Remembering

On this day, 44 years ago, our family's
first son, Aaron, was stillborn. We were working with the Ugandan church at
the time. I had remained in Uganda, while my wife had returned home pregnant to have the baby. I had travelled out to Kenya to stay with friends we had come to
know during our time in Africa, before beginning my journey home for the
birth.  


I still recall receiving the telegram conveying the news, handed to be by my
hosts. As I tried to take in the significance of the words, - I'd never
heard the word stillborn before -they hugged me and said "We are so sorry
for your loss. We have no words to express how we feel but be assured of our love and prayers".


The next few weeks introduced me to an area of life for which few people are
prepared. How to talk to some one who had lost a child. We appear to have
developed no appropriate language to engage with the subject. Even the
expression, "You had a stillbirth", feels clinical, focusing on the medical
event rather than acknowledging the life lost.


Many people offered us support, some trying to be positive -reflecting that
we were still young and could try again for another child.  Others, less
well equipped perhaps, offered commiserations on "our wee accident", while a few even crossed the road when they saw us in order not to have to engage in conversation on such a taboo subject. That was over 4 decades ago, but the taboo remains. We don't like to talk about death. So - why not focus on
life?


Here's a few personal reflections on what you might do in these
circumstances. Start by saying you are sorry that for the loss of the baby.
If you know the person well, maybe ask did they have a name for the baby? If
you are comfortable, enquire whether they got to see the baby and hold it.
Remember above all else that a baby was expected, carried with love and
delivered. There has been life. Celebrate it.