Is No Pain Greater Than That Of The Loss Of A Child?

She began to scream into the phone, into the roaring. She cried out, she cried for her mother, she felt her breath start jerking back and forth in her lungs as if it were something Arnold Friend was stabbing her with again and again with no tenderness. A noisy sorrowful wailing rose all about her and she was locked inside it the way she was locked inside this house. After a while she could hear again. She was sitting on the floor with her wet back against the wall. Here we finally realize that all her fears were coming true and he life was coming to an end and there was no way of her stopping it. In these moments Connie realized all that these were her last moment and the first thought was of her family and how she thought of all the time she wished. "My sweet little blue-eyed girl," he said in a half-sung sigh that had nothing to do with her brown eyes but was taken up just the same by the vast sunlit reaches of the land behind him and on all sides of him—so much land that Connie had never seen before and did not recognize except to know that she was

When I heard Jessica crying and saw the dog looking into my face I told him “Georgie go see why Jessica is crying”. Next thing I knew he went off running and she was quiet so I went to check on her and there they were in the bed sleeping, he comfort her. Even though a snow storm was coming, she decided to go on her winter camping trip anyway. It was like something was calling her out there. But in the event of her wilderness trip she was starting to feel better. There was a positivity her in her life that was growing and the depression had started to fade by the activities she is doing. Her experience of sleeping in below freezing caves, digging out of a snow barricades with the help of Jackson and Hailey. She was doing things her and her dogs would never have dreamed of. She admits that her very cold and freezing adventure has helped her appreciate the beauty of life and her winter wilderness experience. She was starting to feel like she belong and was appreciating the value of her life and her surroundings. “A Blizzard under blue sky” gave her a new lease on life and a spark of rejuvenation.

The day was dark. I could feel a storm approaching. The gentle sunlight glistening through the clouds, now covered by a heavy mist. Drop. Drop. Drop. The coldness of the water tinged my face. And the earth shook, as a large boom erupted from the sky followed by a light crackle. By now, I was soaked, like that night. I continued walking through the deserted streets when a large flash erupted from the sky. Oh, great lightning, today was getting better and better. A woman and her young child was running towards their car to seek shelter. The walk was a long and dreadful one, I found myself looking at the place I left 15 years ago. The house was still dark and foreboding as ever, the shutters hanging off its hinges and the roof in a state of disrepair.

Historically perinatal loss such as stillborn is rarely a topic of discussion. (Avelin, Erlandsson, Hildingsson, & Rådestad, 2011). Stillborn loss was not viewed as an problem, and was expected for mothers to forget about the baby, and have another one, while siblings were told to forget about the baby and not talk about the loss (Avelin et al., 2011). Perinatal loss responses can be vary widely as it covers variety of loss from pregnancy to birth within a few weeks, but most often it is an unexpected loss for many families who typically do not know what to do, what to expect and how to handle grief (O’leary & Warland, 2013). Furthermore, there is very little information on Stillbirth experiences especially about men who lose their child(Bonnette & Broom, 2012). Experiencing the loss of a child can be very difficult and often complicate grief which can affect parents social well being (Kersting & Wagner, 2012). In pregnancies that follows a loss such as perinatal loss, it has been found that parents experience high levels of psychological distress, anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress. (O’leary & Warland, 2013; Kersting & Wagner, 2012)

McKnight Malmar’s story, “The Storm”, is a suspenseful short story about a woman, later in the story revealed to be named Janet, coming home to an empty house with no sign of her husband, Ben. The story is told in third person limited point of view where the reader follows Janet who has to process her husband being gone, and finding the lifeless body of a woman while alone in her isolated home during a thunderstorm. The story starts with Janet being excited and relieved to come home to her husband, where she imagines a kind, almost platonic Ben to welcome her home by kissing her cheeks and touching her shoulders (Malmar, Pg. 1). Through the progression of the story, Janet uses her time alone to shift her happy thoughts of Ben into doubt and reason. During the storm, Janet is able to see her life with Ben as the abusive relationship it truly is.

When I was around 8 years old my mom got pregnant with a baby boy, and it excited everyone, especially me. Almost 5 months into her pregnancy my parents began to argue a lot, and my mom thought my dad cheated. She decided to have an abortion without letting anyone in our family know. She just pretended she lost the baby, until several months later when the truth eventually came out. My mom’s decision affected our whole family leaving everyone with unanswered questions, hurt, and heartache. Even my mom too this day experiences challenges living with the fact that she took another life, which led to many months of depression, hurt, and

Raindrops ran down the window pane, creating streaks of water on the glass. A lightning bolt struck lazily, and a quiet roll of thunder followed. Fragile clouds let loose a few rays of sun, illuminating small parts of the city. The woman lounging in the window seat languidly drew a few finishing strokes on a piece of paper, then set the sketch aside, allowing her eyes to roam to the outside. She rubbed them gently, blinking out the dreariness that came with stormy days. No balloons today, she thought with disappointment. They were beautiful with their bright colors and elaborate designs.

