Yes, clockwork.

They were all too small and too quick to be anything
but mechanical. Each calculated tick of the head
seemed to be ordered by the turn of a cog.
This is how we regard those things that are too wonderful
to be true. We marvel at them,
the way we marvel at the expertly crafted innards of a watch or car engine.
This is also how I saw you.
Every blink and twitch filled me with amazement.
The finches remind me of this.
Like you, they are not machines,
just perfect.

~~~~~~~~~

Bio:  Julie Forman was born and raised in Orlando, Florida. She is a wife and mom to one beautiful daughter, Ava Sylvia, who was born on Nov. 4, 2012. Diagnosed with Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia (CDH) at 23 weeks gestation, Ava was later diagnosed with Fryn’s Syndrome, a genetic disorder that took her life after four days in the NICU. Her name means “little bird.”

The day of the funeral came
And I wondered why I had to go through all this,
I cried on the way there and all through the service
I cried and we couldn’t even drive ourselves to the gravesite
I began convincing myself
that nobody knew about my tears.

Slowly the world began to shift and my ground became unstable
Unable to keep pace with the rest of the world
I fell behind
And I was convinced
that nobody knows about my tears.

I hide behind closed doors and rush out of crowds
Tears build up
Behind sore eyes and a shattered spirit
Forced into this secret society of broken hearts
And I am convinced
that nobody knows about my tears.

I grieve my loss of motherhood
The need to hold her makes me sore
The feeling that I have been robbed
Every time a mother holds her living baby closely
I am convinced
that nobody knows about my tears.

Driving home my mind starts to wander
What she would have been like?
How she should be in the backseat
Snuggled safely in that four-door sedan I picked over a year ago because we wanted her…
I am convinced
that nobody knows about my tears.

The scar that my body wears replays that night she was born
How it happened, and why
The scar that means she happened
Too quickly…
I am convinced
that nobody knows about my tears.

I sit alone most days
Avoiding the inevitable and meaningless conversations
That I just cannot care about
I feel I am losing myself in this grief
I am convinced
that nobody knows about my tears.

But someday when I die, Lord,
You tell me that you knew
You didn’t let my tears dry up on the ground,
You kept them close to you.
In that bottle where our tears our stored
To show us just how much you cared
You saw me cry every time I convinced myself
that nobody knew…

~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Artist. Dream-chaser. Writer. Wife to 1. Mom to 3. You can find Franchesca on her blog and instagram daily.

I sit quietly in the rocking chair

Waiting for my sweet angel to rest his head on my chest

He flutters down from the heavens ever so graciously

I know when he has landed because I smile and our electric love sparks
and ignites.

We are transported back to the NICU

I feel his warm skin against mine and his toes tickle my belly

In our NICU there are no beeping machines or alarms incessantly ringing

Samuel and I are in the recliner all settled and comfortable

Our hearts beat as one; we are forever a part of each other

Our naps are shorter now, like a star shooting across the night sky

I embrace my angel tight and give him a kiss

I open my eyes, maybe too quickly because

Visualizing my son in my arms is not the same as having him in my arms

I sit quietly in the rocking chair

Thankful for the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: I am Samuel’s mommy. My son will forever remain 11 weeks old. Samuel was born premature on January 27, 2013 at 26.5 weeks due to an intrauterine infection. Being premature and having to fight so hard in the NICU ended his life on April 14, 2013.

It is now five months since Samuel died. The intense agony of grief has subsided, only to resurface on its own terms. Poetry is a way for me to release and understand the powerful emotions that my heart doesn’t want to endure. It’s also a way for me to communicate with my son as I truly believe it is Samuel working his magic in creating these heartfelt pieces. I miss him so much, at times it is unbearable. But, I choose love over fear and I choose to see the many blessings that this little baby gives me everyday. Thank you for choosing me Samuel. Thank you for loving me sweet boy! I love you! Always & Forever.

like the moon
not yet full
nestled
in the leaves

like me
and you
not fully formed
already out of my body

the breeze brings me
you

swiflty
(too soon)
swishes right back out

but in the swishing
I felt you

not still

caressing me
pressing your breath
sweet baby breath
on my chest
slobbery and milky

can we pretend?
I get to hold you
even if
it’s just an image
a photograph
from just the right angle
of two
that are so far apart

but fit as one

~~~~~~~~

Bio: I am a doula and mother of three. Two sons and one daughter. Luna only lived inside me. I feel her love through everything that I am becoming.

