I’m so sorry. In my experience, don’t ask for reasons or any questions that only help with your understanding. If they want to share why this happened or if they want to try again etc. they will tell you. If they don’t offer this, they don’t want to discuss it. By all means continue to ask how they are doing, want to get out of the house etc. but don’t be another thing they have to process right now. You are all grieving, but it’s absolutely not the same.

I’m so sorry to hear about your sister’s, and your family’s, loss. I had a loss at 21 weeks and eventually found my way to Empty Arms. They’re based in Western Massachusetts (I’m not) but they have great resources on their website for friends and family, as well as for parents: http://www.emptyarmsbereavement.org/resources-for-family-friends

Sometimes there are no words to say, because nothing anyone says can make something better. Just being there, checking in, providing care without being asked, can be so meaningful. I think the previous comment about not being afraid to talk about the baby who was lost, is also important. Especially if there’s a future pregnancy, because that pregnancy will be informed by the one that was lost.

You and your sister and your family will have better days ahead. Your sister is also so fortunate to have you in her life. Sending lots of care your way.

My wife’s cousin lost a child late-term. It was of course devastating. She (the cousin) responded by compiling all of the miscarriage and still-born stories that her community shared with her, which were numerous. These stories were heart-breaking, and humorous, profound, and joyful. When my wife had a miscarriage (1st trimester), this document was shared with her. It might sound a little grotesque, but these stories, and others that were shared in person, helped my wife feel so surrounded by love and shared experience. During her miscarriage she felt so alone at times (and had gone to the hospital by herself initially, while i was at work and then finding childcare for our eldest), and these stories showed her how alone she wasn’t. She was able to face the grief and emotions head-on and we were left with sorrow, understanding, and so much love that when we reflect on this experience, the support from our community really stands out.

I had a second trimester loss. For me, the worst part was, after having announced we were pregnant, having to announce we weren’t anymore. Particularly with close family. I did not want to grieve publicly or be responsible for guiding others through how to feel about it. I didn’t want adults crying around me and scaring and confusing my other kids. My sister stepped in as kind of head of communications- so the family member who really wanted to have a good cry about it was directed to her. She took our kids for a night so we could process without worrying about how our tears might be perceived by them. And then a thing she and I have developed is when we know the other is in a hard spot, we ask, “How are you doing?” This makes space to talk about it if you want. Or not if you don’t want.

This was also really helpful to me in the early days after our loss: https://whatsyourgrief.com/growing-around-grief/

First off, I’m very sorry for your sister’s loss. I’m a perinatal mental health therapist and I work with women & men who have lost a child, pregnancy (miscarriage & stillborn) and the biggest thing I can recommend is to get her & your brother-in-law support through a support group &/or therapist that is trained perinatally. Also I recommend to say specific things that you’re going to do like a meal train, chores, give her a distraction by talking about anything else other than her grief, sitting with her & asking how she’s doing. It’s hard when you get inundated with people asking how they can help. I suggest this e-mail subscription that she would get daily basis that helps with pregnancy grief: https://www.daylightcounselingnj.com/first-30-days
Just being there for her where she’s at is the biggest thing you can do.

I did not write this… but it helps.

Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.
As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life. 
Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out. 
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

What we found is that a lot of people are sad for the baby and they don’t realize that you are the one in pain. It’s a horribly lonely experience and just checking in and being there for her – in person or by sending texts, Instagram memes, or calling – and giving them someone to talk to, even if it’s about something else, will help them feel less alone and help them get out of their head for a bit. I’m so sorry for you and your sister.

