by Erin Davis
Understandably devastated, Leslie and Peter left the hospital and went home, where my sister did what she hadn’t done in seven months: poured herself a stiff drink and lit one of her husband’s cigarettes. And then she cried for hours. She told me she had never known a pain like this and feared her heart would burst in her chest over the tragedy of it all.
But then something happened that startled not only Leslie but also the rest of her concerned family. Because of the ultrasounds, she had learned the baby’s gender. So, the would-be parents named the child, and Leslie began to bond with her in the precious time they had left together. She says she talked to Katrina, listened to and sang Queen and Bon Jovi (“The Show Must Go On” and “Bed of Roses” were her greatest hits, she says) and got a chance to say her goodbyes before they even really “met” in person. The ten days between Leslie’s learning that the baby would not survive and her going into natural labour gave her a chance to come to grips with what was happening and to prepare for the baby’s arrival.
Although every mother in this sad situation may have a different opinion, Leslie calls her doctor’s instructions to let the pregnancy and nature take their course the best advice she received during that tumultuous time. She feels that, had she gone into the hospital for tests and come home the next day with no baby, it would have been too much of a shock, and she really would have been, in her words, “screwed up.” Of course, the option of waiting out the birth of a child who has died is not always realistic; after or even during a two-week window (sometimes immediately upon discovery of the baby’s death), there can be concern about infections, blood clots or other possible complications. For my little sister, however, waiting was the best course of action. She related her situation to me, saying, “You would carry your dead child as long as you could—that’s what a mother does.” And I certainly get that. If I could have, I’d have never left that Ottawa funeral home sitting room. I would have sat at Lauren’s side for as long as they would let me, no question.
And so it was, on a frigid January night, in the same hospital where her mother and father had been given the worst news expectant parents can receive, Katrina made her arrival into the world, weighing just over two pounds. Leslie was taken to a private room, where the speakers that carried regular announcements reminding mothers that it was time to feed their babies, and so on, were mercifully turned off. A gentle and kind female Salvation Army officer, who came in at four o’clock in the morning, cleaned and dressed the little grey baby and took pictures of her for her parents, which, along with those clothes, would later be given to them as keepsakes to look at whenever they felt they were ready. (In some cases, a midwife or volunteer will describe the baby to the parents, if they’re reluctant to lay eyes on the child.) Although it was an option, now, twenty-five years later, Leslie has expressed second thoughts about the way she handled the short time between her baby’s stillbirth and when the child was taken away to prepare for burial.
Leslie says she regrets having chosen not to hold Katrina in her arms. Her reason at the time for not doing so? “I couldn’t,” she says. “I just couldn’t. I gave birth naturally; I still had to dilate and go through contractions, and although the pushing wasn’t that hard, I still had to endure all that, even though she was smaller. The whole birthing was exactly like the next three that I had,” she says.
“But now I wish I had held her, because I didn’t feel I was a good mother by choosing not to do that.” Her husband didn’t hold the baby either, but he did see her in the Salvation Army officer’s arms. Tiny Katrina was buried in a little white lace coffin in a plot near her paternal grandmother. As is the case with most stillbirths, I’m told, the funeral home did not charge for the infant’s coffin.
There was no definitive cause given for the death; in a case of what she termed, coincidentally, “chicken and egg,” Leslie says it was undetermined whether the placenta shut down, causing the baby’s death, or, because of the baby’s death, the placenta shut down, no longer needed to nourish the child.
Words of sympathy to parents of children who did not survive gestation or birth must be as carefully chosen as those delivered to other grieving parents. In this case, there are a few extra phrases to avoid, including “there must have been something wrong with her,” “at least you didn’t give birth to a child with deformities,” “God needed another angel,” or “it’s all for the best.” Once again, if people can’t think of anything to say that they’re 100 percent sure is going to be of comfort, it’s best just to offer a hug, a meal or quiet support. A loss is a loss is a loss. Whether it comes after seven months (in or outside of the uterus), seven years or seven decades, the death of a loved one with whom you’ve bonded is sure to cause heartache. I would hope that no one would ever consider that a tiny baby takes up any less space in a parent’s heart, or its loss—no matter how far along—causes any less pain.
