Stillbirth Quotes

My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself.

For in grief nothing "stays put." One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it? How often -- will it be for always? -- how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, "I never realized my loss till this moment"? The same leg is cut off time after time.

Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything. But no, that is not quite accurate. There is one place where her absence comes locally home to me, and it is a place I can't avoid. I mean my own body. It had such a different importance while it was the body of H.'s lover. Now it's like an empty house.

History has shown us time and time again that you don't have to know someone to love them with all your heart.

Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back -- to be sucked back -- into it?

If a mother is mourning not for what she has lost but for what her dead child has lost, it is a comfort to believe that the child has not lost the end for which it was created. And it is a comfort to believe that she herself, in losing her chief or only natural happiness, has not lost a greater thing, that she may still hope to "glorify God and enjoy Him forever." A comfort to the God-aimed, eternal spirit within her. But not to her motherhood. The specifically maternal happiness must be written off. Never, in any place or time, will she have her son on her knees, or bathe him, or tell him a story, or plan for his future, or see her grandchild.

Some people say it is a shame. Others even imply that it would have been better if the baby had never been created. But the short time I had with my child is precious to me. It is painful to me, but I still wouldn't wish it away. I prayed that God would bless us with a baby. Each child is a gift, and I am proud that we cooperated with God in the creation of a new soul for all eternity. Although not with me, my baby lives.

I am not functioning very well. Living with the knowledge that the baby is dead is painful. I feel so far away from you, God. I can only try to believe that you are sustaining me and guiding me through this. Please continue to stand by my side.

Her body accepted my brutal seed and took it to swell within, just as the patient earth accepts a falling fruit into its tender soil to cradle and nourish it to grow. Came a time, just springtime last, our infant child pushed through the fragile barrier of her womb. Her legs branched out, just as the wood branches out from these eternal trees around us; but she was not hardy as they. My wife groaned with blood and ceased to breathe. Aye!, a scornful eve that bred the kind of pain only a god can withstand.

Women often endure infertility, pregnancy, infant loss, miscarriages, and stillbirths in isolation, because while sadness is a socially palatable response to these often life-altering events, rage, frustration, jealousy, and guilt are not.

Queen Katherine, whose boys have all died, takes it patiently: that is to say, she suffers.

She mourns the stillbirth of anything that craves to be born. It doesn't have to be a child. It can be an artwork, an idea, or a miscarried love.

It wasn’t a return to a simpler life; it was a version of a simpler life. A version that replaced cholera, dysentery, freezing winters, lost harvests, frequent stillbirths, domestic violence and incest with underfloor heating, Sky Plus, solar panels and plump trust funds. It was just another decoration: wallpaper, not a return.

We look for self when self / is an itinerary, not the junction / point. — Chelsea Dingman, from “CONCEPTUAL DIAGRAM ILLUSTRATING HOW HUMANS ARE STRUCTURED AND FORMED; SEE ALSO ADDICTION (N) AND STILLBIRTH (N)”, Through a Small Ghost: Poems (University of Georgia Press (February 15, 2020)

We’ve all got our own stories behind what happens. You can’t say someone who’s had a miscarriage at ten weeks is not as important as somebody that’s had a stillbirth at term, or a baby that’s lived for two days,’ she says, placing the wooden box back in the cupboard alongside the others. ‘There’s so much that’s misunderstood about pregnancy loss. The perception that you can just try again makes that little life seem not as important.

Look for the lessons. A still birth, or a 'close call' may inform the would-be-parent that s/he is just not ready. Wait, think, weigh and ponder – to have a child is a great responsibility, and some people are not up to it.

Beyond the immediate risks to her health and the health of her baby, when a woman chooses c-section, she decreases the chance that she will be able to get pregnant again and increases the chance that if she does get pregnant, the pregnancy will occur outside the uterus, a situation that never results in a live baby and is life-threatening to the woman. Furthermore, the risk of having an unexplained stillbirth doubles when a woman has had a previous c-section.

She remembered her father's tears, her mother’s cold, white hand, and the perfect, tiny, porcelain face of her still-born baby brother.