Hi Heartbroken Sister. My daughter Maeve died on her due date a little over two years ago and we’ll never know why. All my love to you and your family. I’m sorry you all are now a part of this shitty club. (1) A really hard and unexpected part of grieving at that time was knowing that the loss affected my immediate family and close friends too, but my husband and I so desperately didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone for many weeks. We needed our people to understand that we loved them so much but we were so deeply hurting and devastated that we didn’t have strength or space to be with them. It’s such a unique type of loss, please don’t take it personally if your loved ones don’t use you as a primary source of processing and grieving outlet— we found joining a small, closed, local perinatal loss support group (that was for parents only) to be incredibly helpful to us. (2) I can still remember every single “thinking of you <3” text that people sent. Those meant the most— no pressure, *zero questions*, just acknowledgement and a love check in. Especially when we were getting past month two and a lot of people dropped off from sending messages— I promise we were still thinking about her every day well through the first year. You are not bringing up sad feelings or making us feel sad by saying their name in a text or sending a ‘thinking of you’ message at any time! (3) Don’t be afraid to get or do specific things for the grieving parents that feel meaningful to you, just leave space for them to say no. “Let me know how I can help” meant nothing to me at that time because I couldn’t even figure out which way was up let alone say what would help me. The only gift cards we used that people gave us were for food delivery (Door Dash, etc), everything else felt weird to receive like we were getting money for our loss. It did became almost comical how much soup people gave us, so if you want to cook maybe something else easy to reheat. (4) Send them recommendations of TV shows to watch. We liked mindless action movies and gentle comedies like BBC Ghosts. Use the website doesthedogdie.com to check for trigger warnings about infant and child loss!
xoxoxoxo Lucy and Sean

My son died and was stillborn at 39 weeks 1 year ago due to a cord accident. People have been so amazing and supportive, and people have been absolutely horrible in their reactions to my loss. Here are my recommendations:
1. If you really want to understand the grief that comes was tragic losses, read Megan Devine’s it’s ok to not be ok. Follow her Instagram refuge in grief. It’ll become clear you shouldn’t focus on “how to help” because there’s no fixing the death of a baby. There’s no right thing to say. Mirror back your persons reality. Make them feel seen in their pain. The death of a baby is tragic. It’s rare and there’s a lot of questioning why and could this have been prevented with better medical care. It’s not “normal.” We carried them for the better part of a year and birthed them into the world. There is intense trauma. Have you ever seen the corpse of a baby or child in person? The trauma of that alone cannot be stated enough. For me, one of the worst parts was dealing with such hurtful comments that intended to be helpful. Those good intends do not cancel out the pain the comments inflict. Platitudes like “at least you have another child,” “everything happens for a reason,” “you’re so strong.” Very often other people would very inappropriately compare my son dying full term to their or their friends’ 6 week miscarriages. It never helped and just made me feel like they were minimizing my loss. The worst was silence. People so uncomfortable that they just didn’t say or do anything at all. Trying to act normal made things worse. My parents would only talk about the weather with us for months. It became painful to be around them.
2. Don’t ask how to help. Just do things. Flowers, meal trains, letters, memorial gifts, etc.
3. For me, after the first few weeks it became critical to my survival to feel like others remembered and loved my son. One of the hardest parts of losing a child to stillbirth is that society often makes you feel like you made it all up. Like your baby never existed. People made comments as if I had not just spent the last 9 months pregnant, as if I had not just given birth. My sister in law asked we weren’t at work 1 week after my son was stillborn, as if nothing had happened. So I needed to share pictures of my son with people, so they could see he was real. I needed people to tell me THEY love and miss my son, so I didn’t feel like the only one in the world who cared. Hearing my son’s name from other people’s mouths, seeing it in writing, having him included in the count of my family, truly was a life saver. Remembering milestones is helpful too, the monthly anniversaries and then the first birthday.

I’m so sorry for the loss of your nephew. Here is a random grab bag of things people did after the loss of my daughter Penny that really touched my soul:

-Donated books to a library in her name
-A friend wrote her initials on some rocks with her middle name Hope on the back. Whenever we travel or go for a hike, we bring one and leave it-it feels good to bring a bit of her spirit with us and to spread it through the world
-Donated to the park where we held her memorial
-Hired a postpartum masseuse to come to the house for me
-Bought me the Stevie Wonder record Songs in the Key of Life” with the note “I put on the song ‘Isn’t she lovely’ and dance and think of your daughter, Penny. I thought maybe sometime you might want to do the same.” It touched me to know someone was thinking of Penny and it gives me a little ritual to feel connected whenever I’m missing her
-Including her in holidays. My aunt gave us a Christmas stocking with her name on it and it feels good to see it hanging there as an equal part of the family, a small reminder she’s with us in every holiday
-We think of her as a butterfly and on her birthday, my friend covered our hallway in paper butterflies
-Made a cake on her birthday. To people who haven’t lost a baby it might seem morbid but just because your child died doesn’t mean their birthday doesn’t matter. I want to celebrate her life and while her birthday is often painful, it’s a sweet pain of remembrance.

Sending so much love to your family right now.

