I have been following the news, much like I’m sure many of you are, the Mama Orca is on her 16th day of carrying her deceased baby.  A world wide marine mourning; that every bereaved mother understands with a heavy heart.  I wish I could join her.  I wish I could reach out and caress her beautiful baby/calf.  I wish I could enter her sacred circle and help her grieve.

I have been blessed by a beautiful circle. I was in a coma when I gave birth; I remember the doctor clinically informing me “the fetus did not survive”.  I remember feeling that my world was off its axis.  I knew I would never be okay, again.  Hours later (or in reality, 5 minutes later) my sister swept into the ICU.  I wasn’t able to speak yet, but she sensitively asked me a series of yes and no questions about what I was feeling and needed.  We decided I needed her to go punch the doctor. (Disclaimer: no doctors were punched but the mere thought produced validation and a watery smile.)

Christie was my first orca in grief; others would eventually join her.  Some were comfortingly expected – family members and friends.  Some were unexpected – a former colleague came to the hospital and told me about the loss of her beautiful daughter, Jenna, and about the support group I could reach out to.  But the orcas did not stop arriving.  Once a year, on Mother’s Day, kind people – former colleagues, friends I don’t see often – make a point of reaching out.  New friends ask Thomas’ name and make a point to use it, often.  Donations made in his honour.  My sacred circle.  My circle allows me to fall on the days I cannot stand.  They were there when I could not think, could not function, when I was so, so angry. When I was bitter.  When I started swearing like a sailor; and when I decided I didn’t need to stop.  They are there on anniversaries and milestones. They are there when I’m sad and don’t know why, they don’t require a reason – they are there so I’m not alone.

Every loss parent out there understands Mama Orca.  We understand the finality.  We understand not letting go in a literal sense.  The moment you press that bell and inform them you are ready – that’s it.  That is ALL the time we get with our children.  That is the reason many bereaved parents choose to perform parenting acts with their deceased babies – first bath, first diaper and the precious photography and keepsakes that we guard with the ferocity of a Mama Bear. Not all of us are able to obtain photographs; but symbols of our babies and other ways to incorporate them into our lives are found.  But that hole of never seeing our baby, never truly mends – even if in our heart we know every inch of them, no matter at what point in gestation they died.

For those confused why Mama Orca is still swimming – we are not.  We understand the heart wrench of leaving the hospital empty handed – not carrying a car seat with our living, breathing child.  We understand the horror Mama Orca is going through as she contemplates her reality.  And we recognize her circle: the other orcas bringing her food, swimming with her and allowing her to do the wrenching active work of mourning.  Being with her, providing comfort, love and tissues.  Our society does not honour the dead; we don’t support the bereaved.  We cling to a timeline, platitudes and begin murmuring when the bereaved is not “moving on”.  If you see a person grieving, please, be an orca.  Stay with them, support them, take turns carrying their burden.  I am grateful every day for my orcas and in my heart – I’m in my 6th year of carrying Thomas – I was never able to let him go.

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Andrea Manning

Andrea Manning and her amazing husband, live in Ontario, Canada. They are owned by three miniature dachshunds. Andrea had severe health complications and lost their son, Thomas, in 2012, at 22 weeks.

Latest posts by Andrea Manning (see all)

• The Importance Of Pictures - October 12, 2020
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• And Here We Are - June 24, 2019