One of the most important things that those who love and support mothers of miscarried and stillborn children must remember is never to suggest that the mother is somehow at fault. Avoid the dreaded “at leasts” and, as with any grieving parent, don’t hide from their pain or make them feel they should conceal it. Talk about their baby and their loss, but only when they want to. Realize that being around other infants or children could easily trigger their sadness, and the mere sight of a stroller can be enough to cause tears. Don’t assign what you feel is a reasonable amount of time to their healing process. For some, the loss of a baby is something they never “get over.” No amount of telling them they have an angel in heaven, or that they’ll be able to have more children, will take away the pain of their loss. As is the case when an older child dies, it’s the sudden end of the dreams—so achingly close to becoming reality—that hurts the most. The future has suddenly been erased; the road you were most surely going to be taking has disappeared.
My sister recalls returning to work after a relatively short time at home, taking her doctor’s advice to get back to some sense of a normal life and eschewing the maternity leave to which she was entitled. A few days into her return, she paid a visit to a weary co-worker in a nearby cubicle. When Leslie asked her what was wrong, the friend said that her baby had been up all night, and she was exhausted. Leslie responded, “I would do anything to hear a baby crying at night.” The woman was mortified at having said something that, while honest, was inadvertently insensitive to Leslie’s loss. To this day, that same (now former) co-worker says she has never forgotten their conversation, which, thankfully, did not diminish their closeness.
Happily, Leslie would soon be kept awake in the night by a baby’s cries too. In May of the same year that Katrina was born and lost, Leslie became pregnant with her second child. A son, Michael, arrived safely in February 1994, but not before Leslie went through worry and anxiety as she approached and then passed the twenty-eight-week mark of her second pregnancy. For this, and the two that followed, she was treated as high risk. And all three births went beautifully.
Just thirteen months after the death of so many dreams, a happier chapter began when Leslie and her then-husband became parents to a fair-haired, blue-eyed, healthy baby boy who was the spitting image of his Danish-blooded father. That boy turned twenty-three on February 11, 2017.
It was to be his last birthday.
Just two and a half months later, a raging house fire in the seemingly bucolic BC city of Kelowna appeared to have claimed Michael’s life. It took several months to obtain DNA confirmation of what both the RCMP and our family knew would be the sad truth: for reasons suspected, but as yet unconfirmed, Michael may have been the victim of a homicide. He may even have been killed before the fire was set.
As of this writing, there are many details that have yet to come out in the investigation, and it would be wrong to go much further into the sad story of Michael’s association with the darkest elements of society, in a city that has become known for its rampant drug use and fatalities. Those of us who know the circumstances of his life
and death believe Michael was targeted once he’d made the decision to get away from the people with whom he’d associated and to find a better life: he’d landed a job; was, by one account, cleaned up and no longer using drugs; and was seeking to become not only a good provider but also a positive role model for the young son who bears a jaw-dropping resemblance to his adoring dad. There are some lifestyles that are easy to slip into, with their promises of fast financial and material rewards, but desperately difficult to get out of. It appears that Michael found himself trapped in one of them.
As the investigation into Michael’s death slowly moved forward, our hearts ached for my sister and her family. I find myself in a position of such unlikely kinship, knowing far too well how Leslie feels to have lost an adult child.
Like me, my younger sister has a grandson who will be a living link to the child who’s gone. And now, living in the same province, they see each other with delightful regularity. Unlike me, Leslie has other children: a teenaged son and daughter who mourn their half-brother in their deal-with-it-later teenage kind of way, while giving Leslie and their father strength to go forward. I feel her pain in a way I wish I did not, but I am grateful at the very least to know the words to say (and sometimes, more importantly, not to say) to try to bring comfort and to make some sense of the unfathomable. Although the circumstances of our children’s deaths could not be more dissimilar, the hole caused by their leaving is a shared, literally familiar pain between two sisters.