When my son Archie died after 6 days in the NICU, here’s what I remember being a comfort:
Meal Train – so much love and it takes the burden of decisions, cooking and cleaning off the family.
The only thing said the stuck with my was: “I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what else to say. I love you.” It was so genuine and hit on exactly the right sentiment. You can’t say a single thing that will help other than acknowledging how awful it is and that you love and support the family.
Say the baby’s name, and remember them every year.
Ask the family if there are signs that remind them of the baby (an animal, rainbows, etc) and tell them when you see the sign and think of the baby.
In the early days of grief, if you’re invited, sit with them and follow their lead. My good friend came and watched Magnolia Tv with me. We chatted a bit and laughed at the mishaps on the show. It was nice to have someone there without the pressure to talk. We also cried together plenty.
If you think they’re open to reading it, Empty Cradle, Broken Heart is a very validating book. It talks about various approaches to grief and how grief changes over time – specific to baby loss. It made me see that my husband is an active and social griever. He wasn’t ignoring anything. He just needed to be in motion, which is the opposite of me. It’s so important to understand this as a couple.
Offer to do anything that might be challenging. They don’t want to go to an appt, offer to call to cancel for them. Grocery shopping. School drop off for other kids.
I found it was easiest to talk to the people who were able to hold both grief and normal conversations – and switch quickly back and forth. Sometimes you want a light convo and sometimes you want to be so incredibly sad.

After going through a failed adoption 3 days before his birth, I really needed people not to ask me about it because I just couldn’t talk about it at the time. Unfortunately I think people took that to mean I didn’t need their support, and I am a strong person that can generally handle things on my own, but as others have said, I wish people had just been there to make sure I was eating and showering and just generally surviving. Everyone just acting like it never happened almost made it worse.

That loss sounds absolutely horrible. I am sorry for your sister. I had a loss at 20 weeks after a lot of fertility struggle— not nearly as late as your sister but late enough that we thought we were out of the woods. A few thoughts, some of which echo what others have said and some of which may conflict:

1) In any grief or difficult situation, specific offers (ie “would you like me to bring you dinner?” As opposed to “I’m happy to help”) are always great. Even if the person says no, that means you know more about their needs and preferences.
2) Having close friends tell others was something I really appreciated. I did not want every interaction to have to be about the loss.
3) If your sister had already set up a nursery or received lots of gifts, offer to pack away the baby stuff for her. Baby clothes are not adorable when you just had a loss.
4) For some people a late loss means they lost a BABY who had a name and a relationship with them, and they want to have a funeral. For me it felt like I lost a PREGNANCY that I had worked at for over a year and I didn’t love baby language. Either way, pay attention to how your sister talks about the loss and follow her lead.
5) As others have said, keep checking in! With any loss, most of the support comes in the first week or so and then other people go on with their lives while you’re still grieving. I needed people to talk to and ask me about other things so that every conversation wasn’t processing my miscarriage, AND I needed people to occasionally ask how I was doing weeks and months out.

Last, your sister may not want to be around babies or pregnant people for a while and you may be able to help her steer around those situations. And I don’t know if she has a partner, but sometimes the non pregnant partner gets forgotten and they’re grieving too while also likely supporting their partner. So make sure you also check in with the partner.

Almost a decade ago, a dear friend gave birth to premature twins — a boy and a girl — who only lived a few hours.

Years later, when my own sibling experienced a stillbirth, this friend provided compassionate guidance to help me support them (from across the country, during COVID). But it was two things she said to me right after her children died that were most impactful: “Sometimes I just go in my room and cry because I know what a baby coffin looks like” and “Sometimes I just want to scream and yell and cry, but I can’t just call people up to do that.”

When my dear nephew died, my first goal was to make sure his parents didn’t have to know what a baby coffin looked like. I coordinated the baby’s transfer from the hospital morgue, to the autopsy location, to the funeral home from across the country. I was able to do almost every thing — at one point there was a form that my brother and his wife had to docusign. I also arranged for baby’s cremains to be delivered by someone at the funeral home rather than FedExed (!?!?). I also found a few options for personalized urns online and sent them to my brother and sister in law, letting them make the decision, but hopefully sparing them having to wade through the dreck. There are a lot of these kind of difficult administrative tasks that happen after stillbirth. Some of them you can do as a third party. Some you can’t. Do the ones you can. Ask if they want a ceremony, curate it to a few choices, and present those. Sent postpartum supplies (remember, mom still gave birth!). If mom wants to pump and donate milk, coordinate it. If they have older kids and you live near by, take them to school and their activities. Send meals and treat and flower. My brother and sister-in-law don’t know what a baby coffin looks like. I do. This is one of my dearest accomplishments in life.

