Stay tuned! Book will be published again in 2018 so copies will be available in the spring via FB: Journaling Away Mommy's Grief and on line from Centering Corporation (

August 2018

It’s happening. Melancholy. I started feeling it in my bones and
deep in my organs a few weeks ago. It’s a mystery-grief. Some years, especially
in the beginning, I feel the deep wave of sadness take over before her
birthday, most years after the 10th anniversary, I do not. But it’s those damn
milestones that get me every time: 13, 16, 18, and 21. You think they would be
superficial- I mean none of my kids felt like teens until 14, none of them got
their license at 16, 18 no longer seems like an adult and on his 21st birthday
my son, Martin, chose a mug of water instead of beer, but never the less, they
get me. Just like losing a first tooth, going to kindergarten and learning to
ride a bike were all unreached milestones that tore me apart during those early
years, these later milestones get me as well. They are fewer and far between
and my heart is healed in many ways so when the pain suddenly comes, I am
unprepared because it is no longer a constant in my life.

Last year marked 20 years since Margaret was born and died. It
seems like that would be hard. I wasn’t sure, but it was a painless celebration
of her life. But this year, days before her anniversary, I find myself catching
the saliva in my throat, going into empty rooms and closing the door for
several moments. And I feel both looming doom and weird happiness at the newly
resettled pain in my abdomen and chest. It’s always there of course, my
overwhelming love for Margaret-it’s just that some years I only know it and
other years, like this one, I feel it.

Waking to heaviness in my spine, I rise and take my melancholy for
a walk on the beach yesterday. I actually try my hardest not to think of her,
my little lost darling, but I can’t help it. A long-ago dusty film I have kept
safely packed away in my memory resurfaces. It is of her little three-pound
body in my arms: innocent, perfect, ready to live, but already gone. I chide
myself for suddenly again being mad about her loss. Gratitude and faith over
the years have squashed any anger, but sometimes it comes back up churning like
settled sand in the waves of the sea.  I miss her. I just really, really,
really miss her and I ache with want of her.
I stopped picturing what she would look like after her 8th
birthday. It wasn’t so much the pain as it just became too hard. I don’t know
what she would look like now.

For the past 21 years I have shared my journey. I have done so to
try to help others navigate their pain ahead and to bring awareness to the
never-ending journey of grieving a lost baby and to let them know that one can
go on and find peace and joy again. I have shared my various feelings of anger,
acceptance, gratitude, faith, longing and always absolute love for one’s baby
in heaven. I hope the sharing has brought normalcy to all paths.
As I walk the beach, there are crowds of people by the shore. It
is a fishing contest, little boys with their dads, little girls with their dads
and daughters with their moms as well. They are casting their rods, all going
for the big catch. Some are generations of surf fishing families.

It keeps my melancholy strong. When I turn to head home, a mom and
daughter are walking ahead of me in the sand. The mother matches her daughter’s
small steps.  I try to picture Margaret’s footprints in the sand next to
me. I look at all the footprints around and think of her small footprint I have
on my dresser at home. The pain of not seeing it next to me blazes with the
morning sun.

Now today, on August 13th, we will follow her birthday
rituals. We began with our tradition of breakfast at sunrise on the beach, and
even though it was cloudy and drizzly, we could see a slant of pink light
amidst the gray. Next, I bought a bouquet of sunflowers.  Later, we will make chocolate chip cookies
with Ms on them to pass out to cousins and, in the evening, something new:
Champagne. We will drink champagne with my sister, Katie, to ring in Margaret’s
21st birthday.  I’ll hold the glass up high and toast my third child in
the sky, and then, I think I’ll drink her glass, too.
Happy 21st, my lovey-love.

Robin, pictured here with her husband and children, while pregnant with Margaret.

"Margaret was a surprise baby. She would have been sixteen months younger than her brother and thirty-seven months younger than her sister. My husband and I decided that we would call them the three musketeers because they were all so close in age, but our third musketeer never got to try out her sword."

