grieving parents

The Birthday Of The Child Who Isn’t Alive

September 1, 2017 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

How do you parent a dead child?

Today is the 6th birthday of my girl. But she is not here on her special day. She is dead.

Every time I think about her being dead, it somehow seems unreal. My inconceivable reality. It’s as if I lack words to describe it but continuously find myself searching. Searching for words. Searching for her presence.

She’s changed my life.

In her 55 hours of life, she has left an imprint on my soul that by far exceeds the amount of time I’ve spent with her. The echo of the time spent by her side vibrates my whole existence.

The memory of my child is everywhere

The pictures we have of her are hanging prominently in our bedroom. I look at it the first thing when I wake up and the last thing before I go to sleep. Her small body never grew up. The memory of her tiny hands and feet is an image etched in my mind.

Her memory is tucked neatly in my heart and accompanies me through my daily activities. It no longer is that I think of her every day in a longing way. The imprint she left, however, has greatly shaped what has happened and what I’ve been creating in my life since her death. In the most positive way, I could have never even imagined as a newly bereaved mother.

The ritual of celebrating my child who is not physically present

Today, on her birthday I celebrate her. I let my heart lead the way. Every year, my heart needs something different.

The ritual of celebrating her helps to make it real. Most years this involves something that I take out to my friends and family, to help them remember A’Mya with me.

As easy as it is for the world to remember and celebrate a living human’s birthday, it’s challenging when the person is dead. As a society, we lack guidelines beyond the condolence cards at the time of death. With a dead child, people either forget after some years or are unsure of how to react appropriately and best support the bereaved parents.

How to celebrate your dead child

On her second birthday, I made this video in honour of her and as a present for her dad (Father’s Day in Australia, where her father is from, happens to be on the first Sunday in September). I watch it often. I watched it today with my daughter’s twin sister.

On her third birthday, I published my first book in her honour.

Today, on her sixth birthday, I was hoping to publish my fourth book. It got delayed because of health reasons. Instead, I decided to donate six copies of my books to an organization called Heartfelt in Australia. They took the pictures of our daughter during the short time she was alive, those that are hanging in our bedroom. They are my most prized possession.

I do it for myself

Whatever I do, I’m fully aware I do it for my own sake. I no longer expect people to mention her, I do it myself. Sharing what she means to me and how I feel is part of you who I am. I ask for what I need because people don’t necessarily anticipate correctly or fear doing the wrong thing.

On her birthday, as well as on the anniversary of her death, I ask people around me to be courageous and mention her name, write her name on my FB wall, light a candle, speak out her name, and write it on a piece of paper and the city from where they are writing it … or make a donation to the GPS charity in her memory.

I’m sure that I speak for many other bereaved parents when saying that what you do might be a small gesture for you but it holds a huge amount of meaning for my heart. My heart as A’Mya’s mother.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for caring.

In honour of A’Mya Mirica Hope.

In honour of all your children who will never be able to celebrate their birthdays here with you.

My Dear ‘Would –Be’ Child

September 7, 2016 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

Handlettered quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

You are my ‘would-be’ child, you who would have turned five (four | three) last week. The children from Kindergarten would have celebrated with you in the morning. The rest of our family would have visited in the afternoon. We would be singing Happy Birthday to you and you would have impatiently ripped open your presents and whooped in joy.

Excitement would be here, given that you just started Kindergarten two weeks ago. You would say ‘I’m a big girl now’. I would walk with you and your sister to Kindergarten every day and I’d pick you up before lunch. Your sister would fight with you over the toys you both want to play with at the very same time. Your Kindergarten teacher would have two sets of identical twins in her class this year! You and your sister would each talk to one of the twin boys that live just a few doors down our street, and soon you would walk to Kindergarten with them, holding hands. There would not be one Kindergarten child missing this year.

Both of you would want my attention, often probably at the same time. It wouldn’t always be easy. Both of you talking at the same time would fry my brain. Your sister would have someone to play with and talk to, someone to stay awake with or wake up in the morning. You would share your toys and books and – of course – also fight over them and throw them around in anger.

You would love sweets, especially lollies and Gummibears. I would hear you scream for ice cream and say ‘mmmmh’ when eating homemade chocolate cake. Your favorite meal would be spaghetti. If you could, you would start the day eating an ice cream and drinking cordial. On special occasions you’d be equally happy if Daddy would make you banana pancakes. At any chance you would want to lick the bowl when I was preparing a cake. But then you would dislike brushing teeth not matter the time of the day.