Pick up whenever they call. And call them every day. I told them up front what my friend had said and told them I was going to call every day. That they didn’t have to pick up if they didn’t want to talk and they should feel no obligation, but if they wanted to scream and cry and yell with someone, I was going to give them that opportunity every day. Also if they wanted to talk about anything but the tragedy that had swallowed their lives. No judgement. I called every day for many many days. Most days they picked up, some they didn’t. This was not easy. I had two young children of my own and was working a full time job and it was COVID. My husband is a hero. On my birthday a few days later, they wrote me a card that included how many days in a row I had called (it was dozens). They counted. Because it mattered.

Remember their baby. My nephew has been dead for a few years now. I still reach out when something reminds me of him or their experience with him. I donate to their chosen cause on his birthday. My children know his name. He’s part of our family.

Please support your brother-in-law as well, or try to encourage the appropriate people to. Both my friend and my sister-in-law felt like their husbands didn’t get the support they needed from family and friends.

Take guidance from your sister and brother-in-law. Keep doing what they respond well to and drop what they don’t. Don’t take anything personally.

Understand that all of this is helping along the margins. There’s absolutely nothing you can do with the big thing. Their baby is dead. It’s awful and unfair and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. What you can do is let them know that they aren’t alone in their grief or their love, and ease as many of their other burdens as you can.

I’m so sorry for the loss of your nibling. I am a better mother, sister, wife, friend and person than I was before my nephew’s brief time in our lives. This is a small consolation for the death of a baby, but it’s a real, tangible legacy. He’s there every time I agree to an extra song at bedtime even though I’m bone tired and still have work to do. He’s there every time I’m able to pull myself back from the edge because my six-year-old won’t just put on his shoes so we can leave from school. He’s there when I’m able to stay calm and focused on the way to the ER after a nasty fall and a broken bone. He’s in every hug and kiss and wiped away tear. And my brother and sister-in-law know this. They know that their son transformed us and lives in us.

I’m so sorry for the loss of your nephew.

My first pregnancy ended at 25 weeks, and what helped me most was safe, loving spaces to talk about it. Family and friends who reached out with empathy and kindness, and who listened while I tried to process the hardest thing I had ever been through, both physically and emotionally. Continued check-ins over time and not being afraid to mention my daughter felt very supportive, and continue to make me feel loved 2+ years later.

What I didn’t know I needed at the time was to treat myself like the postpartum mom I was, physically. Especially at 38 weeks, your sister will be going through all of the postpartum shifts – body trying to lactate, hormones all over the place, body in rough shape from nine months of pregnancy – without being able to hold her baby and while trying to manage her grief. If you can, help her be gentle with herself. I wish I had done all of the things I did after my second pregnancy: rested, taken it very, very slow as my body healed, seen a PT specializing in pelvic and orthopedic health when appropriate (usually six weeks postpartum or later), and acknowledged the very real and very major changes my body was recovering from.

I’m sure this feels very far off to everyone right now, but if your sister is pregnant again in future, know that it is likely to be an incredibly stressful experience for her. I struggled hugely with anxiety during my second pregnancy, and had such a hard time believing that it was going to result in me bringing my baby home. Having people acknowledge that and check in on me didn’t lessen the anxiety, but did help me to feel less alone in it.

Again, I’m so, so sorry for your family’s loss. Your sister’s baby will always be her son, will always be your nephew, and it sounds like will always be so, so loved
by his whole family.

I recently lost my daughter an hour after birth.
People say “no one talks about grief” but the fact is – almost everyone has an experience with grief, and does talk about it.
I found to my surprise that I didn’t want to talk about it with others. I felt immense pressure to perform sadness for others, and I prefer to deal with my grief privately. I’m good at asking for help, so this works for me. I ask for help and share when I need it.
Understand that your family member may not conform to what you expect their grief to look like.
As my uncle recently told me (he lost his first wife after a ten year battle with cancer) – “some people find denial at Starbucks traumatizing, others lose a child (or a beloved wife) and keep moving forward in spite of it.”
The people who have comforted me the most are the people in my inner circle, by just continuing to live life with me, and acknowledging my daughter, but not treating me any differently – I crave this normalcy. Let them be, and just be with them. Follow their lead. You’re probably going to say things that are wrong, but try anyway. Don’t make it about you. Bring food or DoorDash gift cards. Gift meaningful jewelry (@madebymary is a great place to start). Don’t impose your beliefs of the afterlife or spirituality on them. This will be more annoying than comforting. There is no formula for grief, no magic potion to take it away. It needs to be experienced, it’s a gift to experience. It is a form of love.