Book Reviews

Any parent who has lost a child will find this book unflinchingly honest in its pain, but hopeful in its promise of a new beginning. Robin Lentz Worgan pulls you fully into her experience while always encouraging you to personalize it for your own understanding and healing. The writing is clear, fluid and powerful. It is carefully organized so that you can follow along chapter by chapter or move forward and backward as needed. The excerpts she includes from other authors are evocative and fitting. Robin shares what she has learned and instructs and inspires you to write your own journey through grief and loss.

-Trudy Jellema Schulze, High School and College Writing Teacher

Robin has shared her personal experience and offers helpful suggestions in dealing with the early days after loss as well as coping and behavioral strategies for the difficult months and years to follow. These journal excerpts and thought-provoking commentaries are extremely supportive to the newly bereaved family. The recommended, reflective exercise promote healing and encourage parents to prepare a concrete plan for facing difficult holidays and anniversaries-- the time of acute remembrances. This is an excellent book for those suffering from perinatal loss. I will most certainly offer it to my bereaved parents' support group.

-Diane Carp, RNC with over 25 years of experience as a labor and delivery nurse and
Coordinator of "Resolve Through Sharing"

Robin Lentz Worgan Bio

Robin Lentz Worgan began her writing career by contributing an essay about the miscarriage of her first pregnancy to an anothology titled Our Stories of Miscarriage. The miscarriage and her later experience of a stillbirth account for her leadership of Our Silent Angels, an organization that offers guidance and support to women who have lost babies. She also has served as co-chair of the Children's Ministries Commission of her church. Since graduating from Ursinus College with a BA in English and earning a Masters degree from the University of Pennsylvania, Robin has taught school and contributed poems and articles to various publications. She lives outside Philadelphia with her husband and four children.

Deember 2017: The Gift of a Name

The gift of a name: I have been thinking a lot about that lately. The other evening, I took my younger two daughters to see the movie Ladybird about a free spirited, still searching senior in high school who changes her given name of Christina to “Ladybird". I thought about how that action must have felt for her parents who sat up nights thinking about names that they both liked, that had special meaning to them, free of negative connotations and that sang well with her last name.

I also took them to see the magically creative movie Loving Vincent about Vincent Van Gogh, his art, his life and his mysterious death. In the movie I learned that his mother had a stillbirth exactly one year before Vincent was born and had also named that baby Vincent. The narrator says, “Vincent was the oldest, but not the first.”  His parents buried the stillborn boy in a nearby church graveyard so that when Vincent would walk over with his melancholy mother to visit, he would stare at a tombstone that said his exact name: Vincent Willem Van Gogh. It is believed that having his brother’s name and not his own name had a profound effect on his psyche and that Vincent never felt like he could measure up to his dead brother.

It made me think of a very special gift that Glenn and I gave to Margaret: her name; her own name. And when her younger sisters, Winnie and Lila, were born, they were given their own names as well.  Margaret’s name is powerful.   Margaret is the name of my late maternal grandmother, a heroine and role model in my life and is also the name of my aunt (her daughter) and of my wonderful sister, Kim. We had planned on nicknaming her Margo, but never to know if that would stick, she is known to all of us as Margaret. Her middle name, Minehart, is my middle name, the German surname of my maternal grandfather. 

Not many people met Margaret, to be exact only five besides doctors and nurses. She met her parents, her paternal grandmother, our minister and the hospital chaplain. Nobody knew her. But her name, has given her a presence, a life to her siblings, her cousins and extended family and to all those who knew of her birth and death. A name creates a soul, a face, a personality, a story.
I often think about all the beautiful names of stillborn babies in heaven.  I learned several of their names after I lost Margaret by talking, walking, and crying with their mothers. When I pray for each of their souls at night, each one is distinct in my mind because of his/her name. 

During the 19th century, when Van Gogh was born, parents were encouraged to move on as fast as possible, to not hold their baby or solidify a relationship with their dead child because these dead babies were not seen as part of the family.  Maybe that is why his mother chose to name her next son after the first, so that it might help her move on.
I was often saddened that there was not much my husband and I could give to Margaret besides the promise of our everlasting love and a name.  But over the years,  I have come to realize that the gift of a name is profound. To all those parents who have recently or not so recently lost a baby: During this holiday season, take solace in the fact that giving your baby a name is and will always be a truly, beautiful gift.