Chained to a child or chained to a desk, a woman's value is contained within her (re)productive abilities. And when these abilities fail, through miscarriage, stillbirth, medical problems, infertility, or she opts out of the whole process, we don't know how to see her. We can't see her. (pg. 52)

A Japanese woman friend whose infant son died seven days into his life - no detectable reason - just the small breathing becoming nothing until it disappeared, told me that in Japan, there is a two-term word - “mizugo” - which translates loosely to “water children.” Children who did not live long enough to enter the world as we live in it. In Japan, there are rituals for mothers and families, practices and prayers for the water children. There are shrines where a person can visit and deliver words and love and offerings to the water children.

Death was a thief that always wore a mask. Accident, disease, stillbirths, old age, natural causes, war, murder. It existed in the shivering silence between tolls of a bell. It stole everything away while it left its mark, a dark knowledge that lingered at the back of smiling eyes, a hesitation between thought and action in times of danger, a heaviness that tunneled wormholes into happy memories.

Once home where she could cry, no tears came. Only thoughts weighted with sorrow. Never to initiate life. Never to feel life moving inside her. Never to bring forth life and nourish it with sustenance from her own body.

Come to think of it, I could not even think of a movie or TV shows where they had a baby die, with the sole exception of a couple of episodes of “Little House on the Prairie” and perhaps soaps. I was beginning to understand this was truly “the” unspeakable loss, “the” invisible loss, a loss so great nobody wanted to talk about it; a loss so inconceivable and so horrible that many people declared it as being the most overwhelmingly painful experience of their life; the death of which they were least prepared for. I was beginning to understand. My grief was colossal and all-encompassing. No loss is more difficult to accept and feels more unnatural and less understood

Her mother’s quiet disapproval and withdrawal was a death in itself, and Franckline’s despair at it was transmitted, she was sure of it, to the child. She transgressed twice, first by making the child, then by giving it her despair, the despair that left it unable to live.

We know about this. People are going to say a lot of idiot things to you.” She meant I should remember what it was like when she had the stillbirth and her first husband left her seven months later. Her voice came sort over the phone. She still sounds like herself, hasn’t picked up that Georgia molasses accent. “Just give them the bereavement face and say, ‘Bless your heart.’ Down here they teach girls to say that instead of bullshit. This is one of those times when people crowd in, nothing anyone says is the least comfort, but no one has the sense to know to shut up.

Thinking back, it was such a surreal day; when I wasn’t sitting or crying I slowly paced the house like a zombie, waiting and weeping. I did not watch TV, read or listen to the radio. I was just ‘there’, thinking too much. Our old life, the one that included and was planned around the son we were fervently awaiting, was over. Our new life, the one where we had to learn to live without him, had not yet begun. We were in limbo. He was gone but he was with us. Was I still pregnant? I surely looked pregnant, but my baby was no longer alive inside of me, and I carried him inside of me not because of courage or dedication, but because I had to.

I hate to say this, but I am still holding somewhat of a grudge at the people that could have come to the funeral but didn't, especially when they came up with some lame excuse how it was too sad or how they were afraid of cemeteries or whatever. No justification in the world could make up for you not being there when someone needs you. Period.

What my sister needed was not people urging her, as so many did, to get pregnant again as soon as possible, but acknowledgment of her loss and the violence that she experienced in that loss. She needed to know that this was not a failure or that she was a bad mother. She needed to be allowed to be not only sad but also, in her grief, to be angry. But as Gunther explained, "Society does not like to hear from us castaway mothers.

How speak about an art which no one recognizes as an art? I know that a great deal has already been written about the "art of the cinema". One can read about it most every day in the newspapers & the magazines. But it is not the art of the cinema which you will find discussed therein--it is rather dire, botched embryo as it now stands revealed before our eyes, the still-birth which was mangled in the womb by the obstetricians of art.

At her words, words of forgiveness from Rose, an honest and just woman, something broke inside of Wince. His tears began to flow. Age seemed to drift from his face like misty ghosts from a morning field. Katie lifted his chin and, holding back her own tears, looked into his eyes. "Thank you, Wince." Eve placed her free hand on his shoulder. "May we hold her now?" Wince nodded and gently released the baby into the waiting arms of her sisters. "You did the right thing, Wince." Rose gave Wince a hug. "And you can help us bury her after Wilson and the Tar Ponds City Police see if they can find anybody to lay charges against after all this time.

What my sister needed was not people urging her, as so many did, to get pregnant again as soon as possible, but acknowledgment of her loss and the violence that she experienced in that loss. She needed to know that this was not a failure or that she was a bad mother. She needed to be allowed to be not only sad but also, in her grief, to be angry. But as Gunther explained, 'Society does not like to hear from us castaway mothers.