I haven’t experienced a loss personally, but I worked with a number of women who did as a hospital chaplain. I remind myself that usually telling the story of what happened and what it means to someone is helpful in grieving, and usually people have to tell their stories a lot of times to process what happened. And also depending on the day and your relationship with the person, it may or may not be a moment when they want to talk about it. Losses can also mean extremely different things to different people.

You could open the conversation first by asking if they want to talk about it and then if they do by asking something like, “what was this pregnancy like for you?” or “would you tell me the story about how your loss happened?” Or “I would love to hear more about what happened, whatever you want to share.” Try to use more neutral language until you hear how they are referring to their loss, and then refer to the loss the same way that they do, they might say “pregnancy” or “baby” or call their child by name. They might say “loss,” or they might say, “died”.

Even if it has been years since the loss happened, people still often appreciate being asked about it. Other people may have moved on, but for the person who had the loss most directly, it is often a part of their life forever. It can be hard for people to know who and when they can talk about something so sensitive, and once you’ve opened the conversation, the best thing to do is listen, even though it may feel uncomfortable for you, rather than trying to make them feel better or different. They feel how they feel and you won’t be able to convince them to feel differently, but you can be with them as they fee those things so that they feel less alone.

Asking directly about details based on your own curiosity, giving advice, or telling a story about something you experienced that feels similar are things you generally want to avoid, or at least not start with. Although if you genuinely have a very similar experience, like a pregnancy loss, you might mention that and see if they want to hear more about it. People want to know they’re not the only one going through something, but they also want to feel that you understand what they specifically are going through, rather than assuming that you already know how they feel.

So sorry for your sister. Our first daughter was stillborn at 36 weeks. It was terrible, and it always will be, though it does get easier. I most appreciated the friends who talked about her, acknowledged my experience, and didn’t try to ignore it or brush it off as a miscarriage/“just” a pregnancy loss (someone told me we’d have more kids – not helpful). Fewer people bring it up now that it’s been four years and I really appreciate those who do. Anniversaries are hard, so remembering the anniversary helps. And if she goes on to have more pregnancies, recognizing that they are very anxiety producing and traumatic for her. Personally, finding other people to talk to who had experienced the same thing and getting a puppy really helped me, through the grief and future pregnancies. We now have two living daughters that I’m so grateful for, and that helps but doesn’t completely minimize the grief of our first. Best of luck to your whole family.

Last summer I developed severe preeclampsia at 23 weeks, had to end the pregnancy to save my life and my daughter did not survive. It was so violent, such a shock. Nothing can prepare you for this experience. Things that people did that I appreciated: anything or nothing. Others have said this but anything that just appears is lovely. I found it almost intolerable when someone would ask what they could do to help, or if I needed anything. One friend sent two giant Muffuletta sandwiches from New Orleans through Goldbelly and I still think about those grief sandwiches. One friend just showed up and stayed with me for a few days. We watched an old season of Project Runway and she rubbed my feet and cried with me. I’ve found it healing to tell the story of what happened in detail to close friends. It’s allowed me to transform this horrible thing that happened to me, into a narrative that I have some power in shaping. Make space for her to share her story and cry with her. Ask if she wants you to share what happened with others and in what level of detail. I found it very stressful to interact with people who didn’t know, especially when I returned to work. It felt like it might accidentally come up at any moment and I had no control of my emotions at the time. I think people want to be respectful of something so personal, but I honestly wish others had taken the burden of spreading the news. One other thing, keep reaching out even if she doesn’t respond. Another friend had had a baby a few weeks before I lost my daughter. She texted me every few weeks to let me know she was thinking about me and that she understood why I couldn’t talk to her. I didn’t respond at all for months, but she kept doing this and that meant a lot.

Sending food/meals and trying to help with whatever else they normally need to care for (older children, pets, etc). And not to diminish their loss by taking about someone who had a later loss. Sending a card to them on their child’s birthday to show you are remembering them and thinking of them.

