the villager
Last night I planned to attend a PTA meeting, a place where I embrace my son's elementary school, embrace the community of parents and teachers who help raise my son and his peers. Instead I had a sudden change in plans. That morning I received an email from a mother of my son's classmate. Her newborn baby passed away after 37 hours of living and breathing in her parent's arms. I felt heartbroken and devastated for the parents and their two living young sons. This mother had told me months ago that her daughter in utero had a rare medical condition and would not survive a full day after birth. So I was not shocked to receive the baby's obituary and funeral information, but nevertheless, still deeply saddened by their loss and struck by the uncertainty of life and death.
I attended the visitation last night and entered their home with a large bag of hot meals for the family. The grieving mother held her deceased daughter's tiny body in her arms as spiritual songs were sung and tears were shed. Holding the mother's shoulder was a sponsor from Isaiah's Promise, an organization of women who also lost their children to health conditions upon birth. The family gathered in the living room of their home and spoke of gratitude for their daughter's 37 hours of life. They shared joyfulness for her sweet temperament during her only bath, five feedings, and three diaper changes. The family remained present, physically and emotionally, witnessing in awe their daughter's short life.
The grieving family and I come from different cultural and faith traditions, both beautifully rich and meaningful traditions. As I processed my grief, I also took time to feel gratitude for the similarities and differences in the grieving rituals of cultures and traditions around the world. The grieving family were well supported by their faith community and many of their community members attended the service. They sang spiritual songs calling on their Holy to love, protect, and comfort them during their time of grief. They cried, they hugged, they were present for each other. They were finding a way to live through the uncertainties of life and death. They were each other's village.
As I prepared meals for the family, I reflected on baby loss and the fears and discomfort associated with talking, listening, and remaining present for mothers experiencing loss. As I prepared foods, I wondered if they would prefer extra cheese, a reusable container, warm food or cold food, and I found my anxiety increasing. I took a moment to pause and recognize where this anxiety, my fears, were coming from. I was looking for a way to take away pain, I was looking for a way to appease discomfort, a way to control an experience so far from our control. And when I looked even deeper, my anxiety was a reflection of my own pain and my own discomfort, not theirs. A grieving family feels their pain, a healthy griever leans in to their discomfort, allowing their body and heart to ache, to feel the pain, to sob. In those moments of aching, that is where you can find what is most sacred. And that is what this grieving family was able to do last night as they sang songs with their village.
Losing a baby, whether the baby is being held in your arms or in utero, is a unique type of loss. A devastating loss, an uncertain loss, a fearful loss. A loss of hope. A loss of control. Talking about baby loss feels uncomfortable, feels unnatural, feels uncertain. Maybe it feels this way because on a deeper level we are uncomfortable admitting we are not in control of life and death. But we are not. Humans we do not possess the ability to control life and death. We might believe if we engage in certain behaviors then we will be guaranteed certain outcomes. But we are not in control, nor were we meant to be.
In my own experience with baby loss, I struggled to accept my powerlessness. I searched for control, searched for reasons some babies don't survive. I blamed everything and everyone that I could think of, especially myself. This type of self-blame and shame got me nowhere fast. I found myself isolating because that made it easier to cope with my shame and fears. But eventually I learned to accept my losses, I learned to accept my powerlessness. I accepted that no one is fully in control of their pregnancies, babies, and children. I accepted that some babies survive and some do not. And I accepted mothers are courageous, I was courageous, and I needed to courageously cope with the unknown.
But I needed a village. And I was missing my village when I isolated myself. Eventually, I found some fellow grieving mothers also navigating the secret society of baby loss. They became my village. I found an acupuncturist, a yoga instructor, a reiki practitioner, and a therapist who also became my village. They understood the need for a strong and courageous village.
My late paternal grandmother Meenakshi, spent her life in a rural village of South India. Baby loss was so common to her and her village, they prepared for possible baby loss by engaging in spiritual rituals and traditions to cope with their grief and fears. Meenakshi gave birth to at least ten babies and raised six into healthy adults. I was never able to meet my grandmother, she passed before my parents met, but I am in awe of her and the women of villages who courageously cope with baby loss. Through visualizations during acupuncture sessions, I embraced my roots as an ancestor of villagers, and the imagery was so powerful to my healing.
Then after what felt like a lifetime, and after declaring we were ready to move on to another chapter of our lives, the chapter that had nothing to do with attempting pregnancy. Somehow, someway, unknown to us, and truly out of our control, we learned of our rainbow baby, the baby who came after the storm. We named him after a mountain in Tibet, a mountain best known for the physical, emotional, and spiritual pilgrimage where climbers eventually experience Zen, allowing for greater peace and harmony.
