND thankful, and I think that's okay.
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Grief is awkward, and so when we encounter someone in grief, we often feel the need to say something — anything at all — just to fill the void. These things are almost always said with good intentions, and so often grievers are asked to understand these intentions when words fall short. We certainly try. We appreciate your love so much. But if you want to know the things that grievers don’t want to hear; the things that are actively hurtful in our lives, below is a short list. These items are prohibited in comments on this site, and given any choice at all, these are words I would like to never hear or read:
– Comments indicating you haven’t read the whole story or post
– Any version of “be grateful,” “be thankful,” “count your blessings,” or “at least”
– Personal attacks or comments that are unnecessary or unkind
– Any variation of “you have to…” or “you should…”
– Anything stating or implying a parent is responsible for their child’s death
– Grief comparisons or any version of “I know how you feel”
– Any form of invalidation of a bereaved parents’ feelings
– Any form of unsolicited advice, no matter how well-intentioned
– Asking a bereaved parent when or if they will “try again”, and/or suggesting they need to have a subsequent child
– Unsolicited prayers
– Comments including the words “angel,” “rainbow,” “heaven,” or any sort of higher power in relation to anyone’s child but your own
– Statements to the effect that any events were destined, foreordained, or meant to be, with a special prohibition on the phrase “Everything happens for a reason”
– Any version of the phrase “get over,” “move past,” or “move on” in reference to anyone but yourself
– The words “strong,” “brave,” or “healing” in reference to anyone but yourself
Thank you so much for being here
My son died two and a half years ago and it broke me. Before him, I had known so very little death. I had no frame of reference. I had no way to understand. I truly believe the experience is unfathomable until you’re in the midst of it.
Almost two years ago, I participated in Megan Devine’s writing program. It was a course about all kinds of grief and I was the only one in my group who had lost an infant. There was actually only one other bereaved mother there, and her child had died at 18. I am forever thankful that this mother did not make me feel alienated. I am forever thankful she allowed her grief and mine to exist, side by side.
And I’m not saying in any way that we are similar. We both lost children, though at very different times. She lost memories; I lost imagination. She has years of tangible mementos; I have only nine months’ time. Is one of these losses “worse” than the other? Is that something that can even be defined?
I mentioned we were the only two people in the group mourning the loss of a child. The other members were split pretty evenly between loss of siblings and parents, plus a small number with griefs of unique kinds. And what I found most interesting in my interactions with all of them, was the amount of commonality in our experiences. In how much I could identify with experiences I had previously thought were uniquely mine.
And again, none of us were trying to compare. None of us were playing grief olympics. None of us were building a monopoly on feelings about isolation and suicide. And although we all were mourning different and unique losses, none of us were saying, “this right here is just mine.”
I learned so much in that group. I learned about empathy and compassion and the power of community. I learned that a 36-year-old single mother by choice could become great friends with a 60-something woman who had never lost a child. I learned that loss is individual, but grief can be uniting. Our individual grief was uniting.
I recognize I can’t speak for everyone. I recognize loss is heartbreaking, and in my lived experience, there has been nothing worse than the loss of my child. But that’s just me. That’s just where I happen to fall. And I still feel really thankful for the ability to form relationships with others who have experienced different forms of trauma, loss, and grief. It’s not the same. Even amongst bereaved parents, there is at least a small degree of difference. It still hurts. Life freaking hurts. I’m not going to contribute to that by telling anyone their loss isn’t equal to mine.