October 2017: Progress

In 1988 President Ronald Reagan deemed October National Pregnancy and Infant Loss month.  That date was almost 30 years ago and already 20 years ago I lost my darling, silent Margaret to stillbirth.

When I look back to that many years ago, I feel happy about the progress that has been made to raise awareness about baby loss as well as to create various ways to better support parents of infant and pregnancy loss. When I gave birth to Margaret, there were no birth certificates for stillborn babies, but now there are.J There were no inventions to allow families to hold babies for a long amount of time.  Margaret had to be pried out of our arms after a short two hours holding her, but now with the invention of the cuddle cots, a cooling system that helps preserve the skin of the babies while their parents grieve, that time can be lengthened up to 4 days. These cuddle cots are being bought as fundraisers and installed in hospitals here as well as overseas. They allow the parents to share their baby with other family members including siblings and grandparents and they allow the parents to spend more time with their baby before saying a final devastating good bye.

Recently kick counting apps are being developed to help prevent stillbirth and the most exciting (and gut wrenching) research that has just come out of Australia is the possible development of a test that could alert doctors when a baby is in “grave danger.” Professor Roger Smith hopes to be able to design a test to help figure out if a mother’s placenta is aging too fast by seeing if her enzyme level is elevated.  If it is, he hopes to create something to give to her that would slow this process.  How many broken hearts would stay whole and how many little lives would be saved??
This month of October, say a prayer or send a card to someone who has lost a baby in the past 2 years. Tonight at 7:00pm,  during this national recognition day of stillbirth, miscarriage and SIDS loss, light a candle for your baby or another baby that was lost during this world wide candle lighting: Love makes the world go around.

August 2017: Here's Looking at 20

 When I was 20 years old, I worked 2 summer jobs at the beach. When I was 20, I spent a semester in London. When I was 20, I cut my hair short. When I was 20, I knew I wanted to be a teacher. When I was 20, I had a pair of purple high top sneakers and a leather jacket. When I was 20, I was dating the man that I would marry. When I was 20, I did not know that I would birth 4 children who would bring me joy, pain and endless love. I also did not realize that I would birth a silent baby girl named Margaret whom I would miss…forever.
Today Margaret would be 20 years old. 20 is milestone number in many ways: To be on earth 20 years, to be married 20 years, to be a teacher or at another job for 20 years. It is a big number, yet it is still young in the arena of wisdom. Wisdom comes with age.

What color high tops would 20-year-old Margaret have? Would she work a summer job at the bakery like her younger sister, Lila, cater like her oldest sister, Elizabeth, throw fish like her brother, Martin, or may be do something totally different? I don’t know. Most days, this far after her death,  I’m okay with not knowing but on milestone days, my mind races with questions of what she would be like at that age.  My list of questions is endless and though I know they will never be answered, as her mother, I cannot help but continue to ask them.

For our recent 27th anniversary (belated 25th) Glenn and I were in Italy. Our last day in Florence, our feet were ready for a rest and a glass of wine but something propelled us to keep walking up a hill until we came upon a church, San Miniato Al Monte. It stands at one of the highest points in Florence so from there you can see the city and the hillsides all around. We walked up the steep stone steps and saw that it was enclosed on one side by an ancient wall that was built in the 16th century. After walking around the inside of the basilica, we were drawn to greenery through an archway towards the left side of the church. There we spied pink Geraniums, red roses, and various plants on graves and we spied a lone gardener, with brown boots and a watering can watering those delicate flowers. When we decided to get a closer look, we noticed that each of the small graves in this area belonged to a baby or young child. Some dated back to the 1920s. My heart filled with emotions as I read each tombstone, but what struck me the most were the well kept flowers and the black and white photographs of a lost child atop many of the gravestones. The photos were blurry, but I could see them.  I saw 5-year-olds, 8-years-olds, 2- year-olds, and stillborns who only had one date: the day they were both born and died. There were words of love written in Italian on many of the stones. Though I could not read them, I could imagine what they said.  The wall in this area shielded our sight of the city. We could only feel the warmth of the sun amongst the clouds, heaven breathing on our backs. I felt sad for all the parents who had lost their darlings and who had gone to such effort to make sure they were both honored and remembered, but I also felt an indescribable amount of comfort to be standing there among those babies knowing that all their parents said and continue to say, Ti Voglio bene (I love you ) to them each and every day.
                                   Ti Voglio bene Margaret.  Happy 20th. xo


