Unaware of my heartache,

People greeted me with joy.

“You’ve had your baby?

Congratulations!

Is it a girl or a boy?”

So hard it was to answer,

And say the awful truth.

What in the world could

Have prepared me in my

Nineteen years of youth?

Nothing else that I could say.

“She was stillborn,” I said.

Of course they felt bad

But weren’t to know

That my baby was dead.

I went into labour unknowing,

No medics warned in advance.

At the end, one called me

Lucky to have my life!

But to grieve I needed a chance.

My infant’s condition was rare,

One in a thousand, they said.

A comfort for some,

But mine was that one

Who was sadly born dead.

Whisked away by hospital staff,

Never to be seen.

A burial to pay out for

But no grave to mourn,

Nothing to show she had been.

Apart from a few million tears

From this grieving mother.

Yet such bitter comfort,

My seven pound girl

Was not born to suffer.