And there you were, two little lines
A promise of new life
First flash of white, your tiny heart
A husband’s glowing wife

You grew for only two short months
And yet you needed nine
Deep in our hearts we must have known
T’was not our baby’s time

With heavy hearts
And tears in eyes
We grieve our missing bun
With hand in hand and side by side
This promise now undone

Yet there is hope the baby said
To the husband and the wife
If this was easy, it would not be called
The miracle of life

A miracle you shall receive
Look to the midnight sky
One star is yours, so do not grieve
Your baby butterfly

Your child will come,
They always do
Trust me, I can see
With strength in love and side by side
Two parents you shall be

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Vicky Wallace is a 29 year old Play Therapist in Vancouver and is about to become a foster parent with her husband. She has had several early miscarriages and has just found out she is pregnant again! She is very hopeful to meet her rainbow baby in May.

I have been in pelvic floor physical therapy for the past nine months, helping my body to heal from the trauma of trying to build our family since 2002. My therapist has focused a lot of her time and attention on my C-section scars, connective tissue, and all that has been impacted by our efforts, including my organs and muscles.

Throughout this therapeutic process, I can’t help but think about and reflect on the emotional scars six pregnancies, three of which ended in first trimester losses, two living children, and one baby who died soon after she was born, in ten years leaves behind. Not to mention the years of trying to conceive and sustain pregnancies, including four ART cycles (two IVF, one IVF converted to IUI and one FET).

What I have found most interesting about my physical therapy is that many assumptions I’d made about my scars were untrue. I thought that touching my scars, stretching the area around them, or anything else along those lines would cause more damage. What I didn’t realize until now is that, much like the grief we feel after baby loss or years of struggling with infertility, our scars must be worked through, slowly and intentionally, for them to heal.

After three C-sections and another abdominal surgery between October 2003 and September 2009, the skin and connective tissue around my scars had become numb. I thought that was normal and accepted it as something that just happens after delivering babies surgically. Likewise, when I think about our early pregnancy losses, failed ART cycles, and the birth (followed soon after by the death) of our second child, our first daughter Molly, I often feel emotionally numb. It’s not that I don’t care about our babies who left this world too soon, but allowing myself to go there, to really immerse myself in my grief, sometimes can be too much for me to handle in day-to-day life.

This disconnect, both physical and emotional, is not healthy for our bodies or our minds. I have learned that healing begins with waking up our scars and connective tissue through physical therapy (both with a licensed therapist and through doing exercises on our own). We also have to awaken our psyche through reading, writing, talking and/or sharing about our experiences with infertility and loss. Journaling, blogging, participating in support groups and/or meeting with cognitive therapists are all ways to work through our emotional scars as we grieve and heal.

How we work with our scars and through our grief varies from person to person, case by case, loss by loss. What works for you, may not work for me. It takes time and effort to discover the exercises and outlets that will be most effective for each individual.

As with so many things in life, it takes patience and an open mind to recover from trauma and loss. Pelvic floor therapy has not been anything like I expected it would be. A typical therapy session can be relaxing, when my therapist uses visceral manipulation to work on my internal organs, which continue to be strained and irritated by my scar tissue. However it can also be extremely painful, when my physical therapist works on my scars and connective tissue trying to help release the tension and restrictions they have developed over these past ten years.

To work through some of my emotional scars, I have participated in a perinatal bereavement support group at our local hospital for seven years and recently became one of the facilitators. Over the years I also met with licensed clinical professional counselors. Through this grief work, I am surprised at times by what I have learned about myself and my loved ones. The process is both difficult and beautiful. The experience is healing and eye-opening.

That said, no matter what we do, there will always be scars that remain from our journeys through infertility and loss. We never get over the loss of our babies or the dream of having one or more children that didn’t come to fruition. But we can try to learn to live without those that left this world too soon, and to embrace our lives as they are, instead of how we imagined they could be. We can take care of our minds and bodies to make the most of the gifts we have been given and try to focus on the beautiful things that remain, while always remembering what has passed before us.