May 2017: Ferocious Mother Love

In mid-March the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a story titled “Dealing with a Newborn’s Death” ( Some may wonder why I was eager to read this. Over the past 19 years I have read tons of articles, books and interviews about infant loss. I read everything I can get my hands on so I can help other moms and dads, who have lost a baby, and so I can bring awareness about what this type of loss experience is like. Also, I can help those who have someone in their life who has suffered such a loss. I offer tips on how they can best understand and support them through their grieving journey. That has always been my mission. When I first began to read books and articles on this subject, I felt strong physical pain and sadness, but I always forced myself to finish.  Over the last 10 years I have been able to read them (usually) without any emotions.

On that day in March when the article came out, I had not yet seen the newspaper. I was sitting at my mother-in-law’s inhaling cheese and crackers, large green olives and a glass of white wine. We were all sprawled out comfortably in her living room while she finished cooking dinner. I walked over to the round table and perused the newspaper. When I saw the photo under that article, I felt a punch in the stomach.  The photo was of a mother and father cuddling their new born baby boy. His eyes would never open. I knew this picture well for I have an identical photo of Glenn and me taken right after Margaret was born. I keep this Polaroid in a Margaret’s memorabilia box. It is hard for me to look at the photo for the pain is written all over our tearful faces. It is the moment when we knew this was our special baby girl who we would never truly meet. The photo in the newspaper took me back to that moment. On the next page is another photo of the mom and dad and their older two children and their baby boy, Chase. This photo made me jealous, a trait I pride myself on basically never feeling, but at that moment, I did.  Margaret had been our third and we too, had an older daughter and son, but they never got to meet their sister. They were oblivious, making drippy sandcastles at the beach with their grandparents, the safe haven where we had left them when our nightmare began.

We mothers want to be with “all” of our children. I realize I felt jealousy because I knew I would never have a photo of “all’ my children together. But just as quickly, I felt happiness for this family for being able to be together.  And I felt joy for their fundraiser that is to go towards buying Cuddle-cots* so that deceased newborns can remain with their family for longer amounts of time.   When the time is over, like it was for us after only 2 hours with our baby, it’s over,  so I am ecstatic that that time will be extended for many new families of loss.

I had not expected to feel the amount of pain and sadness that I did while looking at those photos. But that is what grief is like- It hides away like a large cloud on a sunny day and then suddenly it stretches itself over your sun. The rush of grief is unexpected as is becoming a mother to a child. When our child is first put into our arms, we are immediately overwhelmed by the powerful amount of love for this being we do not yet know.

Mother’s Day is coming. Mother’s Day is about that love: the unbreakable bond of love between a mother and her child. The day celebrates it. And whether you have your baby with you or whether your baby is in heaven, you are their mother and your love is ferocious, strong, beautiful and everlasting.J

  • A crib-cooling device used to preserve a body while parents say goodbye.

A Life Worth Counting?

December Blog post 2016:  
In the classic Christmas movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey, played by James Stewart, contemplates ending his life and wonders aloud with a guardian angel, Clarence, what life would be like if he were never born.  The rest of the movie proceeds to answer that question.

