Losing Hope

“Your baby will die within 24 hours of being born. We don’t recommend that you continue your pregnancy.” Those were the words I remember hearing from the team of specialists after our consultation at the children’s hospital. The only strangled words I could manage were, “Her name is Hope.”

My daughter had a condition called anencephaly. Her brain had developed only to the stem. Brokenhearted, I searched my soul. Alone, I made the decision to end my pregnancy, but my daughter would have a funeral. She wasn’t nameless or unwanted.

My Special Request

I knew that nothing about her funeral would be traditional. There would be no pallbearers, no casket, no beautiful epitaph commemorating a life well-lived, but I felt that a funeral was the only thing I would ever be able to give her. I needed a memorial service to honor her life, to say goodbye to the dream of being her mother, and to find peace with myself for my decision.

I requested that she be taken home from Little Rock by the funeral home that had served our family in the past. I learned this was a request the clinic had never had, which truthfully shocked me. While my situation was unique, I couldn’t believe I was the only person who had ever made such a request.

If I hadn’t asked about her remains beforehand and made myself very clear, she would have been cremated in a manner that was very upsetting to me, or sent to a medical school without my knowledge. It’s very important to know that you do have a choice when you’re in a situation like mine.

I Want to Do It

I’m a very open person normally, but I wanted to plan her service alone. I wanted to be alone to mourn. Looking back, I realize that it was my way of staying busy and focused — of holding it together and hiding my grief. In a way, I was keeping my little girl to myself as long as I could, before I had to let go and say goodbye.

The Numbness and the Details

It felt like I was in a waking dream. It seemed unreal to be sitting at a desk in the funeral home; surrounded by flowers and whispers, leafing through shiny brochures for urns, being offered “package” services like something out of a Huxley novel. A week ago I had been contemplating paint colors for her room.

Life seemed to be continuing, but I didn’t feel that I was a part of it. Everything had happened so fast that I was in absolute shock and felt utter disbelief. I tried to pay attention to the details. “Yes, lilies seem appropriate — maybe daises? The blue urn with flowers was the sweetest. No, nothing in the paper, thank you.”

There are so many details to consider when you’re planning a funeral service. In a way, I felt thankful for the distraction, and at the same time, I just wanted to scream that none of these silly things mattered. Hope was gone. I remember feeling angry when the funeral director discussed money. It made me feel sick to associate lost life with a bottom line, but it is something that you have to deal with.

Why the Details Mattered

As I sat blankly looking at the funeral director, I realized that I had to plan her funeral in my own sweet way. It really helped me to think of the details as a way of expressing my love. I choose a small ornate urn and paid for her cremation services. I decided to handle the rest without the funeral home.

Hope’s Memorial

I chose to have her service outdoors, under the shade of the pine trees, where my grandmother’s ashes were spread. Instead of buying cut flowers, we planted white and pink wild roses for her that would grow year after year. We placed a memorial marker and small bench in the soft nettles of the pines.

We held hands and each said our farewell. I read a poem that compares loss with a white-sailed ship. While those standing on the shore can no longer see her as she quietly slips away, she is not diminished or gone. No, others are welcoming her to another shore. One by one, my family spread her ashes, and it seemed like the world stood still for a moment, just for her.

It was very peaceful — a sweet and soft goodbye that seemed perfect for a little girl that the world would never know. What stands out in my mind so many years later is the sunlight that slipped through the branches as I told her goodbye, the way the wind swept the tears from my face, and the incredible sense of peace that I took with me that day. It was as if she were telling me it was all right.

The Only Thing I Would Change

If I were able to travel back in time, I would have leaned on others more and allowed someone else to deal with the funeral home. It’s honestly difficult to describe just how horrified it made me feel to be there. Although everything was handled in a respectful and tactful manner, I literally felt sick to my stomach over it. Asking for help or saying, “I can’t do this part,” is OK.

Advice for Others

Sudden tragedy and the thought of mortality, coupled with the responsibility of planning a funeral, can feel very crushing. Nothing is normal when you’re in shock and grieving. Honestly, the “business” of funerals can be very upsetting and overwhelming for anyone. Hearing words like “the deceased” or “our most expensive line” can make you want to just scream. The only thing that truly matters is doing what you feel in your heart and honoring your loved one’s life in your own way.

As far as dealing with the funeral home and the monetary aspect of a funeral, don’t let it overwhelm you. Simply do your best, and that is all that could ever be expected of you. As long as you let your heart and the memory of your loved one guide you, the service will be beautiful and meaningful.