“The tide recedes but leaves behind bright seashells on the sand,
The sun goes down, but gentle warmth still lingers on the land,
The music stops, and yet it echoes on in sweet refrains…
For every joy that passes, something beautiful remains.” ~ Hardin Marshall

~~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Kathy Benson is Exhale’s Contributing Editor. Kathy is a mom, writer and group fitness instructor with three children (two here and one in Heaven) finding joy in the journey after dealing with secondary infertility and loss for over five years. She blogs at Bereaved and Blessed and you can follow her on Twitter @BereavedBlessed

Assailants

A pair of bluebirds perch beside the nestingbox.
They keep trying to fly in, twitter as they flutter,
but a sparrow blocks the entrance.
The bluebirds cheep and flap their feathers,
fly frantically to the telephone wire. The male
bird settles near the nestingbox on the roof
and she follows, the female, a mother like me.

They chirrupchirrupchirrup, look at each other
then away, send warning voices down to the bird
whose head looks out from their hole, then fly
to the wire again. This is the dance of catastrophe.
I despise the sparrow, its innocent peep, its spindly legs.
We lost four to dark assailants. I wish the bird
would fly away and let the nestlings be. Those are my eggs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

D&C (Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep)

No, I do not want to feel
the slow passing,
cramping pain
for days. Remove
the tissue and fluid (now)
while I (lay me down
to) sleep
a dreamless hour,
wake heavy after,
medicated,
thirsty and unable to
drink because of nausea,
this involuntary purging.
(I pray the Lord
my soul to) Keep me
here to rest in this hospital
bed. (If I die)
Before I wake, I will imagine
pastel blankets, a bassinet.
Then (I pray, oh God),
the vital monitor,
TV tray, traces of blood
on sheets and (my soul)
the place I cradled,
the hollow womb
filled with no baby
(to take)
no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Baby Sister

When the baby comes back from heaven
she will need these plastic spoons. Lend her
my polka-dotted dress, ruby slippers—
they will fit, if she comes soon. By then,
I will be tall and (see my fingers?) seven,
big enough to help you dress her, tie her
curls in purple ribbon. If she’s a crier,
I will find her pacifier. Where is heaven?

If she has to stay away, then let’s go visit.
I can feed her carrots (they’re my favorite).
Even though they’re baby toys, I’ll play
and help her learn new things. Can we stay?
I packed my doll, a bib, a dish, these spoons.
I’m ready, Mommy. Will our ride come soon?

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Traveler

We have conceived you,
and though I am heavy
with you in my womb,
no one can see it,
your arms being carved,
heart beating hard
in its five millimeter seed.
Oh, child of mine, grow,
grow. I want to keep you,
but you are unable to be
possessed. I carry you
in me, traveler
from my right ovary. See the cyst
you left? This is the first
of the damage you’ll leave behind.
We’ll grow and gain together
and then you’ll leave,
maybe tomorrow,
forty weeks, sixty years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Sarah M. Wells is the author of Pruning Burning Bushes (Wipf and Stock, 2012) and a chapbook of poems Acquiesce (Finishing Line Press, 2009).  Her poems have been published in all sorts of places, and her essays appear in Ascent, Brevity, Relief, River Teeth, and elsewhere.  She blogs at www.sarahmwells.blogspot.com.

You came at me, with smiles galore
Bursting to share about your littlest one.
I took a deep breath and said a quick prayer.
I listened intently, focused on every word,
Smiling, laughing and celebrating with you
The news of his first smile.

Please try to remember…
I like to share too.

You caught me off guard
When the phone rang that night,
You said you just couldn’t wait to let someone know
Your littlest one rolled over, then laughed and cooed.
You couldn’t detect it, but it was there,
The tear in my eye, the catch in my voice as I ‘Hooray-ed” with you

Please try to remember…
I like to share too.

Simply scrolling through my posts and messages,
There it was, when I least expected it
The video clip, zoomed in on those sweet little toes,
The precious first steps, and off he goes.
I wrote my comment “How wonderfully exciting!”
Though I couldn’t read what I wrote
As my tears spilled over

Please try to remember…
I like to share too.

I run up to you, wanting to share
To tell you about my wonderful son…
Even though he is no longer here.

There are no smiles,
There is no laughter,
There are no cheers
Instead, I get awkward silence, when you see my tears

Please try to remember…
I like to share too.

I call you up, when you least expect it
To tell you how much love is in my heart,
To share with you how much I miss my son.
To tell you again and again about how wonderful he is.