During pregnancy: Informed consent starts with information
- Inform & Educate—Inform all patients stillbirth is a possibility. Use matter-of-fact statements and real statistics. Talk about stillbirth the same way you talk about Shaken Baby Syndrome and SIDS
- If a pregnant patient wishes to discuss risk with you, do so honestly, in as much detail as they desire. Do not dismiss their concerns; you will only send them to Dr. Google
- If a patient is at particular risk for stillbirth or other difficult outcome, ensure they understand what that means. Do not reassure them that “everything will be fine”, especially when higher risk exists. DO discuss specific risks, & actions they can take to be on guard and/or mitigate them
- Informed Consent—If a patient chooses to continue a pregnancy post-term, or to refuse a procedure that could increase risk of stillbirth, ensure they are aware of the numerical and specific risk; inform with hard numbers, and without fear
- Movements Matter—Educate your patients about the importance of kick counts. Read up on recent changes in Australia and the UK regarding tracking each baby’s individual pattern of movement instead of arbitrary numbers. Emphasize that each pregnancy is unique and should not be compared to other pregnancies, even for the same woman
- Eliminate Myths—Ensure your patients understand that babies never run out of room in the womb; movements change in type, but not in frequency
- Dangers of Dopplers—Talk to your patients about not relying on home dopplers for reassurance. Discourage patients from purchasing or using home dopplers
- Warning signs—Educate your patients on warning signs of stillbirth: marked decrease or increase in movements; any period of especially intense activity outside of the norm for that pregnancy; intense itching, particularly on but not limited to the hands and feet; sharp pain in upper right quadrant/under ribs; intense headache; swelling, especially intense swelling of hands and/or face
- Be available—Encourage patients to call you and/or go to L&D anytime they feel something could be wrong, even if they come in daily. Let them know they are never a bother
For the hospital/birthing center:
- Resources—Make contact with all local organizations providing memory or comfort boxes. Ensure all personnel are aware of the location of these boxes, and how to request more
- Cuddle Cot—If you have a cuddle cot, ensure all personnel are aware of its location and how to use. If you do not have a cuddle cot, consider requesting or holding a fundraiser to purchase one
- Training—Ensure all staff members are trained on appropriate procedures for stillbirth or perinatal loss
- Limited Personnel—Whenever possible, minimize the number of staff members who work with a bereaved family. This allows parents to become comfortable with providers and not have to explain or answer questions multiple times
If a stillbirth should occur:
- Be empathetic—Understand this is a traumatic & confusing time in your patient’s life, possibly/ probably their worst moment ever. Be prepared to speak slowly, proceed slowly, and repeat things if necessary. Whenever medically possible, give the patient time to process before pushing any procedures
- Ask for and refer to the child(ren) by name
- Provide Information—Inform your patient and/or their support person of all medical options. Discuss methods of induction and availability of a C-section if desired
- Follow Birth Preferences—To the extent medically possible, allow the birth parent to follow the original birth plan, and/or ascertain their current wishes for the birth. Do not assume the birth parent wants a fully medicated or “easy” birth, and if you offer anxiety medication, ensure the birth parent is aware of the effects it will have on memory
- Options for Memories & Memorabilia—Ensure patients are aware of all options to preserve memories and memorabilia, to include: Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep / other forms of birth photography; hand and footprints; hand and foot imprints; locks of hair; preservation of breast milk through breast milk jewelry; hospital memory boxes; any other items as appropriate
- Bathing/Dressing—Offer parents the option to hold, bathe, and dress baby, and the option to leave the child dressed upon departure from the hospital. Should they choose this option, ensure they receive these clothes at a later date
- Religious Observances—Offer the ability to observe any personal religious ceremonies such as baptism or blessing
- Time—Allow/encourage parents to spend as much time as they wish with the child(ren), and do not pressure them to leave before they are ready. If available, offer the use of a cuddle cot in the hospital and/or at home. Ensure parents are aware they can also visit at the funeral home
- Physical Items—Keep or offer to keep all physical mementos possible: measuring tapes, blankets, ankle bracelets, etc. Keep even & especially if stained with the child’s blood
- Discuss Options for Breastmilk—Ensure the birthing parent is informed of the choice to either stop breastmilk or to express and donate it. Do not assume every patient wants to stop their milk
- Follow up—Follow up with the patient regularly. If possible, schedule a check-up within the first few days of discharge. Offer to and attend the funeral
- Be available—Be available to meet with your patient as often as they need it