At this significant time of year during the Christmas season, I think daily of the newly bereaved moms and dads who will have to get through the holidays without their baby. And then I ask myself, “What if Margaret was never born?” The easy answer would be that my husband and I along with our children and extended family would not have had to endure such pain. But life is not so cut and dry or easily controlled; indeed it is much more complex than that.
The impact of Margaret’s pregnancy and birth, though she never breathed outside my body, is quite great.  Yes, losing Margaret caused immense grief, but it also gave my husband and me wisdom into the world of parental loss, and though we will never stop wishing she was here with us, her death allowed me to bond with other families of loss through my peer counseling and book. Since Margaret’s birth 19 years ago, I am blessed to know that I have in some small way directly helped over 1,100 grieving families. And, over 15,000 people have visited and read my blog posts.
Also, due to Margaret’s birth and death, our children are empathetic beyond the normal realm.  When a peer loses a friend or a grandparent, many children, their various ages do not know what to say, but my children know that saying something, doing something, being there for friends that are grieving is so important. People are scared by sadness and are not sure how to deal properly with those who are mourning once the funeral ends, but my children are not scared because they have experienced it. I, too, find that I am much more proactive about reaching out to those who have lost someone than I was prior to losing my baby girl.
The birth of Margaret also caused my husband and me to struggle with our faith, but ultimately, brought us closer to God and increased our spiritual lives and our understanding of the connection between life and death.  Finally, besides being proud of my family, I am most proud of my book Journaling Away Mommy’s Grief. If I had not lost Margaret, I would not have written this book.  I feel happy that I have been able to use my God given gift as a writer to help people and make them feel a little less alone or insane in their grief.
Finally, I am currently writing a YA book. It is unchartered territory for me, as is writing fiction at all! My Young Adult novel is about a grieving teen who moves through life and grief and ultimately towards resiliency and happiness. Without losing Margaret and learning up close about so many grieving journeys, I would never have been able to contemplate writing this book.
When one loses an elderly parent the impact of his/her long life ripples far and wide no matter what kind life was lived, yet, even my 4 pound, eyes shut Margaret has had her own profound influence far and wide.
 So to all of you newly bereaved families enduring so much pain that you can barely move, speak or breathe, know that your baby’s life has and will continue to make a difference in this world. I hold you and your baby in my heart and in my prayers.
George Bailey got his worthy life back. Margaret did not get her life back on earth but she did in our hearts and in eternal heaven.
                         “Blessed are those that mourn for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4


October 2016: National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month

Friends, I have no new wisdom to share-only that I am happy this month recognizes both baby loss and pregnancy loss. I have experienced both. Miscarriages are so sad, lonely and exhausting, and in some situations, are absolutely devastating. I know many people who have experienced a miscarriage and hide it in their hearts.  Here is a secret from my heart that I have never shared: I named my miscarriage baby “May” because she was due May 4th. Years later I observed this lovely name belong to someone while reading The Secret Life of Bees in the form of the character, May.   I often thought about the fact that “my May” could have shared a May 8th birthday with me. This month I decided that though my book and blog focus on stillbirth and infant loss, I would like to honor those who have had a miscarriage by re-printing my first ever publication; a journal entry about my miscarriage. It was published in a beautiful anthology of essays and poems titled: Our Stories of Miscarriage. I am thinking of all of your losses and all of your babies and all of you on your grieving journeys as you honor those losses this month. Don’t forget to light candles and join together in our wave of light on October 15th: .  XO

Putting Together My baby Album: Journal Entry: 1993: excerpted from Our Stories of Miscarriage: Healing with Words, Fairview Press, edited by Rachel Faldet and Karen Fitton.

 I go to the store to buy photo albums to put my dusty pictures in. I am trying to be neater now so this is necessary. It’s $5.97 for the big blue albums, $2.97 for baby picture albums. Why am I looking at these baby albums? I don’t have a baby. My arm reaches out and I take hold of the small, white album with a curly-haired cherub riding a light blue rocking horse on the cover. I must have it. My hands caress the album, lifting each plastic picture cover-fifty of them.  Each time I tenderly turn, I see a snapshot of what our baby would have looked like.

 My hands move down to my stomach, so flat, so skinny.  Everyone is jealous of my thin body, my energy, my youthfulness,
“You’re so young and you have your whole life ahead of you.”
“I think it is much more difficult for older women to go through.”
“You two have plenty of time. Just wait three months and try again.”
“Oh well, it happens to everybody. It just wasn’t meant to be.”

I would have been almost five months pregnant by now. As my hand circling, rubs my stomach, I wonder what it would have felt like to have a voluptuous, purposeful body with a small life growing inside of me.
In my right arm I hold the baby album naturally like a new mother holding her newborn for the first time. In my left I hold a three pack of soap. We are out of soap.

 At home I pick out all the pictures of babies. They are not my babies, but babies I love: my brother’s two children, my four girlfriends’ children, my youngest four cousins, and my husband’s cousin’s daughter.

 After organizing the angels in my album, I look through it again and again. Twenty blank pages are left waiting, like my blank stomach, like my empty heart.