Because Leslie is in the unusual and awful place of having lost two children, I posed a question that goes against one of the primary lessons I’ve learned in the grieving process: don’t compare one death to another. But I knew my sister would give me a pass and let me, so I asked Leslie if there were any differences or similarities in the grief she experienced as a mother twenty-four years apart.
She felt that Katrina’s death hardened her in a way that ensured her heart could not break again the same way it did when she found out her child had died in utero in 1993. Michael’s death was, of course, a world apart in circumstances. Baby Katrina had died completely innocently, while Michael—who certainly did not deserve a death sentence—had participated in a lifestyle that put him at a higher risk of dying than had he worked at a tire store (which he had, just a year earlier). Leslie said that with her first child’s death, she felt no anger, just overwhelming sadness; with Michael’s, there was a surplus of anger that eventually made way for sadness as well. In neither case was Leslie to blame but, of course, each child’s passing was accompanied by a long list of questions and more guilt than one person should ever bring to bear upon her own shoulders. I wish her every bit of the strength she’ll need for the future, which hopefully will bring if not closure (a word that comes up often in courtrooms on Dateline), then justice.
Through the years since our own child’s passing, I’ve been in awe of the many parents who find ways to channel their grief into pursuits that honour their children and their abbreviated lives. One woman, who came into our world after Lauren’s passing, shared with us her belief—one that turns out to be quite widespread—in the significance of dragonflies as they pertain to the afterlife. She had delved into the spiritual symbolism of these insects when searching for a way to try to ease the pain of a dear, close niece who had lost her husband just ten months after they wed. Little did Barbara Cassells know that, four years after giving her niece some dragonfly jewellery, her own belief in and connection to the power of these insects would be tested one hundredfold. Her heart heavier than ever, she found herself moved to craft thousands of the bugs—using colourful beads and parachute cord—to help herself, even as she endeavoured to lessen the suffering of others.
In 2014, the Cassells family had to say goodbye to their twenty-four-year-old son. Like our Lauren (also twenty-four when she left us, also born on the twenty-fourth day of the month), Nathan lived in Ottawa, where he attended university.
In January, while home with his family in Pickering, Ontario (he was due to return to university that very week), Nathan suffered a massive heart attack. It turns out that he had an undiagnosed enlarged heart. Because of his youth and strength, paramedics were able to revive him and get his heart started again, but he had been down too long. Barbara writes:
He was brain dead. The pain is still stabbing as I type this. He was rushed to the hospital. I followed in a police car. I will never ever forget that drive in rush-hour traffic, sirens blaring, tearing down the shoulder of the 401 [highway], watching the ambulance carrying my son speeding to the hospital, pulling into the ambulance bay and seeing them straddling my son, pounding his chest to keep his heart beating. Things no mother should ever see and can never be forgotten. They rushed him in and I was rushed into a private waiting room. Once he was stabilized, I was taken to see him. I saw the doctor checking his pupils, his reflexes, shaking his head. I knew. Only machines and drugs were keeping him alive.
He was taken to ICU. I sat with him most of the night. They told us it was only a matter of hours as he was bleeding out [hemorrhaging]. His [vital] numbers were dropping. I sang to him, lullabies I sang to him as a small child; I held his hand, told him over and over I loved him. His dad brought his sisters back first thing in the morning. His numbers continued to drop. It was literally a matter of a couple hours. I did the last thing I could for my boy. We said our goodbyes and I asked that the machines and drugs be turned off. I held my son in my arms and he was free.
He thanked me for that, you know. I saw a medium who knew of the brain death, of the tubes in his throat. Nathan said he did not like those and thanked me for letting him go.