- Listen—If your patient wants to talk to you about their feelings, listen. You are the face they are most familiar with, and they may want to talk to you before seeing a counselor, therapist, or support group
- Offer Additional Support—Referral to an MFM, discussion of autopsy results, referral to a grief therapist or support group, other medical services as appropriate. Understand many patients will not be ready to utilize these services in the beginning; offer again in a few weeks and/or months
- Understanding—Understand what it’s like to experience a stillbirth or perinatal loss, both physically & emotionally. If you don’t have personal experience, read books/blogs, or speak with bereaved parents
- Be a resource—Be aware of support groups and resources for bereaved parents in your area
Support the whole family—Ensure the father/second parent/other family members also receive support
- Use plain language—“Stillbirth” is not a dirty word. Use plain words like “stillbirth” and “death”
- Use caution:
- With religion—Do not assume religious beliefs or discuss religious concepts unless the parent(s) have done so first. This includes use of the word “angel” when referring to the deceased child. If you follow a personal faith, request permission before praying/offering to pray
- With concepts like guilt, fault, and blame—While some patients will want to be told the death is not their fault, others will feel alienated by those words. Allow the patient to steer the conversation in this area
- When talking about subsequent children—Some parents will want to discuss this right away, but some will not. Avoid phrases like “try again”; instead, say “try for a second/another child”. Similarly, avoid terms like “rainbow baby” unless the parent(s) have used it first
- When dealing with an “early” loss—Regardless of the legal definition of miscarriage vs. stillbirth, ensure all bereaved parents are supported in every way they need. All parents should be offered support and the option for memorabilia, to include photos, and all parents should be able to select a means of disposition for their child’s remains
***Regardless of past experience and everything written here, each individual case is specific
and unique. Where conflict exists between these instructions and patient desires, always allow the
patient freedom to choose. They will be your guide in providing the care they need***
A PDF version of this post is available here: Requests of a Bereaved Mother for Prenatal Providers.
Dear Pregnant Mother,
This letter is awkward. We may be friends; we may be acquaintances. I may have just run into you in the grocery store, and somehow we started talking. You may have seen my tattoo or necklace. You may have met my daughter, asked me if she was my first. However it happened, now you know. You know that my first child died while I was pregnant, and now you are afraid.
You are afraid you don’t know what to say to me. You maybe haven’t dealt with death before. You are afraid of offending me, by saying the wrong words, by having a pregnant body. Dearheart, it’s okay. Sometimes life is messy, but don’t ever feel ashamed. Your body is beautiful. You carry the gift of new life.
The shock wears off, and we keep talking. You ask for details, or maybe you don’t. You start thinking. And now you are afraid for your child. Nobody ever told you stillbirth was a possibility. You both want and don’t want to ask me questions. You’re afraid of what I’ll say. And more than anything, you wonder, embarrassed, if stillbirth is contagious.
I promise you, it’s all normal. I think I would have felt the same, in your place. I promise you, even if it hurts, I understand. Pregnancy is already so scary. Take care of yourself.
Dear mother, life is complicated, and often messy. Sometimes there is pain we can’t avoid. Please know I understand you mean well, even when you’re awkward. Please know I’m not offended when you change the subject, or even when you avoid me. I may be hurt, but I promise I won’t tell you. Because more than anything, I want you and your child to be all right.
Dear mother who is pregnant for perhaps the first time: please know that I worry about you. Whether we are friends or acquaintances or just a moment in time, I may ask you questions. It may seem strange. You may resent me talking about kick counts and the dangers of home dopplers.
Please know I’m constantly fighting a battle between how much is important to tell you without leaving you terrified. Please know I do these things because I care about you, because they are things I can only wish someone had done for me. Please know I want nothing more than for you to come home, healthy, with a living child.
One of the things I hear most often when I share any part of Adrian’s story is that stillbirth is “rare”. And I understand this. If I had heard that something happened in less than 1% of all cases, I might have considered it rare, too…Until it happened to me.
I think the problem with using words like “rare” in place of actual numbers is that it’s a description that renders those numbers abstract. Our brains are so unused to thinking about statistical concepts that we classify these things as either likely, e.g. I’m likely to have a flat tire at some point in my life; or practically impossible, e.g. I will never win the lottery. But we do a really poor job of thinking about all of the possibilities that lie in between.