So as I sit with my neighbor, a fellow mother and member of my village. I cry with her and embrace our powerlessness and our discomfort with relinquishing control over life and death. And I experience gratitude and awe at my pilgrimage towards Zen. And I go home and kiss him, and remain present for my village members unable to kiss their babies goodnight.
I attended the visitation last night and entered their home with a large bag of hot meals for the family. The grieving mother held her deceased daughter's tiny body in her arms as spiritual songs were sung and tears were shed. Holding the mother's shoulder was a sponsor from Isaiah's Promise, an organization of women who also lost their children to health conditions upon birth. The family gathered in the living room of their home and spoke of gratitude for their daughter's 37 hours of life. They shared joyfulness for her sweet temperament during her only bath, five feedings, and three diaper changes. The family remained present, physically and emotionally, witnessing in awe their daughter's short life.
The grieving family and I come from different cultural and faith traditions, both beautifully rich and meaningful traditions. As I processed my grief, I also took time to feel gratitude for the similarities and differences in the grieving rituals of cultures and traditions around the world. The grieving family were well supported by their faith community and many of their community members attended the service. They sang spiritual songs calling on their Holy to love, protect, and comfort them during their time of grief. They cried, they hugged, they were present for each other. They were finding a way to live through the uncertainties of life and death. They were each other's village.
As I prepared meals for the family, I reflected on baby loss and the fears and discomfort associated with talking, listening, and remaining present for mothers experiencing loss. As I prepared foods, I wondered if they would prefer extra cheese, a reusable container, warm food or cold food, and I found my anxiety increasing. I took a moment to pause and recognize where this anxiety, my fears, were coming from. I was looking for a way to take away pain, I was looking for a way to appease discomfort, a way to control an experience so far from our control. And when I looked even deeper, my anxiety was a reflection of my own pain and my own discomfort, not theirs. A grieving family feels their pain, a healthy griever leans in to their discomfort, allowing their body and heart to ache, to feel the pain, to sob. In those moments of aching, that is where you can find what is most sacred. And that is what this grieving family was able to do last night as they sang songs with their village.
Losing a baby, whether the baby is being held in your arms or in utero, is a unique type of loss. A devastating loss, an uncertain loss, a fearful loss. A loss of hope. A loss of control. Talking about baby loss feels uncomfortable, feels unnatural, feels uncertain. Maybe it feels this way because on a deeper level we are uncomfortable admitting we are not in control of life and death. But we are not. Humans we do not possess the ability to control life and death. We might believe if we engage in certain behaviors then we will be guaranteed certain outcomes. But we are not in control, nor were we meant to be.
In my own experience with baby loss, I struggled to accept my powerlessness. I searched for control, searched for reasons some babies don't survive. I blamed everything and everyone that I could think of, especially myself. This type of self-blame and shame got me nowhere fast. I found myself isolating because that made it easier to cope with my shame and fears. But eventually I learned to accept my losses, I learned to accept my powerlessness. I accepted that no one is fully in control of their pregnancies, babies, and children. I accepted that some babies survive and some do not. And I accepted mothers are courageous, I was courageous, and I needed to courageously cope with the unknown.
But I needed a village. And I was missing my village when I isolated myself. Eventually, I found some fellow grieving mothers also navigating the secret society of baby loss. They became my village. I found an acupuncturist, a yoga instructor, a reiki practitioner, and a therapist who also became my village. They understood the need for a strong and courageous village.
My late paternal grandmother Meenakshi, spent her life in a rural village of South India. Baby loss was so common to her and her village, they prepared for possible baby loss by engaging in spiritual rituals and traditions to cope with their grief and fears. Meenakshi gave birth to at least ten babies and raised six into healthy adults. I was never able to meet my grandmother, she passed before my parents met, but I am in awe of her and the women of villages who courageously cope with baby loss. Through visualizations during acupuncture sessions, I embraced my roots as an ancestor of villagers, and the imagery was so powerful to my healing.
Then after what felt like a lifetime, and after declaring we were ready to move on to another chapter of our lives, the chapter that had nothing to do with attempting pregnancy. Somehow, someway, unknown to us, and truly out of our control, we learned of our rainbow baby, the baby who came after the storm. We named him after a mountain in Tibet, a mountain best known for the physical, emotional, and spiritual pilgrimage where climbers eventually experience Zen, allowing for greater peace and harmony.
So as I sit with my neighbor, a fellow mother and member of my village. I cry with her and embrace our powerlessness and our discomfort with relinquishing control over life and death. And I experience gratitude and awe at my pilgrimage towards Zen. And I go home and kiss him, and remain present for my village members unable to kiss their babies goodnight.
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