I’m sorry for your family’s loss.

Try to remember the anniversary of the birth in the coming years, and check in with your sister on how she wants to commemorate it.

We lost our daughter at 32 weeks in 2019, and many of the things people suggesting here helped a great deal. Grief is also a long, nonlinear thing, and it’s a great comfort when that date comes around when people a) remember, and b) support us in commemorating her however seems appropriate at that time.

These comments cover so much. Our daughter died at 39 weeks in 2022. Rose was/is our second child. We just had our third in December. I have this idea of a Netflix comedy special for the child loss club – well-meaning people have given me a lot of material. I have a grief mom friend, and we joked about making a drinking game for every time someone said “I’ll pray for you.” It might mean a lot to someone, but almost everyone I know in deep grief finds no comfort in it. We didn’t do it, of course, because we would never have been sober in the first year. People say it a LOT.

In the early days, I wanted to be cared for like when I have a cold…groceries, food, being tucked in, sobbing into someone. At around 6 months, people seemed to forget my daughter. I longed for people to ask about her and say her name. Around a year, I was so angry I could have used someone to rage with. Pregnancy was 8 months of terror and anxiety the likes of which I am amazed I survived…so much PTSD (and therapy). The long game is where we are now. And we crave people referencing our three kids, not just our two living children.

At each stage, I wanted people to check in with me weekly or more. I wanted someone to ask how my grief was evolving and how they could help me feel close to my daughter. I wanted people who would not point out silver linings but instead sit with me while I cried…every day. I cherish people who say her name on every single phone call or text thread. I crave a Christmas present for her or one for me that represents her. I all but abandon people who leave her name off cards for our family. I cannot fathom having a meaningful connection with anyone who doesn’t see her in my life. And when I meet someone, and we talk about our families, I tell them about all three of my kids.

Amid all these amazing ideas in the comments for the short term, I wanted to share some thoughts for the long term. I found my grief mom friend in a pregnancy loss support group (mercy, please separate the miscarriage and stillbirth groups, y’all, the experiences are so different). And having someone who knows the inside of this is profound. People who haven’t been through it are solid support for me…and she’s kindred in a way I don’t want my family to ever understand. I need both.

Also, don’t be like the rest of the world and forget about both parents’ grief. They are facing the hardest thing they will ever go through, and their relationship is vulnerable. The data on divorce after child loss is astounding. What support can you offer so they can grieve together?

Google what you don’t know. Ask for her specific preferences. Show up. Show up. Show up. And show up some more. (Not unannounced, that’s heinous)

The very idea that you want to know how to better support her is a sign that you already are. People who were curious about this were the ones who offered meaningful support. Please process your grief with those further out in terms of ring theory. I’m sorry for your loss and what the world lost in the light of that amazing child.

I’m so sorry to hear about your family’s loss. I echo all the previous comments. I have lost two daughters and one son between 22-24 weeks. Each loss was devastating and I dealt with the grief differently after every loss. One thing that has stood out to me as the years have passed, is when my friends/family remember the anniversaries of each of my children. So often after the initial grieving period I felt like everyone else moved on and I was still here remembering that I have lost three children. When a friend reaches out to let me know they’re thinking of me on the anniversaries, it means the world. One of my best friends commissioned a bracelet for me with the birth stones of my children. I wore it everyday until the strap broke. Everyone is different and some people don’t like reminders of loss, so you can navigate that with your sister, but keep those anniversary dates in mind. Your sister will never forget.

A therapist who specializes in working with widows once told me something that has stuck with me and that I personally found helpful, both when dealing with others who were grieving and also when I was grieving myself: Grief demands acknowledgement, not fixing.

This is a terrible and impossible situation and there have been so many thoughtful and helpful responses. I’d just like to share one resource for your sister’s partner as well: a good friend who lost his daughter at 39 weeks started the Sad Dad’s Club and it has been a balm for him as he manages the loss alongside his wife but with a unique POV that the non gestating parent can also have. 🩷

I had a missed miscarriage at 12 weeks and it was horrible. Keep checking in – weeks and months afterwards. No one prepares you for how long the grieving can last. Be aware of holidays that may make your sister think of her lost child. I was surprised that seeing other friends’ kids in Halloween costumes on social media and getting family Christmas cards upset me. Mark your calendar for her original due date and loss date – and reach out to her each year in remembrance – it will mean so much. For right now, meals and checking in with a simple text will mean the most. I also encourage you, your sister and family to follow pregnancy loss accounts on Instagram. They post very helpful things like what NOT to say and how to help instead.