If I told you that something happened 1 out of 160 times, would you consider that rare? What if I put it in context? What if, for example, every time you crossed the street, you were subject to a 1 in 160 chance of being hit by a bus? Or in more positive terms, let’s argue that one in 160 lottery scratchers yields $100 (These things are obviously not true, this is just a “for instance”). Do these numbers start to have more meaning now? Do you find yourself giving them different labels? If you heard that someone was hit by a bus while crossing the street, would you now think of it as something tragic, and also less surprising? And if the person who was hit by a bus was your friend or loved one, would you maybe start advocating for safeguards and education in order to keep similar tragedies from happening again?
This is one of the things that frustrates me when I talk about stillbirth outside of the baby loss community. Because the statistics are very real, and yet they are commonly dismissed. People use words like “rare” to distance themselves or to quiet a pregnant mother’s concerns, implying that stillbirth is something that never happens, or if it does, it’s more like one in a million.
I understand a lot of this is prompted by fear. Pregnancy is a scary time, and it feels like so much is outside of our control. I think there is also this unconscious assumption that stillbirth just happens, and that there is nothing we can do. (This is wrong.) And even if it weren’t, this kind of attitude would only keeps us from developing better prevention and solutions.
Simple fact: in the United States today, 1 out of 160 pregnancies ends in the death of the child at or after 20 weeks gestation. 1 in 160. If we were talking about something meaningless, I could maybe understand the use of words like “rare”. But this isn’t meaningless. This is important. This is a sad, and in many cases, preventable, emergency.
So please use caution when thinking about statistics. 1% is quite a lot when you’re talking about the death of a child. You may consider it “rare,” but it’s really a matter of perspective. And from where I’m sitting, 1 in 160 is one too many.
This title was originally used for an earlier blog post: Stillbirth & Statistics (Old Version)
A friend posted a news story on her page the other day about a man who had forgotten his twin children in the car, and the children died. Her comment (paraphrased) was, “How could anyone do this? I would never forget my child.” She seemed angry.
I think I get it. It’s a difficult subject. The death of any child is going to be hard. But I’m not angry. I’m sad.
I am sad because the children died. It brings back memories of the loss of my son. I am sad, too, because the parents lost their children. No matter the circumstances, they are grieving. I am also sad because of the misunderstanding; the assumption that this death happened through carelessness, and the notion–unspoken but implied–that the deaths were the father’s fault. That he simply wasn’t good enough.
I think we see this a lot. I think we subconsciously want all parents to be superheroes. My peanut has a scratch on her forehead right now, from where the family puppy accidentally nicked her, and this scratch, though tiny, makes me feel terrible. I should be able to keep her safe. This from the voice that has moved into my head: “Everything that goes wrong with a child is his or her parent’s fault.”
And this is often true. Sometimes there are cases of neglect, or lack of supervision. You can’t leave a three-year-old alone with a giant knife, for example. (You can’t leave a three-year-old alone, period :-).) But sometimes, no matter our intentions, accidents still happen. And that is almost always the case when a child is left in a car.
Multiple organizations have studied this phenomenon. There’s a really good article about it here. The gist of it generally boils down to routine. Wake up, shower, make coffee, eat breakfast. Put the kids in the car, take them to daycare, go to work. It happens the same every day, to the point that your brain develops an autopilot. But what happens when it’s your spouse who normally takes the kids to daycare, but he or she is sick? What happens when you have to take a different route, or have a family emergency? It’s a change to your routine. And like any other change, it can be easy to forget.
I won’t go into more detail, I think the article does it better than me. What I will say is that it happens, and it’s (almost) never on purpose. No parent, aside from a psychopath, ever wakes up one day and says, “Today is the day I’m going to kill my child.” This doesn’t happen.
So I go back to that sentiment, “I would never.” “I would never be so careless. This would never happen to me.” And I want to say, “How do you know? Granted, it hasn’t happened to you…yet. How do you know it’s not possible? How do you know you would never be so sleep-deprived and so used to your routine that you wouldn’t forget? It’s kind of impossible to prove a negative.”