August 2016

Everyone has a holiday that raises their spirits. Mine has always been the 4th of July. I love the sparklers, the parades, the patriotism, the hot weather and the food. In our family my mother always made red eggs on the 4th of July. Red eggs are pickled eggs. I remember eating them as a little girl, salting the yolk before each bite.

The year I was pregnant with Margaret, my husband, Glenn, and I drove from our home in Pittsburgh to meet my parents at a hotel in Chambersburg to celebrate July 4th.  Living far from family with two young children and another on the way, we missed my parents a great deal so we were thrilled to be spending time with them.

When we arrived, we swam in the pool. Afterwards one and a half-year-old Martin napped, while almost three-year-old Elizabeth sat in a wet suit under blankets in my parent’s hotel room watching the original black and white Batman for the first time.   As evening came we went out to the picnic table and enjoyed potato salad, red eggs, burgers, and a cake topped with strawberries, blueberries and whip cream. The pictures from that day are some of our smiliest ones for we are eagerly awaiting the arrival of baby # 3.

But over a month later on August 12th, 1997, I stopped feeling my baby move. On August 13, Margaret was stillborn and my love of that 4th of July memory was clouded over. The joy from that day was sucked into a time capsule, unreachable for a long time, and for several years the 4th of July made me think of that day. It brought sadness to my heart to think such a happy memory had turned into heartbreak.

Now on every 4th of July I still think of Margaret, but time and much grief work has helped me to take that memory back out of the time capsule and remember the feeling of joy again. Since my only memory of Margaret is holding her small body after she was born, I now count that 4th of July memory as another one of my memories with her: A first and last 4th of July with her older siblings. And-slowly, over time, small but significant other pieces of that memory have come back to me.  On that day I wore a floral, black maternity bathing suit and I remember feeling Margaret move more than once while I swam with Martin. On that day I blew bubbles with Elizabeth and I watched Glenn roll down the hill with the kids.  They all giggled at the bottom as they brushed the fresh cut grass out of their hair and then we lit sparklers and danced around under the star-filled sky.

This year on the 4th of July cousins arrived in piles and swam in the bay and screeched and splashed. Winnie and I made a new black bean, avocado and fresh corn salad and we ate hamburgers and vegan cupcakes and, of course, we ate red eggs.  Red eggs will forever remind me of my grandmother, Maggie, and my daughter, Margaret, who was named after Maggie, and that brings me quite a happy feeling.

Tomorrow is Margaret’s 19th birthday.  We will wake at 5:00 am and watch the sun rise while sipping warm tea and eating buttered croissants on the beach in her honor.  We will buy sunflowers like we always do and loving thoughts of her will be our sunshine for the day.  And at night we will blow birthday kisses to the stars.  Happy 19th birthday, MargaretJ

June/July- Summer Book Recommendations: 2016

Through the years I have often written about reading as a form of mediation and healing for me so each summer I try to offer a book recommendation to my followers. This year I have two recommendations.  My first one is The Light Between Oceans by M. L. Stedman, an Australian writer. It is a beautifully written book that has been made into a movie and will release in September. (I must admit that I saw the trailer and it looks quite good.)
This is the story of Isabel who marries Tom, a lighthouse keeper, far off the coast of Australia on the solitary island of Janus Rock.  They live alone and only receive visits for supplies twice a year and a visit home every three years. During their initial time there Isabel suffers two miscarriages and a stillbirth. 

“The labor was quick as it was early, and Tom watched helpless as a baby-it was unmistakably a baby, his baby- emerged from Isabel’s body. It was bloody and small: a mocking scale of the infant they had been so long waiting for drowned in a wash of blood and tissue and mess from the woman so unprepared for its arrival… no heavier than a bag of made no movement, uttered no sound. He held it in his hands torn between wonder and horror, not knowing what he was supposed to do or feel… “A little boy,” was all Tom could think to say. (Page 90)
Soon after this stillbirth, a boat washes ashore with a dead man and a healthy baby girl. Isabel and Tom, in their combined and desperate grief, decide to keep the baby, but Tom is haunted by this choice.   Like many grieving men, he wants to help heal his wife first and then worry about his own grief so he allows her to keep the child.  After bonding has occurred between them and this child that they name Lucy, Lucy’s real mother re-enters the picture. The story is both an aching portrayal of maternal and paternal desire and grief and an artistic, informative  look at the important,  yet lonely  and tedious job of a  being a light house keeper at that time.  It is for these reasons that during this difficult Father’s Day season, I recommend this book to both moms and dads of loss and it will appeal to the general adult audience as well.