I am sorry you are in such dark days. Loss is deeply tragic and utterly unfair.
In September, I lost my daughter at 36 weeks, without any warning signs that things had taken a turn. I think everyone’s grief and loss is different, but here are things that I found helpful that others could do for me.
– not being afraid to check in, acknowledge the situation, and use my daughter Cora’s name. Text messages to start, in particular were helpful because I could choose whether or not to engage right away.
– drop-offs of snacks, tea, and other easy to grab ways to get comfort sustenance. Eventually getting full meals were also helpful, but early on, even eating something someone else made felt like too much effort. A handful of nuts, a scone from my favorite cafe, favorite treats from childhood (for me, pringles) got me through those first days. Door dash gift cards also allow me to continue to rely on the kindness of others when days are particularly hard even months later.
-remember she is still dealing with the body complications of postpartum. Extra ibuprofen, Tylenol, adult diapers, witch hazel foam, Ace bandages for binding and cabbage leaves for relief in trying to stop milk flow, etc.
-if they have other children or animals offer care
– don’t be shy to share you are also grieving, yet also try to do your deepest grieving not with her
-MOST IMPORTANT (for me, anyways) was no one saying “everything happens for a reason” or “it’s all God’s plan” People very close to me ran interference to make sure no one said those to me.

I applaud those who have written so far for their very wise and helpful comments and suggestions. In 1953 my mother lost a child who was a twin and had Down’s syndrome, at 4 months of age. There were 6 children in the family age 7 and younger, and the baby never lived at home. Our family never talked about this sister or acknowledged her. I feel pained about this, on my mother’s behalf. By contrast, I have a sister and a niece who experienced death of a 39-week child in utero, and a 4-day-old, respectively. The statements others have made about acknowledgement are spot-on. My sister had 3 toddlers and as hard as that was, it forced her to move forward. It was my niece’s first child and I know the devastating grief must have been paralyzing.

One thing no one has mentioned: the dreaded questions “Do you have any children” OR “How many children do you have?” My youngest child died at age 24, 9-1/2 years ago. I decided long ago that I cannot negate his existence by saying I have 2 children. I always answer that I have 3 children. If I feel like it, or if it’s pertinent, I can add that my youngest has died, but I have no obligation to tell anyone this. Sometimes I have the macabre thought that if I’m asked where they live I can tell where each of my 2 older children reside, and give my youngest’s address as St. Paul, Minnesota, without mentioning that his residence there is a cemetery.

I want to echo the thoughts, ideas, and sympathy from every other poster here. I also want to add hugs and light for those who “chose” to end a wanted pregnancy due to medical reasons (the term is “TFMR” and I’m so sorry for anyone who is familiar with it). Our loss feels heavy in a unique way, just as all of our losses are unique and painful. There is a similar personal heaviness and difficulty in the wider community’s understanding, and I want you all to know that you are seen as well.
I am so so sorry for you and your family’s loss, and please know we are sending our support to you from all over the world.

We lost 5 pregnancies before our first was born. Here are some things to think about:

– All of these pregnancy loss stories have happy endings. That’s overwhelming for people who don’t have a happy ending to their pregnancy loss story yet, or at all.
– There are several good communities on Reddit that are supportive. Talking with other people who have been there is the very best thing you can do for yourself. If you find people IRL who’ve been there, that’s even better.
– Don’t show up at their house and expect to make them smile or laugh. Tell them it’s okay to feel bad. This is a grief just as intense as losing a loved parent or sibling — but the grief process is different and will feel different. And it will likely last for years.
– Don’t show up and expect them to tell you how to make them feel better. “How can I help?” can be an overwhelming question for somebody who’s already emotionally and mentally overwhelmed. Be present, but don’t be a burden. If the kitchen is a mess, don’t ask; just clean the dishes. And use words like, “Let me know if there’s something else I can do.” That gives them space to sit on the couch and stare at the wall if that’s what they need. Or space to ask you to join them in a fun activity, if that’s what they need.
– Every grieving process is different. Let them grieve the way they need to. Maybe they need to hide evidence of the pregnancy, or maybe they need to keep their child’s cremains right on the breakfast table. It’s tougher when Mom and Dad have different grieving processes.
– The essence of parenting is to love, support, and make decisions for somebody who can’t do those things for themselves. The people who lose a late term pregnancy — or choose to terminate a non-viable pregnancy — are parents, not almost-got-to-be-parents. They don’t have a beautiful baby to show for it, and they may not want to spend time with other people’s beautiful babies.