And yes, there are precautions. There are reminders you can set, systems you can put into place. But no system is perfect. No schedule ever goes completely according to plan. And if it isn’t a car ride, it could be anything. No one is perfect, and you can’t keep everything bad from happening to you. I speak from experience.
My child didn’t die on a car ride. My child didn’t lose his life through neglect, or through a weapon left unattended. But he did die, and despite my best intentions, my actions could have made a difference. This is something I will always live with. I guarantee you this is something every parent who has lost a child feels. I guarantee you it’s worse when it’s something like this story, when it’s something so many jump to judgement on and so few understand.
These parents lost a child. These parents are in mourning. These parents were doing the best they can. Please, let them be. There but for a twist of fate go you, or go I.
Due to the nature of this subject, comments will be closely moderated. Please read the entire Washington Post article before leaving a comment.
I remember the last time we hung out together, I had made the offhand comment that you seemed to be leading a pretty good life. You told me then your father was sick. It reminded me how it’s so easy to judge, and also that we almost never know. Some months later I saw on Facebook your father had passed. I meant to say something. I wanted to apologize. I wasn’t actually scared of the awkward situation then, but I did let life get in the way. It’s now been four years. Longer? It’s hard to know. Time passes differently on the outside.
Almost three years ago, we both were pregnant. I didn’t realize at the time how closely we aligned. I think I thought about saying something then, but I didn’t. No excuses this time. And then your son was born, and my son died.
I don’t know if I realized the proximity at the time. I had gone off Facebook for a while. I wasn’t aware of much. But I saw you posting photos sometime later. Sometimes it felt like looking into an alternate reality. And then his first birthday, and I realized it was shared–my Adrian; your little boy. And only one was alive.
I saw you posting again this year. I see your pride in his beauty and his growth. And I wonder if you saw anything of mine? This was the first year I published my writings on my personal page. And I see you also have a newborn daughter, and she is almost Peanut’s age. And again, things feel awkward and also surreal.
I think about reaching out to you. I’m not sure what I would say. “Congratulations on your living child” feels crass. And I don’t know what else has happened, if you feel any hidden pain. If Adrian’s loss affects you, too. If you also have a half-written message, just waiting.
I miss you.
Miranda’s Blog: A Letter to My Son on His Second Birthday
Write Your Grief: Someone Else’s Birthday (needs to be posted)
If they asked me to describe you, I would start with your eyes. I never got to see your eyes, just your long eyelashes. If they asked about your first word, I would have to shrug. Though statistically, (ironically,) it’s almost always “dada”. If they asked about my hopes for you, I would have to say my biggest hope was that you would have felt loved. It was always important to me that you feel loved.
This past year has been different; your absence has been deeper. I’m realizing more and more what it means that you are physically gone. I can go whole days, sometimes, and find that I’ve “forgotten” you. But you live so deep inside my world, everything I am is part of you.
You have a younger sister now. She is beautiful and brings me joy. I wish so much that you could be alive to see her grow. I wish so much that you could be alive to take your own first steps, toddling in cute outfits I still look at in the stores.
I think about these things we’ve missed, these forks in other roads. I think about the life that lives on only in my mind. If they asked me to describe you, I would start with your eyes. At once both real and ambiguous, unknowable outside of mine.
I love you, little man. You will always live in every part of me.
Happy Second Birthday, and many more to come ❤️
I was sitting in a breastfeeding support group this morning, and one of the facilitators asked me if this was my first child. I swallowed. This question still hits me sometimes. I don’t think anyone realizes when they ask that the answer might be complicated.
My little peanut is three weeks old. I love her so much it’s almost painful. I look into her eyes, and I feel everything: she’s tiny and beautiful, a miniature human being. And she looks so much like her brother.
Peanut wasn’t my first pregnancy. She’s the first that a lot of people know about here. She’s the first one to receive a birth certificate, the first to draw breath and scream. I moved shortly before I started trying for her, and most people here didn’t know my history. I think many just assume.
