Last year, I was privileged to attend my sister’s birthing of her first child. I stood at her bedside, gripping her hand as she labored, while both the nurse and the doctor encouraged her with “push!” She was straining so hard that blood vessels looked like they would burst with her effort. The baby’s head crowned with each contraction and then receded from view in between. A quarter of an inch of cervix framed the wet, matted hair, making all the difference as the baby balanced between a life in utero and the world. Time stood still, and her pushing grew weaker. The nurse assisted my sister until finally, with a gushing, slippery flow, she birthed her son. It was only after he cried that I could once again breathe.
The birth process is an awesome and spiritual experience; a healthy baby is a blessing. Unfortunately, not all babies are born healthy, and at times, the gestational period ends not with a passage that is life-giving, but rather in death. Many women experience stillbirths, miscarriages, or the deaths of their infants shortly after birth. A baby’s death upsets the natural order of life. A baby is the promise of wondrous and mysterious potential, an actualization of one’s self, the fulfillment of an innate need to love, give, and nurture—except for the times when the unimaginable happens and something goes wrong.
I remember, like it was yesterday, when I went into labor eighteen years ago on a cold night in February. We called a friend to stay with our two-year-old Amichai, feeling apologetic to have awakened her, and rushed to the hospital with excitement and some nervousness. I labored through the night, assisted by demerol, until finally I pushed and strained and pushed out a slippery, rubbery, gray baby girl. There were no cries; there was no breath; there was no life. There was only a nurse holding my hand and she was crying. “What?” I asked, “What is it?” The doctors tried to resuscitate my baby, but apparently she had been dead for some time in utero. I held her, and I cried and continued to cry without stopping for a very long time. I was 26 at the time.
Halakha is so brilliant and supremely sensitive to the psychological needs of the mourner, yet in this case, and others like it, there is a hole in the halakhic fabric: for a baby younger than thirty days old, there are no prescribed mourning rituals. There was nothing for me, an observant Jewish woman, to lean on, to busy myself with, or to comfort myself by doing. My husband, Rabbi Yamin Levy, writes in his book, Confronting the Loss of a Baby, “Years ago infant death, although devastating, was commonplace. Disease was rampant and children were vulnerable. Perhaps it was because infant deaths were so frequent that our sages chose not to apply the laws of mourning to such tragedies.” However, there are optional mourning practices one can take on, such as reciting the kaddish as a voluntary mourner, lighting a seven-day memorial candle, and allowing for family and community to provide for one’s needs emotionally and physically. These practices and others can be discussed with one’s own halakhic authority.
Even though there is no formal shiva practice for the loss of a baby younger than thirty days old, it is important for community members to be there to offer comfort to the grieving parents. Although others cannot take away the pain a woman feels when she suffers the loss of a baby, Hashem made us in a way that healing is facilitated through connection with other people. Many women say they feel awkward around people who have lost a baby. In the absence of knowing what to say, eye contact, an arm, a hug, can all help a woman who is grieving feel that she is not alone.
When the loss is an early miscarriage, the woman’s pain is invisible, and others may not be aware of what she is experiencing. Walking around, acting normal, yet feeling one’s loss inside can be emotionally draining. When greeting a woman who has suffered a miscarriage, it is alright to inquire how she is doing without fear of stirring up her pain; for many women, such an inquiry provides an opportunity to express their true feelings.
When I was eventually able to resume everyday activity, many interactions were initially very difficult. There was the checkout girl in the supermarket who asked “What did you have?” and others who inquired with friendliness and curiosity only for me to respond, “A stillbirth.” After a first look of surprise, awkwardness filled the space between us. It is difficult to know what to say in the face of such pain. A common response of reassurance that I heard was, “Don’t worry; you will have another.” This attempt to take away the pain only seemed to invalidate or minimize the loss.
It is important for women who are attempting to heal from the loss of a baby to recognize and understand the depths of their loss and subsequent feelings, which along with sadness may include anger, jealousy, and fear that other terrible things can happen. Being kind to ourselves, requesting help when needed, withdrawing from others when that feels right, and reaching out when ready are vitally important.
Time does do wondrous things. There is something to be said for the adage, “time heals,” as trite as it may sound. Torah and religious teachings are other powerful sources for healing. I can recall, two years after my loss, sitting on the desk in front of a ninth-grade Navi class. We were learning the twelfth chapter in Samuel II in which the first child of King David and Batsheva was seriously ill and David prayed, fasted, and lay on the ground, refusing his servants’ urgings to get up and eat. On the seventh day, the child died, and the servants were afraid to inform David of the death because they feared his reaction. But David understood that the child was dead, got up, prayed to God, and went home to eat. His servants were puzzled by his behavior and asked him, “While the child was alive, you fasted and wept but now that the child is dead, you rise and take food!” He replied, “While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept because I thought, ‘Who knows? Hashem may have pity on me, and the child may live.’ But now that he is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will never come back to me.” It was David’s acceptance of God’s will and the awareness that there is more to life than this world that brought me great solace and was a turning point for me in reconciling to my own loss. At the right time, it was possible for me to take inspiration and comfort from this and other sources.
Remembering and affirming a baby’s life, however short, are important to grieving parents. Many of the rituals that Judaism provides for mourners were especially designed to encourage remembering, which can lead to healing and acceptance. Every family has a different way of remembering a fetus or a baby who has died. Many choose to name their stillborn baby before burial. We particularly appreciated the siddurim donated to our synagogue in memory of our baby, and the friends who have remembered the anniversary of her death over the years.
Not long after the loss of my daughter, I created a painting of a large hand and in the palm of the hand is the form of a baby resting. On the side of the painting are written the words in Hebrew from Isaiah 49:15-16: “Yet I will not forget you. Behold I have graven you upon the palms of My hands.” At the bottom of the painting I wrote the words “le-zekher biti–in memory of my daughter.” This picture hangs on the wall of our dining room.
Although the pain of losing a baby never goes away, it can become integrated into the person that the mother becomes. Having gone through such an experience, we may find that we are better able to help others with their pain. Having tolerated our own, we are better able to offer support to others and open our hearts lovingly. I have come to appreciate how loss is an inescapable part of life. Our awareness that pregnancy does not always have a happy ending makes every baby born alive and healthy infinitely precious.
I am writing this as we are preparing to celebrate the bar mitzvah of our third son. I often wonder about the baby girl that I lost. I am constantly reminded of her by the six-year gap between our oldest son and our next son. Much time has passed since she died, but I continue to strive for a meaning of the loss in my life and in the life of my children—those who are with me here and our daughter who is with us only in spirit.