There was a family there, too: a man and a woman expecting a child. Like most couples, they had first seen each other in a metempsy; that is, the interprocrustic network had mathematically determined their optimal compatibility and arranged for them to meet and fall in love by way of subliminal or explicit suggestions. Mostly, they showed up as love interests in each other’s metempsies a year before actually meeting, and were therefore conditioned into love at first sight. This particular couple, however, had decided within six months that they hated each other, and that whatever system had brought them together was therefore evil. Though they themselves could not adopt a monastic life free of metempsies like their neighbor, they wanted better for their child. They had thus resolved to have their child in the Bilge, in order to prevent it from being procrusted. A number of people had had this same idea over the years, and since such ideas were lethal to a fetus, it usually resulted in a stillbirth.

A greater love was always with me. Guiding me and waiting for me to surrender myself so that the glory of grief could bring me back to joy, where it greeted me once again.” - Just Be

Grief doesn't ever really leave. It becomes a part of your story, but it doesn't have to define it.

In Gethsemane, Jesus experienced the pains of a person dying of cancer. He experienced what it is like to be a queer kid who is constantly bullied. He experienced the birthing pains of every mother who ever lived or would live. He experienced the embarrassment of a gay boy having an erection at the sight of his school crush in the locker room. He experienced conversion therapy. He experienced rejection. He experienced the brutal physical and psychological attacks that trans women endure. He experienced the acid poured on a woman’s face for her defiance to the patriarchs. He experienced the fear, grief, and sorrow of every parent who has buried their child. He experienced sex slavery. He experienced his first period. He experienced menstruation, not simply from a vagina but from every pore of his body. He experienced rape. He experienced catcalls. He experienced hunger. He experienced disease. He experienced an ectopic pregnancy. He experienced an abortion. He experienced a miscarriage and stillbirth. He experienced the Holocaust. He experienced war – both the killing and being killed. He experienced internment camps. He experienced depression, anxiety, and suicide. He experienced sleeping on the street with the homeless. He experienced the slave master’s whip on his back and the noose around his neck. He knew the fear of every black mother who kissed her son before he left the house, praying he would return home safely. He experienced the effects of unrighteous dominion, corrupt politicians, and all manner of injustice. He experienced the migrant mother with no food or diapers for her baby as she desperately walked north in search of a better life. He experienced having his child taken away from him at the border due to “legal complications.” He experienced it all – every death, every cut, every tear, every pain, every sorrow, every bit of suffering imaginable and beyond imagination. He experienced an onslaught of suffering, which was so great that it took a god to bear it. He experienced death and came through the other side to show us the way.

The Physician's Pageant by Stewart Stafford Can aught endure the masquerade Of this world's blindfolded night? Melancholy's strike doth calm the raving, As babes roused from stillbirth in fledgling light. We know that the womb doth wander, Around the body, causing ills without care, A pessary's charm doth anchor it in place again, As bait doth lure the quarry to the snare. Burn sulfur, rosemary, lavender and juniper, Or foul dung smoke to cleanse tainted rural air. Light aromatic torches in the playhouse and market, Let vile odours and miasmas in these spaces beware. Though ragged contagion and death still doth assail, God willing, some blessed souls still shalt prevail. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved. 

They certainly meant to have more of us. There’s four years between me and Riona, six between Riona and Nessa. Those gaps contain seven failed pregnancies, each ending in miscarriage or stillbirth. The weight of all those missing children lays on my shoulders. I’m the eldest and the only son. The work of the Griffin men can only be done by me. I’m the one to carry on our name and legacy.