But two years ago, I was pregnant with my first child. Two years ago, he was kicking and growing inside. Two years ago, he was almost full-term, and I was dreaming and putting the final touches on the nursery. Four weeks from now, it will have been two years since I delivered him without a heartbeat.
I look at my peanut now, and I think of this pregnancy. I think of all the times I had to explain my history. I think of the emails and piles of documentation, and the fact that there are stickers you can use when you just don’t have the energy. Because some days words are unbearably hard.
I think of the first time one of my coworkers here asked me if this was my first child, and how I said, “No.” And she followed up, wanting to know my older child’s name and age. And I told her: his name is Adrian, and he passed away. And I think of how many times this conversation was repeated, and how every single time, there was either an apology and a quick change of subject, or there was just the subject change. Because it was always awkward. And often there was the question, present but unspoken: “Why would you tell me this? Why would you give me this information nobody wants to know?”
And I think this is the crux of things. Because my son existed. We had a pregnancy and a nursery and I live with a lifetime of broken dreams. And despite the pain, these things are important to me. He is a real person. And if you ask if Peanut is my first child, I am always going to say, “No.” But I wish that “No” didn’t have to be confusing.
To the fellow mother in the waiting room: “No. No, I’ve never had to change a diaper or warm up a bottle late at night. No, I don’t know anything about potty training or planning a birthday party for 10 rambunctious children. My other child is not in daycare or waiting home alone. I don’t have those experiences. No.”
To the nurse at the hospital: “No. No, I’ve never had to deal with cluster feeding or count diapers with meconium. No, I don’t know how to tell if this latch is right or strong. I am asking you questions because I’ve never been responsible for the life of a living newborn. These things are all new to me. No.”
And I can understand why there is this constant confusion. Because when you tell someone you have a child, certain assumptions are going to be made. Very few will understand there is a space between number-of-children and number-living, or that sometimes the enormity of that space can be overwhelming.
And I understand that when people ask if she’s my first, so often they are asking a different question entirely. They’re asking about my experience, or if I have children at home. They’re asking to find commonality, or to know if something needs explaining. And because of this, when they ask, I now have something else to say.
So when the lactation consultant asked me this morning if Peanut was my first child, I told her: “No, but she’s the first one to come home with me.”
And I could see the understanding crawl across her face, and there were no more words, and none were needed.
I am a mother to two beautiful children. One of them is living, and one is my firstborn.
Miranda’s Blog: My Daughter is not a Rainbow; My Son was not a Storm
Miranda’s Blog: 13 June 2019 (needs to be posted)
Letters to Adrian
- Before Letters
- 10w2d – A little bit of a belly
- 7w3d – Pickles and Ice Cream?
- 12w1d – Your tiny feet
- 19w6d – Happy New Year
- 20w0d – Are you dancing?
- 29w6d – Cravings and a nest
- 31w6d – One Last Road Trip
- 38w4d – Almost There…
- 39w6d(1) – What does Mama look like?
- 39w6d(2) – So Close!