My second recommendation is to read Mine. Mine is the debut novel written by MY OWN SISTER, KATIE CRAWFORD!  It is the story of two sisters who endure the loss of a stillborn sister and later another significant loss. Both losses follow them throughout their intertwined lives.
“When Daddy did come out, he was ashen, his handsome boasting face transformed. He told them all to sit at the table and bow their heads. The good Lord took her. She is in heaven now with the other angels.”   (Page 3, Mine)

I know when composting life stories for this book, my sister, Katie, felt the loss of Margaret and other deep losses in our family as well.  Those seeds of sadness and many other seeds sprouted towards this eloquent, heart wrenching, page turner of a novel. Read the reviews for yourself and purchase it at:

Happy summer and let me know via facebook or email how you liked each book. xo

May Blogpost 2016

“Grief is silent, painful, unpredictable, but always there: in the mirror; in the dresser; in the wildflowers, in the sky; on Elizabeth and Martin’s faces; in Glenn’s eyes…always there.” Page 88 of my book, Journaling Away Mommy’s Grief

I remember after losing Margaret that I felt like she was always there.  I just could not grasp her.  She was in my every thought. I remember observing illusions of her on the beach, slapping myself as I ran towards a mirage of a crawling baby with brown hair.   I so wanted to see her, hold her, feel her body breathe- at night when I put her brother to bed, my mind played tricks as if I was holding her body in my arms as well.  My blanketed bundle grew lighter than his 18 pounds when I shut my eyes and rocked in the rocker.   During that time my raw mommy grief was an extreme mixture of both love and pain. The pain I felt was so great in both a physical and emotional sense that at times I wished not to think of her, but at the same time I so enjoyed thinking of her.  I constantly worried that if I stopped thinking of her every second I would forget her or forget what she looked like and I also worried that if I was not in pain then I did not love her enough.  We mothers, all mothers, hold such immense love for our children.  Even as Margaret was gone, in heaven, I worried about the amount of time I spent with her because I missed her more than I could articulate or handle.

 Almost 19 years later, I still miss her. No, I don’t feel it in my bones or in between my eyes or in the depth of my gut like I did those first several years.  Now it feels more like a soft chorus from a song, always playing through my body at a low volume. My sister-in-law, Jen, a mama who lost her oldest son, Joseph, (my beloved nephew) at age 2 recently asked me about my writing because she is a writer too. She wondered about writing “beyond Joseph” and asked about writing “beyond Margaret.”  I pondered and replied, “Oh, I no longer write about Margaret all the time. I usually find that I subconsciously add her during my first draft of a piece but then I edit the part about her out after I realize what my essay is trying to do.”
Jen and I had this discussion a few months ago. Now it becomes May, and my body, as it does every spring, begins to yearn for Margaret when I see our cherry tree bloom, when I see the daffodils blow in the wind, when I see ferns pushing out of the ground, when I see robins perched in my yard. These new beginnings always make me yearn for her, the “new” baby I never got to watch grow.  Soon it will be Mother’s Day, a time I think of all my babies. I sit at my desk and take out my latest writing pieces and re-read them, and I realize what I told Jen is false: Margaret is still always there. Though she is no longer the pain in my husband’s eyes or the look on my children’s faces, she will always be the new beginnings of spring and she is still often found in my writing.  I write nonfiction essays about my four living children but, low and behold, Margaret seems to always sneak into many of my pieces in a perfect small way. She just plots herself there fighting for my attention as I write about her siblings. On May 12th I will have a piece published by Brain, Child ( on their website.  Margaret has a small, yet significant role in that piece and, in another piece I just sent out about roadtrips, she is found right in the beginning for she is a part of each story. She always will be. To all mothers on Mother’s Day who have lost a baby: that baby is forever part of your story. He/she made you the mother you are today whether you are a mother with children here on earth or not. This Mother’s Day I think of all mothers of loss and I think of deceased dandelions that line my yard with their million of seeds blowing in the wind. Our babies are like those seeds; breathing life from their non life, from their home in the clouds. Bless them all and bless all mothers of loss.