and saw that the cat who had slipped through the door earlier was stretching now, shiny eyes turned on Leonard. ‘It is an old local folk tale, Mr Gilbert, about three fairy children who many years ago crossed between the worlds. They emerged from the woods one day into the fields where the local farmers were burning stubble and were taken in by an elderly couple. From the start, there was something uncanny about them. They spoke a strange language, they left no footprints behind them when they walked, and it is said that at times their skin appeared almost to glow. ‘They were tolerated at first, but as things began to go wrong in the village – a failed crop, the stillbirth of a baby, the drowning of the butcher’s son – people started to look to the three strange children in their midst. Eventually, when the well ran dry, the villagers demanded that the couple hand them over. They refused and were banished from the village. ‘The family set up instead in a small stone croft by the river, and for a time they lived in peace. But when an illness came to the village, a mob was formed and one night, with torches lit, they marched upon the croft. The couple and the children clung together, surrounded, their fates seemingly inevitable. But just as the villagers began to close in, there came the eerie sound of a horn on the wind and a woman appeared from nowhere, a magnificent woman with long, gleaming hair and luminous skin. ‘The Fairy Queen had come to claim her children. And when she did, she cast a protection spell upon the house and land of the old couple in gratitude to them for protecting the prince and princesses of fairyland. ‘The bend of the river upon which Birchwood Manor now stands has been recognised ever since amongst locals as a place of safety. It is even said that there are those who can still see the fairy enchantment – that it appears to a lucky few as a light, high up in the attic window of the house.’ Leonard wanted to ask whether Lucy, with all of her evident learning and scientific reason, really believed that it was true – whether she thought that Edward had seen a light in the attic that night and that the house had protected him – but no matter how he rearranged the words in his mind, the question seemed impolite and certainly impolitic. Thankfully, Lucy seemed to have anticipated his line of thinking. ‘I believe in science, Mr Gilbert. But one of my first loves was natural history. The earth is ancient and it is vast and there is much that we do not yet comprehend. I refuse to accept that science and magic are opposed; they are both valid attempts to understand the way that our world works. And I have seen things, Mr Gilbert; I have dug things up from the earth and held them in my hand and felt things that our science cannot yet explain. The story of the Eldritch Children is a

I always thought, somehow, that death would follow the rules. This was supposed to be a beginning; now we are at an end.

But I can't figure out how to keep Reid alive in my heart without the ache. Will it always be like this? I have to believe it will get better. But then, do I want it to? Because when it gets better, what will be lost in the process? Already, I know that it will come with a price.

When a baby dies before they have a chance to create their own story, I think one of the biggest fears parents have is that they will disappear, be forgotten. It's up to those who knew them to spread their legacy, should that be something that's in their hearts to do.

I never know when I'll sense Reid's presence. It isn't in a toothbrush left behind or a frequently worn item of clothing. It's in the absences that I feel him most. It's everywhere that I had imagined he'd one day be. For me, he is more than a body. I knew the soul, not the flesh. When I look at photos of him, I miss him, but not in the same way I miss him when I look at photos of myself pregnant. He is a feeling. He is a feeling more than anything because of the simple fact that he died before he was born. Because he was stillborn. He is not defined by this, but the definition matters. I was meant to be his portal, the one that would lead him from his world into ours, but he left for another world, one altogether foreign to me.

Though he died before anyone got to know him, he still made an impact, is still loved, and that many are grieving his death. We are not alone in this loss.

What happens when the order of birth and death are disrupted? Stillbirth goes against the way most people think about life and death, and the timeline in which they occur. It's unsettling. When death takes a life before birth, is it a life? I don't know. I don't think there will ever be an answer that feels certain, or one that is right for everyone. But right here, right now, I wonder, is it really just a single breath of air that creates a life? And the absence of it that makes a death?

If this mother-child relationship, this identity, is ingrained in us at a genetic level, I just can't believe that death would simply sever it. Death wouldn't change anything at all. Except that one of us is here and the other there, and though the circumstances are altered, the connection will never be. The mother will always remain a mother; the child, her child.

An interrupted pregnancy is something personal and private. There is always a story behind the loss of a child. Let us not dismiss that story but listen to it with love and compassion.

Our culture still minimizes or runs from grief. This is especially true for losses through infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death. These types of losses are often invisible to others. They represent "disenfranchised grief" – grief that is not usually openly acknowledged, socially accepted, or publicly mourned.

The White Falcon by Stewart Stafford Trampled pomegranate underfoot, Fervent ascent of anatine steps, To the alabaster falcon's chamber, Viperine slither as a king's retinue. Roman breakage for a concubine, Stillbirths piled on a spiral staircase, Skewered tongues spitting smears, Spurious sparks fanned to an inferno. Denounced in the toxic public mind, Cast into a wolf pit by kangaroo court, Blood money to the Gallic executioner, Her headless ghost in a centuries' limbo. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

Unless you’ve been through it, you don’t grasp the powerful horror of that word. Stillbirth.