- Thu, Jun 29, 2017 at 10:22 AM
- Thu, Jun 29, 2017 at 6:53 PM
- After Letters 2017
- Sun, Jul 2, 2017 at 8:19 PM
- Wed, Jul 5, 2017 at 6:58 AM
- Thu, Jul 6, 2017 at 6:24 AM
- Sun, Jul 9, 2017 at 1:32 PM
- Sun, Jul 16, 2017 at 12:17 PM
- Tue, Jul 18, 2017 at 2:29 PM
- Thu, Jul 20, 2017 at 6:24 AM
- Fri, Jul 21, 2017 at 12:18 AM
- Fri, Jul 28, 2017 at 5:18 PM
- Wed, Aug 2, 2017 at 6:13 PM
- Sun, Aug 6, 2017 at 12:26 AM
- Sun, Aug 13, 2017 at 6:17 AM
- Mon, Aug 14, 2017 at 12:15 PM
- Wed, Aug 16, 2017 at 6:07 PM
- Tue, Aug 22, 2017 at 9:50 PM
- Mon, Aug 28, 2017 at 6:21 AM
- Fri, Sep 8, 2017 at 12:16 AM
- Mon, Sep 18, 2017 at 9:24 PM
- Tue, Sep 19, 2017 at 6:35 PM
- Mon, Sep 25, 2017 at 8:28 PM
- Tue, Sep 26, 2017 at 11:09 AM
- Tue, Sep 26, 2017 at 1:59 PM
- Tue, Sep 26, 2017 at 3:02 PM
- Thu, Sep 28, 2017 at 9:36 AM
- Thu, Sep 28, 2017 at 4:16 PM
- Thu, Sep 28, 2017 at 5:43 PM
- Sat, Sep 30, 2017 at 8:30 PM
- Mon, Oct 2, 2017, 6:14 PM
- Wed, Oct 4, 2017, 7:43 PM
- Thu, Oct 12, 2017, 6:52 PM
- Fri, Oct 13, 2017, 6:25 PM
- Sun, Oct 15, 2017, 8:09 PM
- Thu, Oct 19, 2017, 4:54 PM
- Sat, Oct 21, 2017, 8:37 PM
- Tue, Oct 24, 2017, 5:26 PM
- Sun, Oct 29, 2017, 1:00 PM
- Tue, Oct 31, 2017, 5:32 PM
- Nov 1, 2017, 8:08 PM
- Nov 5, 2017, 1:07 PM
- Nov 7, 2017, 8:10 PM
- Nov 10, 2017, 6:48 PM
- Nov 10, 2017, 8:29 PM
- Nov 14, 2017, 6:28 PM
- Nov 14, 2017, 7:10 PM
- Nov 15, 2017, 7:52 PM
- Nov 17, 2017, 8:02 PM
- Nov 22, 2017, 7:01 PM
- Nov 23, 2017, 1:51 PM
- Nov 26, 2017, 9:45 AM
- Nov 29, 2017, 4:36 PM
- Sat, Dec 2, 2017, 8:06 PM
- Mon, Dec 11, 2017, 8:16 PM
- Tue, Dec 12, 2017, 9:42 PM
- Sat, Dec 16, 2017, 9:55 PM
- Sat, Dec 23, 2017, 7:22 PM
- Sat, Dec 23, 2017, 9:12 PM
- Mon, Dec 25, 2017, 6:45 PM
- Sat, Dec 30, 2017, 10:51 AM
- Sun, Dec 31, 2017, 5:10 PM
- Sun, Dec 31, 2017, 7:59 PM
- After Letters 2018
- Tue, Jan 9, 2018, 10:04 PM
- Wed, Jan 10, 2018, 11:47 AM
- Fri, Jan 12, 2018, 2:38 PM
- Mon, Jan 15, 2018, 11:32 AM
- Wed, Jan 17, 2018, 4:24 PM
- Sat, Jan 20, 2018, 4:09 PM
- Tue, Jan 23, 2018, 8:29 PM
- Wed, Jan 24, 2018, 3:46 PM
- Mon, Jan 29, 2018, 5:09 AM
- Thu, Feb 1, 2018, 8:44 PM
- Fri, Feb 2, 2018, 10:09 PM
- Tue, Feb 6, 2018, 3:52 PM
- Wed, Feb 7, 2018, 4:16 PM
- Thu, Feb 15, 2018, 6:40 PM
- Sat, Feb 17, 2018, 3:55 PM
- Sat, Feb 24, 2018, 5:12 AM
- Sun, Mar 11, 2018, 1:10 PM
- Tue, Mar 20, 2018, 2:26 PM
- Wed, Mar 21, 2018, 4:18 PM
- Fri, Apr 6, 2018, 11:46 PM
- Fri, Apr 13, 2018, 10:23 PM
- Tue, Apr 24, 2018, 11:09 PM
- Wed, Apr 28, 2018, 11:08 PM
- Thu, Apr 29, 2018, 8:58 PM
- Wed, May 2, 2018, 7:46 PM
- Sat, May 5, 2018, 5:30 PM
- Sun, May 6, 2018, 12:13 AM
- Fri, May 11, 2018, 11:56 AM
- Sat, May 12, 2018, 5:32 PM
- Sun, May 13, 2018, 3:04 PM
- Mon, May 14, 2018, 9:33 PM
- Fri, May 18, 2018, 6:18 PM
- Sat, May 19, 2018, 2:02 PM
- Sat, May 26, 2018, 11:02 AM