There are no “Hoorays”
There is no laughter,
There are no cheers,
Instead there is awkward silence when you hear my tears.

Please try to remember…
I like to share too.

As you scroll through your posts and read all your messages,
You see my quote,
a picture,
a song.
I’m sharing my heart, I’m sharing my son.

There are no comments, nothing left to say
So instead I am simply “hidden” away.

Please try to remember….
I like to share too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Susan Guilfoyle is a wife, teacher and mother to 3 sons. 2 live with her here on earth, and her youngest son Aidan lives in Heaven. Aidan was diagnosed at 11 weeks in utero with Trisomy 18. Doctors encouraged them to terminate their pregnancy since it was very likely Aidan wouldn’t survive birth, or, if he did, he wouldn’t live long. They chose to continue their pregnancy and to make every moment they had with him count. They were introduced to a group called Be Not Afraid. This group helps families who receive a poor prenatal diagnosis, but chose to carry to term. Since Aidan’s death, Susan has joined this group as a board member, a peer minister, prayer sponsor, and she makes memory gifts for families and their babies. I am also organizing their 2nd annual 5K Run for Life, Love and Hope which will be October 12 in Concord North Carolina. The run helps to raise funds and awareness of this much needed organization. (see Benotafraid.net) Susan continues to write about her grief journey on her Caring Bridge journal.

An elegy for Sebastian Peter Garey. Born in silence on April 6, 2013

Our sixth month journey was clear sailing
Mama held you in safe harbor
Our arms anxiously awaited you
Our swelling hearts concurred

Then darkness fell, devastation swept through
Your tiny heart went silent
Shock, disbelief, heartbreak shook us
Like benign clouds gone violent

That you would be born in silence
Became our unwanted reality
Death’s cold, unrelenting fingers
Gripped with senseless brutality

Five hours we beheld you and witnessed your beauty
We ached when you had to depart
But your sweet angel face, tiny fingers and toes
Were marked indelibly onto our hearts

Losing you, sweet Sebastian, has fully consumed us
A torment of which there’s no escape
Our spirits lay waste, depleted, despondent
As a sobering future takes shape

Willing hands and tender heart touches
To parched souls have been like cool sips
How vital it is to have such connection
A needed buoy while coming to grips

Tears often flow, both bitter and sweet
Someday I suppose they’ll subside
Even then we shall continue speaking your name
Longing for the day when we all reunite

And what of others who face such loss?
These waters are treacherous and deep
Their chances of making it through seem bleak
Without a knowing shoulder on which to weep

In reaching out would we not feel
Agony rip into us anew
To relive the nightmare each and every time
We carry another family through?

But to not would hedge on selfish, perhaps cruel
How could we withhold empathy?
No, hand-in-hand we shall tend broken hearts
While honoring their small one’s legacy

Yes, there is anguish acknowledging that
Your potential shall never be known
But your lesson to us was to foster connection
From our hearts where your sweet love was sown

So for us, there will be no back to normal
A new normal we must undertake
We are the same family, yet forever are we changed
And shall carry on…for Sebastian’s sake

~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Jason Garey and his wife Sheila have been married for 23 years and are the proud parents of five living children and one stardust baby, Sebastian, who was born sleeping April 6, 2013. Shortly after their loss, they started a support community online which now has over 1500 members worldwide. They can be contacted at Facebook.com/FootprintsonOurHearts and on Twitter @FootprintHeart.

miscarriage is like
a death at sea
in the olden days,when there was no choice but
to throw the body
overboard,
and the
mourning family would stand at the prow,
watching the body

sink,

watching it
slip
away into the
depths of an endless ocean,
knowing they would

never

again pass by this way,
knowing there would

never

be a neat little plot of land
with a headstone

announcing to the world that

This Person Lived.

the heartache is similar,
the fear that,
having no physical reminders,
they will be

Forgotten.

but any person who has
ever
been a part of someone else,
whether in body
or in soul ,
can never be forgotten.
our very cells cry out the daily reminder,

saying

This Person Lived.

our lives become their headstones,
our eyes tell their stories when our lips cannot,
and our hearts pulse with the
memory of their influence,
no matter how

brief.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Bio: Amy Lutes is a writer and amateur photographer, artist, and musician living in Nashville, TN with her husband and two children. She also has four angel babies. She is currently working on her first novel, which she hopes will be published sometime next year.