Mostly I would hug and kiss you, my child, I would hold your hand and feel your soft skin. I would brush your curly locks and bear your screams for me to stop because the brush pulls on the knots. You would want me to braid your hair or make pony or piggy tails.

OH, MY DEAR ‘WOULD-BE’ CHILD…

I would do anything to have sleepless nights, difficult discussions or an angry face telling me to go away if I could…
Anything to have you kick me at night sleeping in the same bed when you’re sick or scared of the monsters under your bed…
Anything to see you learn to ride your bike, even if it meant you’d fall and many times I’d pick you up and I’d sooth your bruises…

Sadly you’re my would-be child, the one that lives in my heart.
The would-be five year old but forever three days old.
Even if you’re not seen by the world out there, you are with me every day, in my heart, in my thoughts, in my dreams, in my sleepless nights, in my quite moments.

You belong to me as I belong to you.
You are part of me and I am part of you.

Your Mama, always.

NOTE:

* I’ve previously heard that some psychologists recommend bereaved parents ‘do not grow up your child in your imagination’. My personal experience and that as a grief counsellor is that it is absolutely normal and common to do so. As painful as those ‘would-be’ thoughts can be, they are also a normal way for parents to live out their dreams and hopes of a life that was cut short, the would-be life of their child.
“It is normal for parents to report that they having an ongoing relationship with their child through their memories and mental life.” (Worden J.W. 2002)

This article was first published September 7, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Dear Child Of Mine

September 2, 2015 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

Today, 4 years ago was the day you lived.

You were born yesterday 4 years ago – and you passed on, tomorrow 4 years ago.

It’s been 4 years, not a long time and still, quite some time has passed.

Certain things have changed – and some have not.

I miss you – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change.

Those we love are those we miss when they are no longer around. This is normal.

Yesterday, as we celebrated you and your sister’s birthday she said: “I want Amya! I want my twin…” It came out of nowhere, what seemed to me out-of-context because at that moment we were not talking about you. She continued asking: “Did Amya want to grow up with me?”

I looked at your father, saying: “What do I say?” I translated what your sister had said, so he would understand in his language and he responded: “Yes, I think she would have if she could.”

We will honour and remember you – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change.
Those we love are those we honour and remember when they are no longer around. This is normal.

Your sister has just grasped the concept of impermanence – she cried tears of sadness for 30 minutes after her birthday party was over this past Saturday. Your sister opened a present a bought in memory of you, a book about a girl who lost her name. I said: “I think Amya is glad if you keep the book and enjoy it for her.” She responded: “Yes, Amya can’t use the book where she is now…”

We celebrate your memory – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change. Those we love are those whose memory we celebrate when they are no longer around. This is normal. Nowadays, butterflies have become “Greetings from Amya”. How lucky are we to have a garden (on earth) with flowers and plants to attract lots of your greetings.

You are part of our lives – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change.
Those we love remain part of our lives, even when they are no longer around. This is normal. This is normal after loss.

We miss you
We honour and remember you
We celebrate your memory
You are part of our lives
And your physical impermanence won’t change that.
It doesn’t have to change.

Thank you Amya – my Hope – for teaching me so much about life and death, grief and grieving, love and loss.

It’s been 4 years
Since I held you
In my arms
The only time, my child

(Author’s Note: The book ‘Grieving Parents: Surviving Loss as a Couple’ has just been released in its German translation (‘Trauernde Eltern: Wie ein Paar den Verlust eines Kindes überlebt’). This book has been writing in honour and memory of both of my daughters.)

This article was first published September 2, 2015 in Still Standing Magazine.

Being A Better Parent After Loss?

December 3, 2014 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

mother and child — Image from Nathalie Himmelrich’s personal archive (Photo by Tina Steinauer)

Not me.

I became a mother and then a bereaved mother 3 days later. Raising a twinless twin meant ‘learning to be a new mother’ at the same time as ‘learning to be the mother of a dead child’.

Motherhood came with sleepless nights, challenging start with breastfeeding, organizing a funeral, and turned into a constant feeling of overwhelm, anxiety and restlessness, mixed with overflowing love, cuddles and giggles.