- Sun, May 27, 2018, 8:35 PM
- Sun, Jun 3, 2018, 9:11 AM
- Sun, Jun 10, 2018, 9:31 PM
- A Letter to My Son on His First Birthday
- More Letters
Write Your Grief
- Write Your Grief
- Introduction to WYG
- WYG Round 1
- 29 Jan 2018 – Grief
- 30 Jan 2018 – The Second Death
- 31 Jan 2018 – Choice
- 1 Feb 2018 – Photos
- 2 Feb 2018 – Elephant Onesies
- 2 Feb 2018 – Grief is a Mother, Too
- 3 Feb 2018 – The Kindest Thing
- 5 Feb 2018 – Akhilandeshvari
- 6 Feb 2018 – Regret
- 7 Feb 2018 – Beauty
- 7 Feb 2018 – Tests
- 8 Feb 2018 – Prickly
- 9 Feb 2018 – No
- 10 Feb 2018 – This is How I Feel About Life
- 12 Feb 2018 – Hard Things
- 13 Feb 2018 – The Condition of my Heart
- 14 Feb 2018 – I love you. Please.
- 18 Feb 2018 – I Love You
- 18 Feb 2018 – Memories
- 20 Feb 2018 – Time
- 20 Feb 2018 – Flight
- 20 Feb 2018 – Unspoken
- 22 Feb 2018 – Fuck
- 24 Feb 2018 – A Letter to My Belly
- 25 Feb 2018 – That Day
- 26 Feb 2018 – The Nuclear Bomb
- 26 Feb 2018 – Nuclear Bomb Part 2
- Miranda's Blog
- Miranda's Blog 2020
- Miranda's Blog 2019
- 1 January 2019
- 8 January, 2019
- Waiting Rooms
- Hard Day
- Yoga on a Saturday
- My daughter is not a rainbow; My son was not a storm
- The Story of Amy Anne
- Please stop telling me everything is going to be “fine”
- Necessary Fear
- It’s Not About the Sunscreen
- This Timeline
- Grieving Without God
- “If She Dies, I Die”
- Stillbirth & Statistics (Old Version)
- The Slowest Kind of Panic
- A Letter to My Mental Health Coordinator
- Why Getting Pregnant Easily Isn’t a Gift
- Pleasant Surprise
- Quora: Perspective of a Non-Believer Following the Death of a Child
- Dear Nature-based Childbirth Educator
- Why I Track Fetal Movement Religiously with my Second Pregnancy
- My experience as a pseudo-rainbow baby
- Pregnancy After Loss; A Parable
- Sometimes I DO want to give up, and you can’t fix that
- More Than 8 Things
- From one mother to another; a letter to the recently bereaved
- Third Mother’s Day
- 13 June 2019
- A Letter to My Son on His Second Birthday
- Two Birthdays
- Things We Don’t Want to Be True
- Stillbirth & Statistics: What Does it Mean to be “Rare”?
- From one mother to another: A letter to the pregnant mother from one who is bereaved
- Requests of a bereaved mother for all prenatal providers
- I Fail at Grief Olympics
- AdrianJamesHernandez.com Official Comment Policy; aka Things not to say to or about a Bereaved Parent
- Miranda's Blog 2018
- Sea Shells
- Second Hand
- Nature Isn’t Perfect
- Everything Happens
- A Letter to the Woman who Wants the “Perfect Birth”
- San Diego
- My Seventh Trimester Body
- 18 June 2018, 8:47 pm
- 21 June 2018, 4:58pm
- 22 June 2018, 9:01am
- 28 June 2018, 8:55pm
- A letter to my son on his first birthday
- Second Eulogy
- Not Okay
- 11 July 2018
- Friday the 13th
- 22 July 2018
- Miranda's Blog 2017