The abortions, the stillbirth inductions, the adoption plans, they would move into me, and I would hold on to tiny pieces of every person I cared for.

Our police contact says they’ve got three skeletons of babies, presumably stillbirths, out of the field so far. There’ll probably be more. They’ve been on that land since the eighties.

In this chapter we discuss this stillbirth of the Virginia School by focusing on two of the approaches developed in Virginia at that time. We label one the Coasian institutionalist approach (named after Ronald Coase). We see this particular methodology as a clear attempt to maintain the sort of Classical Liberal thought fashioned in an earlier period by Frank Knight. The other, which we denote as the Buchanan political economy approach (named for James Buchanan), also had a stronger commitment to Classical Liberal methodology than did the Stigler/Friedman/Director version rapidly spreading within the Chicago campus.

It wasn’t a return to a simpler life; it was a version of a simpler life. A version that replaced cholera, dysentery, freezing winters, lost harvests, frequent stillbirths, domestic violence, incest with underfloor heating, solar panels, and plump trust funds.

It was not until I did my family genogram as part of my Masters in Counseling Psychology training that I learned of some of the devastating, traumatic events that had impacted my family-of-origin. Many genograms my clients have done as part of their family systems exploration reveal sudden, unexpected deaths (including suicides); illness; stillbirths; divorce; abandonment; 'missing' relatives'; and profound financial setbacks and losses.

Women in Indian society were treated so well as to startle the Spaniards. Las Casas describes sex relations: Marriage laws are non-existent: men and women alike choose their mates and leave them as they please, without offense, jealousy or anger. They multiply in great abundance; pregnant women work to the last minute and give birth almost painlessly; up the next day, they bathe in the river and are as clean and healthy as before giving birth. If they tire of their men, they give themselves abortions with herbs that force stillbirths, covering their shameful parts with leaves or cotton cloth; although on the whole, Indian men and women look upon total nakedness with as much casualness as we look upon a man’s head or at his hands. The Indians, Las Casas says, have no religion, at least no temples. They live in large communal bell-shaped buildings, housing up to 600 people at one time … made of very strong wood and roofed with palm leaves…. They prize bird feathers of various colors, beads made of fishbones, and green and white stones with which they adorn their ears and lips, but they put no value on gold and other precious things. They lack all manner of commerce, neither buying nor selling, and rely exclusively on their natural environment for maintenance. They are extremely generous with their possessions and by the same token covet the possessions of their friends and expect the same degree of liberality….

When I first found out about Cerian’s deformity and made the choice to carry her to term, it felt like the destruction of my plans and hopes. It went against what I wanted. It limited me. But it was in this place of limitation that God showed me more of his love. Up until this point, the clamor of my desires and wishes had made me like a closed system centered in on myself, on my needs, flaws, and attributes. My life, even at times my religion, had revolved around achievement, reputation, and winning respect and approval from others.

Well, she’s told me very little about you,’ her grandmother replied because she’d survived a war, one stillbirth, a daughter who’d got knocked up at seventeen and ten years of a Labour government, and she didn’t take shit from anyone.

It's still alive, the stubborn little thing. What shall we do with it? Strangle it. We'll register it as a stillbirth. Don't wipe its face. Illegal babies aren't entitled to have their mucus removed.

It's still alive, the stubborn little thing. What shall we do with it? Strangle it. We]ll register it as a stillbirth. Don't wipe its face. Illegal babies aren't entitled to have their mucus removed.

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I was very upset at how his skin was peeling off so badly anywhere, but nobody gave it a second thought. They told me it was ‘normal’. Of course this was far from normal. There was no way they could have known about EB (Epidermolysis Bullosa) back then considering the rarity of the disorder. The only way to diagnose EB it is through a skin biopsy, and they would need to suspect EB to send it to the correct lab. It would not be until Nicky was born 21 months later that every Doctor imaginable was all of a sudden extremely interested in seeing photos of Alex. “Oh yeah” the dermatologist that diagnosed Nicky and Doctor McGuire at Stanford said to me unequivocally, “Alex for sure had EB.” How EB could have caused his demise though is still a mystery. Doctor Marinkovich at Stanford told me that many babies with EB are indeed stillborn, but could not tell me why. At this point however, in the delivery room, we were completely oblivious about EB and would remain so for nearly two years

We live in a country where nothing makes any difference.