Now, three years later I am parenting a strong-willed toddler, which brings me to the edge of patience on an hourly basis. She’s challenging me with the reoccurring, “No,” not wanting to brush teeth, put on jackets on cold winter mornings or get dressed at all. These scenarios, for the bereaved mother without children, might be met with statements like “I wish if only I had those challenges…”

Having held my 3-days-old daughter in my arms as she drew her last breath, I know what it means to lose her. I know what it means to stand in the fire of heart-breaking grief. The missing of my child is etched in my bare skin.

Grief scratched my soul so deeply, it left me wounded in a way that hasn’t just left a permanent scar, but a permanent sore wound which impacts my relationship with my living daughter. Even though her humour showers me with healing light, I am fearful something might happen to her. I jump when I see as much as an appearance of a potential dangerous situation, even when there isn’t really something to fear.

I do enjoy motherhood and I love my living daughter to bits. It does not need much imagination to get a sense of what her identical twin sister would have looked like. I am totally aware of what I don’t have and I do appreciate what I have.

I savour the moments I have and tell my daughter how much I love her every day, uncountable times. She might get therapy later for being smothered with love. I see twin parents being challenged with the load of two and I know what it means not having what they have, even if it’s dealing with the challenges. But knowing something they are not aware of does not make me a better mother.

The potential of loss is something I’m painfully aware of, in every waking moment. I am definitely experiencing motherhood deeply and consciously. I love smelling Ananda Mae’s hair and study her ringlets as she sits in deep concentration of Barney. Having said all of that, I’d rather be blissfully unaware and have two heads with ringlets to smell and comb through in the bath at night, even with the double crying of water and soap in their eyes.

I feel self-judgment as I lose patience in the moments of an extroverted 3-year old testing the boundaries. “No wonder… you wouldn’t have been able to handle twins” do I hear the haunting critical narrator in the cinema of my mind. The expectation to be always calm and poised is far-fetched and totally surreal, I know. And still: “I have experienced my daughter dying in my arms, sure enough, I should make sure I enjoy EVERY moment I have with her sister…”

And yes, I’m a master at being hard on myself.

I don’t have any comparison to being a mother without the experience of the loss. So really, who am I to say I would have been a better mother before or without the loss? It’s just a feeling, one that I can never get proof for.

There are no ‘Sliding Doors’…

Loss has made me acutely aware of the fragility of life. I don’t take things for granted. I enjoy deeply. I’ve seen eye to eye with death. I know what my purpose is with my daughter. Having said all of this, I’m human. I lose my temper. I scream when it all gets too much. That threshold of what I can bear has moved closer since I’ve wrapped my lifeless daughter on a bed of roses for her last journey.

I am just a mother.
Like you.
Happy and elated in one moment.
Lost and helpless at what how to react to my child in another moment.

Simply human – but not simple.

This article was first published December 3, 2014 in Still Standing Magazine.

Surviving Child Loss As a Couple

October 11, 2014 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

Grieving Parents: Surviving Loss as a Couple

The loss of a child is without any doubt one of the most challenging experiences I have gone through in my life both personally and in my relationship.

The most important aspect I have found through my survey of more than a hundred people and through interviewing parents one-on-one are:

Understanding different ways of grieving
Accepting the differences
Allowing each other time to grieve.

The 5 steps to survive your loss as a couple

Grief and death are topics that make a lot of people uncomfortable. Since you and I have both experienced the loss of a child, we know this from personal experience. You as a couple have a common source for your experience of loss. Nonetheless, even though the source may be the same, the experience itself can be very different. When, where, and how the experience differs is the point at which you need to keep working with each other to stay connected.

The main causes for stress in the relationship post-loss are that couples:

A. Have different grieving styles and are unaware of them

B. Don’t recognize, don’t understand, or don’t accept each other’s style

C. Think / feel the other is not grieving properly

D. Expect the other to grieve like they do.

Overview

Step 1 ALLOWING
Step 2 AWARENESS
Step 3 ACKNOWLEDGING
Step 4 ADJUSTING
Step 5 ABSORBING & INTEGRATING

Step 1: Allowing

The first step is all about the initial response to the loss of your child. You are in shock, which emotionally protects you from being too overwhelmed by the loss. You are unconscious to most of what is happening to you and around you. Your life’s energy is focused on giving you the best support in dealing with this shock by experiencing numbness and disbelief. What is required at this step is to allow yourself to be taken care of by your friends and family and allowing your experience to unfold.