Christmas: 2015

CHRISTMAS CARDS: That is all I need to say to give rise to a range of emotions from people who have lost children or suffered miscarriages or are still hoping to have a family. I have always loved sending and receiving Christmas cards. I remember Christmas of 1996, propping two-year-old Elizabeth and six-month-old Martin next to each other for a photo. The only way I could get Martin, who could barely sit up, to look at the camera was to allow him to suck on a candy cane. Snap! Elizabeth had on a black velvet dress and he had on a red flannel shirt.  I sent copies of this photo out in my Christmas card that year naively thinking that my adorable photo of my children would be greeting those I love with a mutually cheerful connection. Then, that summer I lost Margaret and that “Joy” or "Have a happy new year” didn’t make much sense anymore, and sending a picture without Margaret seemed terribly wrong and sad.
Recently an acquaintance at work asked to give my book to a friend’s daughter who had lost her baby. “If you think it would help at all,” she heaved. “They-this couple is not doing well.  Do you know that they are sending out Christmas cards with a picture of themselves with the dead baby! Can you believe this? I am so upset! That is wrong, Robin!”
I met her disillusioned and angry eyes and tried to explain. “Well, they are parents now. This baby made them parents; made them a mom and dad, but they cannot show this baby off to the world because she has died. Having this baby die truly broke their hearts and no one else will understand their love for this baby. You see, our human hearts cannot fathom how painful the loss of a baby is so outsiders who look in at a couple who lose their baby want them to behave like they are moving on and want them to act like they are feeling better, but right now that couple is mourning and they are not going to feel better soon and they will never feel the same again. You must respect that there is not a right way for them to grieve so however they decide to demonstrate their grief and love for this baby should be accepted because no one knows exactly what it feels like to be them right now.”

When I lost Margaret, I no longer felt I could send out a happy Christmas picture of my older two sucking candy canes or splashing in the leaves because Margaret was missing. I did not know what to do. I too, like this couple wanted people to know that Margaret would always be a part of our family and would always be on my mind.
Excerpt from my book: 12/1997
This year I dread the holiday. I want to wish everyone well, but I also want to acknowledge the loss of and the love for our daughter….I decide I do want to buy Christmas cards… My stomach twists in pain and my eyes fill with tears as every card I read makes me think of Margaret so I leave and drive around. Later, I come back and settle on one with an angel… I decide that since we cannot show off our special baby girl, Margaret, that we will place a star on each card as a symbol of her place in our family and to let everyone know how much we miss her.”

Each couple and person dealing with loss of a baby will come up with a way to deal with their loss that feels respectful to them. Whatever their choice may be, whether it is boycotting Christmas cards, starting a new tradition, coming up with a symbol as I did , writing a poem or yes, sending a picture of a baby that died, I only wish for healing and peace this holiday season and new year to all of these families of loss. xo
National Infant and Pregnancy Loss Day

Excerpt from Journaling Away Mommy's Grief, page 34

A Letter to My Baby 10/9/97

..."You with you perfect round nose and long fingers,
You would have been born last week, a few days ago, maybe even yesterday.
You would have been in my arms feeling the newness of the outside world.
You would have been listening to the quacking of the ducks, the pitter-patter of your siblings,
You would have felt my arms holding you tightly against my breasts that would have
been filled with mother's milk for you to drink, to nurture you, to sustain life.
BUT your life is already over. Your heart stopped beating over a month ago....

On this day when I join all other moms of loss I was struck by an article I read about a woman who donated her breast milk after losing her baby. I am always learning new ways to heal and help others and I had never heard of this before, but it is a brilliant idea.
I remember, after losing Margaret, sitting in the bath tub with breasts like pineapples, so full of milk, tears dripping on my knees, and having no baby to feed. I felt this was beyond cruel, and my body desperately wanted to feed a baby. I think being able to donate my milk would have truly helped me deal with this physical reaction to birthing my stillborn baby. Bravo to Amy, her babies and the babies she fed in 5 states and 3 countries! Read on to see how you can support her work.