This is a chain letter

(photo credit Hannah Olinger)

This is a chain letter. Send it to 10 friends and you will be blessed with good luck. 

This is a chain letter. If you are receiving it, you are already a member of the unluckiest club in the world, so even if you don’t pass it on, your luck can’t get any worse. 

This is a chain letter. It was started at the beginning of time by the first person whose baby died, when they met the second person whose baby died, and by sharing their grief and sorrow, both the sender and the recipient felt less alone. 

Before my daughter, Olivia, died, I had never heard of anyone else whose baby died. Or maybe I had, but I blocked it from my mind. After Olivia died, people began to gingerly approach me with phrases like “This actually happened last month/last year/last week to my sister/neighbor/cousin, do you want me to put you in touch?” And I said yes, because I was desperate to meet someone who had been through this hell and survived, desperate to see a messenger from the future who had some wisdom to share, or at least who was able to speak two sentences without sobbing. Of course, none of the other grieving parents had that one simple tip for to how to make the death of a baby less devastating. They could only listen to my story and tell me theirs. 

The first version of a baby loss chain letter that I encountered was started by the writer Elizabeth McCracken, in the form of a memoir of her son’s stillbirth: “An exact replica of a figment of my imagination.” It was shared with me by the first baby loss parent I spoke to in the weeks after Olivia’s death. An old friend of my partner from college, she lived across the country and we had never met in person. As soon as she learned that we had recently joined the terrible club of which she was already a member, she mailed a care package that included a heartfelt letter, a message from another baby loss parent, a non-grief-related book, and McCracken’s book. Reading the letters and the book was the first time since my daughter’s death that I felt something that could be described as relief, a temporary softening of the pain. Nothing was solved, but suddenly I wasn’t the only unlucky one. This was something that happened, and people lived through it. They experienced the same anguish over minor social interactions and baby shower invitations –I wasn’t a monster! And, vitally, they showed me that it was possible to somehow press on into the daunting months and years ahead of living without my beloved child.

A few months after Olivia’s death, I learned that a local couple I knew only in passing had recently lost their first child. I was heartbroken for them, but for the first time in months, I felt useful. I needed to stop wallowing in my own sorrow for long enough to go welcome new members to this shitty club. It was time to let go of my dog-eared copy of the McCracken book. Someone else needed it more than I did now. I arrived at their house with a hot dinner to share along with my story, and the book. It was my turn to pass on the chain letter, and true to its promise, by passing it on I received more in return. The couple had their own book recommendations to share, and we’ve since become close friends. Even when we are discussing what seems like small talk on the surface, running below is the constant current of understanding that every part of our lives is touched by grief. It is such a relief not to have to explain how Olivia’s brief life intersects with my present experiences, not out of avoidance but because the person I am talking to simply knows.  

Participating in Glow either by writing, commenting, or just reading along creates more links in the chain. “I see you.” “I feel the same way.” “Me, too.” “What was her name?”

Each time I share my daughter’s story with other grieving parents, some of the pain of her loss finds a purpose. If someone who hadn’t lost a child had told me that, I would hiss back that there is no “reason” for her death and certainly no silver lining. But that’s not exactly what I mean here. It’s more that once we’ve found ourselves in this pit of despair, we may as well try to ease the burden of the others who are stuck in the pit with us, and we might lessen our own suffering in the process. 

You are not alone. 

Pass it on.