I knew it would happen - I was waiting for it last night, but last night it wasn't so bad. Since Anja died, nearly four years ago, the big things her sister goes through (birthdays, first day of school, first lost tooth, etc.) have been so incredibly bittersweet: the joy of seeing my eldest daughter grow, change, experience new things; the normal nostalgia and wistfulness associated with that joy and the passage of time; and the horrible, wrenching grief of knowing her baby sister will never do any of the things she does: never start school, never lose a tooth, never ride a bike for the first time, etc. Today is E's first day of grade 2. I dropped her off and got in my car to go to work, where I had to give an orientation session to new students, and I cried all the way there. I thought I was going to be ok. Last night I sat up late on the couch probing at the edges of the hurt: how bad was it? How would it be this year? It didn't seem so bad. It almost seemed like I was only thinking about things, not feeling them. Well, I felt them today. It still surprises me. The depth of the grief. And even more so, the way I question it, the way I have internalized all those 'aren't you over it yets' around me, so that I question my own feelings, my own reactions and their depth. Last night I thought I was being dramatic, trying to decide how much I would let it hurt me this year: today I understand that there is no deciding - it hurts however much it hurts, and sometimes that is a lot, and sometimes, now, after so much time, it doesn't hurt as much, but however much it hurts, whenever it hurts, it is a real hurt. I love you baby girl. I miss you.

You said it so much better than I just tried to in my post in the For One and All forum… I was completely caught off guard by the depth of my grief today when I found out a former coworker's baby was stillborn last week.

Yeah, it hurts, and it's real.

Thinking of you and Anja tonight,

Oh JLD, I am so sorry. I was saying a small speech as a birthday wish to my son two weekends ago at his birthday party and I started choking up and crying there and then in front of everyone because I was so thrilled he was six years old but so broken that Zia would never be six or anything for that matter. I would never get to get a themed birthday cake or balloons or gifts. The hurt creeps up and consumes us sometimes worse than others.

Yesterday was our son's first day of kindergarten. He moved from the school where he went a few weeks after his sister had died. The teachers, the staff, everyone had been very supportive and loving, giving him scholarships and hugs, an extra careful eye, an extra warm hand. It was a second home for us. I have, honestly, been very scared of public school.

Then we stood at the driveway for the bus, our son ready, in a new shirt, with his space backpack with a space lunch bag and water bottle in it. Even his Dad wore a new shirt in honor of the first day of kindergarten. I was going to volunteer on the first day of school, so I was nicely dressed too. We took pictures, and waited eagerly. And I said, "Raahi should be here. We should be waiting with her. We should have made plans on who was going to drop her to daycare and who was going to see her brother off. She would have been so excited for him! It's such a big day for him. She'll never get to have her big days or be a part of his or ours." My husband nodded silently.

Then of course at the school there were dozens of parents with their younger kids, who had come to drop off the older ones. One Dad kept walking on and on with his younger son in his stroller right in front of me. Another little kid whom I was taking to her class said to me her little sister was in the next class. My son was with us too. I hoped he hadn't heard her. I wish I hadn't heard her.

I hate how our loss has colored our experiences of our living children. They do not deserve to have their big days or their achievements tinted with the parents feeling sad or longing even a little bit for their siblings. Sometimes when I hug our son, I miss hugging his sister and think how I'll never get to hug her or show her how much I love her. I miss holding her, feeling her, touching her, kissing her. Sometimes I even hug or kiss or hold her brother, and pretend it's the two of them. That's unfair on him. That I do it hurts me. That along with us, our living kids are having to go through this. That almost nothing can be only about them. That instead of splitting our time, our affection between our kids, we're having to infuse feelings about the lost one into feelings for and experience of the living one. I hate how loss touches everything, every single aspect of your love. It's not only the person's absence, it's the presence of their absence everywhere.