My daughter was stillborn at 36 weeks, I appreciated any acknowledgment that I had just had a Csection AND given birth to child even if that child was not living. I felt like family/friends treat you like you just had abdominal surgery and since post-partum care focuses primarily on the infant the clinical support is non-existent.I think supporting them by helping them find resources for physical recovery and emotional support that is trauma informed would be so helpful. Whether it’s introducing them to online resources or letting them know about others you have heard this happening to. There aren’t exercise classes for postpartum women whose babies died, but maybe there is gentle yoga classes that you can attend with them When they are ready. Offer to speak to the teacher if they would like to tell them what they have been through. Chances are that no matter what they learn about their loss, they will blame themselves or have feelings of guilt. knowing that there are others out there who have been through similar experiences and professionals who they can talk to that specialize in pregnancy trauma and loss…every parent I have met after loss needed some kind of therapy for at least a period of time to get them through the first year after loss.

After my first baby was stillborn, I didn’t think that I’d survive. It was his due date a few weeks ago; he would have been 3. I now have a 2-year old and a 7-month old, and my life is fuller than I ever would have imagined or believed, but there will always be a place in our family for him.

When we were deepest in grief, what has been mentioned here (food, therapy, reading, puzzles, baking TV shows) were all so helpful. As is saying their baby’s name, and remembering the important dates in years to come.

Something else that was so meaningful was friends who would just be there with us. Sitting with us in our deep and messy grief. Crying with us.

Sending strength and love to your sister and her husband, and your family.

I lost a baby at 27 weeks. I feel like a lot of people didn’t know how to address it around me, and so chose to never bring it up, which is fine. However, when I was pregnant again, people would make comments through out my pregnancy as though it were my first time. I had already gone thru labour and postpartum when I lost my baby. Yet people (who knew what I had experienced)would make comments as if it were my first pregnancy. That was really hurtful, it felt like the erasure of my beloved first born. I would remind anyone supporting someone in this situation to try hard to remember that list child was very much real and loved by the mother even if no one else had a chance to develop a relationship with them. Choose your words respectfully around that frame work.

What surprised me most after we lost our baby was that certain friends did not call or keep lines of communication open in some other way. It hurt a lot but ultimately resulted in closer friendships with the people who did call or offered support in person. My advice for supporting a friend who’s gone through such a loss is:

1) Feed them. You can’t think ahead much less plan meals and shop for food when you’re experiencing so much pain. A friend dropped off a cooler full of home-made frozen meals and desserts, and that was a godsend. Another sent a box of my favorite bagels, with lox and cream cheese. It was a much needed treat.

2) Call or make other opportunities to listen. When your friend does want to talk, be ready to listen. They probably don’t want or expect advice, just a listening ear.

3) Don’t make assumptions. A close friend avoided telling me she was pregnant until very late, assuming that I would not share in her joy. That hurt a lot. I think a lot of people also assume that once you become pregnant again or have another child, you somehow forget or move past your loss. That is definitely not the case. My child from my next pregnancy is now a toddler, but I am still quick to tears when pregnancy loss comes up in conversation.

4) Be there for the long haul. There are weeks and months that my experience doesn’t affect my daily life, but then suddenly it does. A true friend is someone who doesn’t judge you for collapsing into an emotional puddle a year down the road from your loss.

I am so sorry for your family’s loss. When my cousin experienced this, I was also pregnant. My cousin was unable to see me or my son for over a year. While the specifics of that situation do not apply to your situation, one thing I did that I know helped was just continued to reach out to her, with no expectation of a response. Every month or so I just sent her a text saying I was thinking of her, and remembering her baby, and would be here for her whenever she was ready or whenever she needed me. I imagine your sister will go through times of reaching out and will go through times of withdrawing. I think that continuing to reach out to her during the withdrawal times, as long as you expect nothing from her, is really important. I also put the date of the loss in my calendar with a reminder every year. Now I always text my cousins to tell them I am thinking of them and remembering their baby. It is a small thing, but I know it means a lot to them. Sending love to your family.