The pain is as fresh as yesterday. . . . Do you sometimes look at what you have written in disbelief and wonder how this possibly could be true? It does take a toll. . . .
Yes, yes, yes. I cannot believe any of what’s happening in our lives either, Barbara.
She went on to tell me that it was when she was taken to her knees in grief at Nathan’s grave that a dragonfly visited her three times; Barbara notes that there was no body of water nearby. She says that’s when she remembered the story of the dragonfly and knew Nathan was telling her he was okay.
On the second anniversary of her son’s passing, Barbara began to make simple but significant key chains from beads, rings and the parachute cord that she feels evokes such an image of both strength and trust. In the first year of making them, Barbara gave away more than twelve hundred free of charge, many of them through bereaved family groups. She continues to do so to this day.
Barbara encloses each one in a tiny clear bag, accompanied by a printed story about the dragonfly (derived from an old fable, perhaps most famously adapted in Doris Stickney’s Water Bugs and Dragonflies: Explaining Death to Young Children). Barbara very kindly made some for us, personalized in memory of our Lauren, and I tailored some later for Leslie and Michael. In a lovely homonym that resonated with our lives, it’s the story of a beetle. The water beetle turns into a dragonfly and discovers a world more beautiful than she could ever have imagined! (It’s really worth looking up.)
Not unlike the dragonfly of that sweet story, the promise inherent in Nathan’s life was to be saluted in a couple of different ways after his passing too. Barbara shared with me that at his funeral she was able to place a diploma confirming his degree from the University of Ottawa on his casket, along with a mortarboard. “This, my son,” said Barbara, “is your convocation.” The entire church stood and applauded Nathan’s determination to graduate and make his mother even prouder than she already was. In June 2014, the university, which had hastily approved Nathan’s degree and made sure Barbara had it in time for the funeral, invited the family to their late son’s actual convocation.
We were seated in the very front row. As his name was called, his sisters went forward to receive his diploma. The entire hall of over 2,000 people rose as one and gave my boy the longest, loudest standing ovation I have heard in my entire life.
Oh, just imagine.<
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A mother’s grief is intertwined with pride and the feeling of so much promise unfulfilled; it is the horrendously deep and endless chest into which we daily fold and carefully lay our dreams and sorrows for the loss of so much brightness, so much hope. Oh, so much loss.
Arguably, Canada’s highest-profile bereaved mother is Margaret Trudeau. Not only does she have the distinction of being the wife of one of the country’s most famous prime ministers, Pierre Elliott Trudeau (Canada’s fifteenth), but she is also mother to its twenty-third prime minister, Justin Trudeau. Now in her early seventies, she is the author of four books in which, with consistency and disarming frankness, she details her battle with mental illness.
In 1971, twenty-two-year-old Margaret Sinclair became the young, pot-smoking flower-child bride to an older, intellectual and charismatic politician: a fifty-one-year-old man who gave a nation with all the personality of a bolt of red-plaid flannel a sexier, more worldly makeover. As a couple, the Trudeaus captured the imagination of the masses: some watched this intergenerational marriage with curiosity or skepticism; others viewed them as worthy successors in the world spotlight to the previous decade’s Kennedys (who’d been replaced by the staid and standard Johnsons and Nixons). Margaret drew large audiences—and even votes for her husband—as she occasionally campaigned with him. She tells of her idea for Pierre to toss aside his long-winded speeches, and of him suggesting she take the podium herself—which she did!
Margaret bore Pierre three sons, and the fact that two of them arrived on Christmas Day (two years apart) became a source of great God-complex humour aimed in a mostly good-natured manner at Monsieur Trudeau and his bride. Unbeknownst to most, behind the walls and doors of 24 Sussex Drive (which Mrs. Trudeau calls “the crown jewel in the federal penitentiary system”), this young mother was waging a battle against the demons of undiagnosed addiction and illness.