I'm so sorry JLD, Burning Eye, and Jo-Anne. JLD, I feel the depth of grief is getting deeper for me. I call myself meta-analytic too, regarding my own feelings, how I question and analyze what I feel. Then I analyze that analysis. But you're right, it hurts however much it hurts, whenever it hurts. I have told myself that as well. I cry less these days, 25 months since Raahi's departure. But when I cry, it's still like the early days. I get knocked out by sadness often, so much that I have to stop what I have been doing and sit or lie down.

It truly is real hurt. Thank you for writing that.

Mrittika

I don't have much to add, just that I understand. I dropped my son off for the first day of playschool. It was so complicated. Everything is so complicated. I was so excited and happy for him. So sad for his sister, missing. I also thought, I should be carrying a baby with him. We should be both saying good bye to her big brother.

The other really complicated thing was that the school has show and tell, and for the first one they want a picture of his family. We don't have a picture of his family, of us all together. He didn't come to the hospital after she died, so it doesn't exist. And to be honest, all the pictures I have of her happened after she died and I don't want people from the outside to see them. They are sacred to me, and if there is a chance someone would judge them harshly, I won't let them see her.

He knows she is his sister, and when asked will include her, mommy, daddy, the dogs. So he will probably mention her. I think I am going to send a picture of the three of us, but write a note to the teacher about my daughter, so that she'll know about her. Any other suggestions about how to handle this one?

Hi Margaret, as a primary school teacher I can recommend letting your son's teacher know as soon as possible about his sister and your family, either by note or in person. As teachers, we appreciate knowing anything about the children in our care that may impact on their school life and this is certainly something that once made aware of, his teacher can be sensitive about, but if they don't know, then it can be hard for them to deal with the surprise of it in a whole class setting when sprung on them. knowing in advance, they can prepare for how to handle it and how to handle how other children might deal with is so as best to support you son.
Being a teacher is such a double whammie... having to see children in school every day is so hard and this year I actually have a child who's mother had a still birth last year too. I was really annoyed at the blunt way her teacher from last year told me, no sensitivity at all that it might hit me like a tonne of bricks... loss sucks.

Thank you everyone for your support and for sharing your own experiences. David's mum, thank you for sharing the perspective of the teacher - I have to admit, I have not often thought that any of my daughter's teachers might have personal experience of stillbirth or baby death. I don't think I have been too blunt - I always do tell them, though. In every case, the teacher has been kind, empathic and grateful to know so that she can help E in whatever way she is able. I am gearing up now to do this again, now that E finally has her classroom assignment and knows who her teacher will be. It is not an easy thing to do. Margaret, I do not really have any advice, except to say that I have always felt I do need to tell the teacher. I feel like if the teacher knows, there is more safety for E: she knows her teacher knows and she can decide how much she wants to share. E has been fairly...private? I don't know if that's the right word. When she was in kindergarten they drew their families and the pictures were posted in the hallway outside her class. My heart ached when I saw hers, while waiting for her class to finish, and realized that it was just four of us, and then she came out and showed me and pointed everyone out and said, cheerily, 'and see this spot in my cheek, Mommy? That's Anja right at the end of my smile.' So, Anja was there, but not necessarily in a way that everyone could see.

It's all such a big mess. Like AahiRaahi's mom says: it colors everything, the death of our babies; it affects how we parent, it affects how their siblings experience their childhood, their mothers, everything. That sometimes gets me more than anything else: I was a grownup when Anja died and I knew that grownups have to deal with all sort s of shit, but she was only three, and that is so incredibly and completely unfair.

Love to you all. Thank you so much for being here.

Thanks so very much for the suggestions. This place and you all are such an invaluable resource. I let the teacher know. It was hard, but she was kind and supportive.

I've decided to send a picture of my husband, son, and myself, and include my daughter on the description on the back. I am going to include a picture of a cardinal as well, which is our symbol for her spirit. I just don't feel comfortable with sending pictures of her since they were taken after she died and are sacred to me.