Glimpses of hope

After one of the mothers at the children's new school learned of our George's death we spoke about babies and infant mortality and grief for a while. It was a really nice conversation. She's one of those rare people who is comfortable with tears and laughter, my snorky nose (I am at a loss as to how some people cry without ending up a mess - my nose always runs), and not trying to explain away sadness but at the same time offering comfort.

It's an art to deal with grief-stricken mums and our fragile emotional states I think. Saying enough, not too much. Not upsetting but not hurrying away. Not dragging on with the sad talk, but allowing enough time for what needs to be said to be shared. Tricky. So I'm grateful to her and any other woman or mother who does take the time to be there.

Through the course of our conversation she referred to Kimberly Hahn's book, Life-Giving Love. She has loaned it to me and I haven't read anything other than the chapter about miscarriage and stillbirth because I just had to skip ahead to that part. It's been an interesting read and there is one story Kimberly shares that has been in my mind and heart since I read it. I've found it such a consolation and it's prompted me to tears - but hopeful tears - so many times. I have to share it.

Kimberly spoke with the children of a woman who had several children but had lost seven babies. As the surviving children attended their dying mother on her deathbed, their mother kept asking: " 'Can you hear them singing? I can hear them. The babies are singing to me.' "

That makes me so sad but so happy at the same time. To have a glimpse of the other side, that time when we can be reunited with our little ones who died before us. To think that that mother, who must have carried such grief for her seven lost babes during her lifetime, being met by her little ones as she crossed over. It's a glimpse of the heaven I hope to reach some day.

I found much of the chapter comforting and interesting to think about. I liked Kimberly's thoughts around what to say and what not to say to bereaved mothers, particularly her caution to other bereaved mothers not to assume their journey in grief is the same as another woman's experience. And to listen to newly grieving mothers and offer to share our own stories when they're ready to hear them.

It's a Catholic book about marriage and fertility, so I'm going to caution people about that because I'm not trying to convert or push that on anyone. So that's on the record. But if thinking of those little ones singing to their dying mother soothes anyone else the way it does me, I wanted to share that little snippet.

I've had one dream about our George since he died. It was just after I came home from hospital, feeling so strange to return without our baby, and it was the first night I slept without a sedative. I fell asleep weeping and wishing I could nurse my boy as my milk had come in, agonizing my mind and my body. The dream was dazzling white, endlessly brighter than a sunshiney day reflecting off the snow in Saskatchewan's endless prairie in winter. I was looking down at George, cradling him in my arms, his little perfect downy head snuggled into the crook of my left arm. He looked up at me and his eyes were so blue. So peaceful. Full of life and love. I felt that responsiveness from my babe that I'd been robbed of when he was stillborn.

I woke up from that dream still sad, still very sore and full of milk, but comforted. It was a real blessing to have a visit with my child in my sleep. Because that's what it felt like more than a dream.

I keep hoping I'll see him in my dreams again. I haven't. And I can't wait to hold him again some day. Till then, the thought of those babies singing makes me feel sadly happy.