“Mama, cover doors and windows. Everyone go to the bedroom, and put your masks on,” I directed, calmly. When I got to the bedroom, everyone was huddled around each other, with a white cloth on their face. Suddenly, the room became dark. You could hear the heavy breathing of everyone in the room, yet you couldn’t see anyone. The storm felt like it lasted for days, but only really lasted a few minutes. When I got back to the dining room table, I saw a letter on the table from the bank.

“Maria! Maria where are you?” I look around the vast yard searching for my sister. I give up looking, she’ll eventually come in when she notices I’ve stopped looking for her. I pass my mother on our porch staring into the horizon waiting for something that’ll never happen. “A blizzard” the radio had crackled out last night. The reporter said that anyone in Oklahoma to leave if they still can. My father and I don’t believe that bogus, but it has Ma a bit rattled. I ran up the stairs of our rickety old house up to the attic. I heard the slamming of the door. It must be Maria, ‘cus it’s still light outside so Pa shouldn’t be home yet. I peek down stairs and Maria and ma are heading into the kitchen to cook supper. I know I should go and help but

“I grew up there, thought I’d spend my entire life calling that city ‘Home.’ But it didn’t workout that way. I learned to love it here too,” Dustin told his neighbour’s grandkids, remembering the horrific event that tore him away from his home and ended his career. His neighbour, Sally, and her family were the only people who accepted Dustin; they shared something in common, the disaster. Sally lost her husband in the tragedy that destroyed Dustin’s once handsome face.

Chalk flying on our bruised shins and flip flop tanned, callused feet, as the ball kept bouncing. Up and up and up we go, passing houses one at a time. The ground scorching our unclipped toes as we race the cars up the street to the shaded part of the sidewalk. Pausing, only to catch our breath we wasted on hill sprints up to cooler ground, until we realize what we're stepping on. Sap as sticky as gum that has been sitting out in the sun all day, slowly dripping from the Pine tree hanging above us as if it knew the pain we were in. Out of the shade we went, dreading what lies ahead all thinking about the logic behind not wearing shoes. Finally turned the corner that led to the shaded cul de sac when he ran into her. She was not one of those ordinary neighbors. No smile rest upon this gut wrenching face that I remember from my

Her hands danced in the air; her eyes were glued to the unforgettable view that surrounded us. She looked at me and threw my hands in the air with hers. I grew the courage my sister always had and looked down. I was in the clouds; I was on top of the city. Millions of ants danced on the floor beneath me. Skyscrapers and streets, smothered in traffic, formed a board game in my mind. The breathtaking view from atop the clouds formed a Van Gough canvas. My blood shot into every crevice of my body. The harsh wind made my eyes drier than a desert. As my brain plunged in and out of my skull, I realized the meaning of life’s adventures. Soon I began to feel a line of water descend from my cheek.

Now it all started with a young girl. I believe her name was Shelly. She was a bouncing 7 year old, with soft caramel skin and dark curls. I became acquainted with her on a crisp winter night, as she stumpled through a thicket of trees. Clumps of snow clung to her chilled curls, as she shivered. But when her face became a plump blueberry, I knew my time had come. She froze in her steps, and fell on blanket of snow shivering, twitching; dying. I cringed as her hazel eyes become empty hollows. I never liked victemising children, but I am what I am. Her now

Nader and Salloum (2011) made clear that, at different ages, children differ in their understanding of the universality, inevitability, unpredictability, irreversibility, and causality of death. They believed, despite the increasing understanding with age of the physical aspects of death, a child may simultaneously hold more than one idea about the characteristics of death. However, factors that complete the determining nature of childhood grieving across different age groups may be a difficult task for a number of reasons including their environment in means of the support they have available, the child’s nature in terms of their personality, genetics, and gender, coping skills and previous experiences, the developmental age, grieving style, whether or not therapy was received, and the relationship to the deceased (Nader & Salloum, 2011). Crenshaw (2005) found that according to our current understanding of childhood traumatic grief and normal grief, thoughts and images of a traumatic nature are so terrifying, horrific, and anxiety provoking that they cause the child to avoid and shut out these thoughts and images that would be comforting reminders of the person who died. The distressing and intrusive images, reminders, and thoughts of the traumatic circumstances of the death, along with the physiological hyper-arousal associated with such re-experiencing, prevent the child from proceeding in a healthy way with the grieving process (Crenshaw, 2005). McClatchy, Vonk, and

Touched by fading moonlight, the girl looked pale as a ghost, distressed and sorrowful. Great drops fell from her eyes; the heavy rain clouds in her mind let loose their turbulent nature. She felt the muscle of her chin trembled like a small child, again, she looked toward the window as if the darkness outside could soothe her. However, she tried to keep her sobbing down by biting her lips, afraid the woman would “visit” again. Meanwhile, in the hallway, there was only deadly silence, creating an overwhelming sense of emptiness.