By Heather Vogler 
I finally stayed up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. My kids beg me year after year, but it always sounds exhausting. As they get older—well, friends. Friends invited the entire family to a New Year’s Eve gathering, and I reluctantly agreed. As soon as we rang in the New Year, it hit me that my husband and I would be celebrating 20 years of marriage this year. The joy and excitement that filled my heart quickly turned to sorrow and remorse. Not because of anything related to our marriage, but because for some reason, I was reminded it would be nineteen years this year since we buried our first daughter.
I have no idea why it hit me so hard. Nineteen isn’t a milestone year. I could see 10 or even 16 as monumental, but not 19. Maybe it was because my mind was racing, thinking about what would have been—but wasn’t. This could have been the year she went off on her own for the first time. Maybe college, maybe to travel, maybe to follow a trade or career.
I only knew her for three hours but that does not diminish the fact that she could have done something amazing with her life. But I can only dream.
I am convinced that regardless of how many children you have, the pain of losing a child never leaves you. That child was a part of you for a short time—and that means something. Some people would call having a baby at 20 weeks gestation a miscarriage, but I call this particular one a stillbirth—because it was. Our daughter was born early due to placenta previa. Rushing to the hospital as soon as I felt contractions, I was told they could possibly stitch me up to protect her. While waiting on the hospital bed for a doctor, I knew that would be impossible. I began to feel the crown of my daughter’s head, and within minutes, she arrived. Her heart was still beating, and she gasped for breath. For three hours, my husband and I took turns holding her, as we knew her lungs were not fully developed and she would not survive. Still, we would treasure her while we could. And we did, until that last heartbeat.
Once she was confirmed dead, I felt extremely lonely. The first call I made to someone I hoped would comfort me answered the phone drunk and said she did not know what to say. Some sent flowers, others cards. A few people stopped by, but everyone was at a loss for words.
My husband and I were broken, and even 19 years later, the pain does not leave. It comes and goes at different times and in different ways. Even though the New Year’s party set off the memories, I could handle it in a new way.
The first thing I need to do each time this happens is to acknowledge my pain. It’s okay to grieve. Recognizing it for what it is—grief—helps the healing process.
Second, I actively process it through a creative process. What I mean by that is I write, create art, garden, or cook to work through my emotions. Rather than ignoring how I am feeling, I work out my pain through a creative outlet, which helps every single time.
Finally, I talk about her with my family. This can take me some time, especially if it’s near her birthday, but once I’ve worked through my emotions, I will start a conversation about her with my husband or kids to help keep her memory alive.
Grief comes in all forms and is processed differently by everyone. Be encouraged that if it seems to spring up out of nowhere—like a New Year’s Eve party—it can be worked through and even help you change into a stronger version of yourself.
by Jamie Sumner 
by Alicia Searl 