Step 2: Awareness

In the second step you become more aware and conscious of what has happened and try to deal with the irrevocable reality of death. You grieve but you don’t know what to do about it. You are becoming aware of the emotions like anger, sadness, guilt, and anxiety while also experiencing physical, behavioural, and cognitive symptoms as part of your suffering.

Step 3: Acknowledging

As time goes by and as you move to step three you are aware of how you process the loss and actively try to find ways to progress through it. This is most likely the time for you to pick up books and talk to other bereaved parents. You are starting to take steps towards your new life where the loss is still important but moves away from the centre of your life.

Step 4: Adjusting

In the fourth step, you begin to integrate your child’s memory into your life. Grief has become a habitual reaction to triggers. You have become familiar with it and are able to move with it. As recovery takes place, you are better able to accept the loss. You invest energy to create your New Normal life. You still feel the loss but that feeling becomes part of your more typical feelings and experiences.

Step 5: Absorbing and integrating

The fifth step guides you in (totally) integrating the loss in your life. You reflect on it. You recognize its gift in your life and are grateful for the evolution in your life since. The experience of gratitude and the understanding of the gifts from your loss prevail over the sadness. The loss has found an integrated place in your life and you focus on other areas of your life and the future ahead.

Relationships can be challenging without loss. It is my personal opinion that we enter any relationship to grow: emotionally and spiritually. Having said this, we definitely did not choose to add the loss of a child to our ‘personal growth to-do list’.

To read more about this, check out the book Grieving Parents: Surviving Loss As A Couple.

It’s 3 Years Today That I Held You In My Arms: The First, The Last, The Only Time

September 3, 2014 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

grief quote — Grief Quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

At the beginning of this week I noticed the date of my article for Still Standing Magazine: September 3^rd. This day, 3 years ago, I held my twin girls in my arms for the first, last and only time – together, alive and in my arms, where they belonged. Holding them together was my vision all the along the pregnancy.

Holding her as she passed away, was not.

Today, September 1^st, as I’m writing this, it is their birthday. It is a day with mixed feelings for me. My husband and I went into Ananda Mae’s bedroom this morning and sang ‘Happy Birthday to you’ with both their names. My daughter said: “No, it’s MY birthday.”
Understanding the self-focused world of a 3-year-old toddler I replied: “Oh, yes, sweetie, and it’s also Amya’s birthday but you get all the presents.”

When I’m with Ananda Mae, she draws all the attention. Still, there are moments I have time to reminisce what it would be like to have the two girls. It’s not hard to conjure this image with identical twins… I don’t have to think what she would look like, how she would talk, sing, smile or cry. I have a living example right in front of me, every day. I am grateful for what I have, at the same time there is sadness for what is lost.

Now, as I write these words, my thoughts go back in time: when I held her in my arms. She was so tiny, with slender limbs and dark short hair. She had extremely long finger and toes, just like her sister and just like me. She lay there in my right arm and I watched her every breath. Her heart was beating fast. I held her on my bare skin and felt her warm skin on mine. I breathed in her scent and imprinted my memory with her facial features, her long lashes and red lips. She didn’t move much but then she opened her eyes and stretched out her arm as if to touch my face.

It was the first, the last and only time I held her.

I don’t know how mothers experience the loss of one child and return home with empty arms. I can read about it, hear you talk about your experience and empathize with you. The truth however is that the loss of one twin and the two miscarriages is the only personally experienced reference of child loss that I have.

In life I choose my focus.

Sometimes I think: “You should be happy to have one, others have no children.”

I am happy.

I focus on what I have and what I’m grateful for.

Yet, life is a coin with two sides.

Sometimes, the coin flips unexpectedly and there is a sting of sadness as I see a twin stroller coming my way or seeing a mother preparing for the arrival of her baby. The waves of sadness come and go. That is life. With or without loss.

When I can, I choose my time to turn to the coin and spend conscious time in reflection. And that is today, that is now.

Dear Amya,
You are my child.
You are Ananda Mae’s sister and always will be.
For some, you are a memory.
For others, you are just part of a story.
You don’t get any presents or mentions on birthday cards.
But you live in our hearts and memory forevermore.
Happy Birthday – Happy birth-into-the-afterlife Day
My child, I miss your physical presence in our lives.
Mum

This article was first published on September 3, 2014 in Still Standing Magazine.