There is no healing in forgetting, even if it were possible; we heal through remembering and celebrating the love that lives on.
Gilbert is our first child, born still at the very end of my pregnancy during Winter in 2010. Gilbert was a handsome baby boy. He had gorgeous, chubby cheeks and ruby red lips. He looked so peaceful the day we met him, his big eyes softly closed, and his fingers gently curled into his palms. After three difficult rounds of IVF, and 40 weeks of pregnancy, Pete and I were so ready to bring our baby home and settle into life with him, to begin the life we’d been planning for so long. But it wasn’t the way it turned out.
Instead, we faced life without our son. We spent just one evening and the next morning holding Gilbert and introducing him to our closest family and friends before he was taken to another hospital for an autopsy and then to the funeral home. Going home to his perfect little nursery without him in it was just the start of learning to live with this enormous and unexpected loss. But even in his absence, Gilbert taught us so much; that love never dies, that we could stick together even as we fell apart, and that we could weather pretty much any storm.
A few months after Gilbert’s stillbirth, I attended my first support group, run by SANDS (an organisation that later became part of Red Nose Australia) in October of that year, we attended our first Walk to Remember with our parents, on the banks of the River Torrens in Adelaide. This was the first of many Walks to Remember that we would attend in memory of Gilbert.
Through the Red Nose Australia community, I found a sense of belonging at a time when I felt like an outsider in my own life. Being surrounded by people who understood baby loss gave me permission to grieve, to speak Gilbert’s name aloud, and to slowly find a way forward.
Many years on, I was fortunate to work for several years in the Hospital to Home bereavement support team at Red Nose Australia. It was a wonderful opportunity to stand alongside others in their grief, learn more about grief support and become more involved in the Red Nose community. I have stayed in touch with my beautiful Red Nose colleagues, and I continue to volunteer at community events every year.
Speaking our babies’ names aloud is an act of remembrance. It connects us to the children we miss and helps us feel a greater sense of belonging in a world that can feel foreign after the death of a child. There is no healing in forgetting, even if it were possible; we heal through remembering and celebrating the love that lives on.
Much like any parent who will happily speak about their children given the opportunity, bereaved parents also love to be asked about their child. In the months after Gilbert was stillborn, I remember hoping that people would ask me about him. It was so hard to be part of conversations where other people spoke about their children or shared their birth stories. When no one mentioned my loss or my pregnancy with Gilbert, I felt invisible and unsure about whether to speak or remain silent. Even after all these years, there’s still a little voice inside me that questions whether I will be judged for oversharing if I mention my firstborn. I usually overcome this internal fear and speak his name with pride. I’ve come to realise that this is what works best for me.
Gilbert’s name had been chosen months before his arrival. A secondary loss after his stillbirth was realising that we would never call “Gilbert!” out across the park or through the house. We’d planned to write GILBERT on school forms and lunch boxes, to hear it read out at assembly and in waiting rooms. These things never came to be, so it’s bittersweet to hear his name now and to see it in print. But it’s always an experience that is so appreciated.
Two years after Gilbert was stillborn, his twin siblings were born safely at 37 weeks. Harriet and Flynn are now fabulous 13-year-olds. They love Gilbert and have always included him in their descriptions of our family. Despite never having met him, there is definitely a sibling connection between them all.
Since I began working on my picture book, Gilbert’s Cake, Harriet and Flynn have been involved in the project. It’s given us so many more opportunities as a family to honour Gilbert and express our love for him.
Deep sorrow is not easy to speak about, especially for grown-ups. And when death occurs at the most unexpected of times – during pregnancy or infancy - these conversations seem even harder. How can we have more honest conversations with our children about death? The answer, of course, is through story.
We have come a long way as a culture in recognising the impact of perinatal grief, but bereaved families often still feel invisible, isolated and even ashamed.
Stories such as Gilbert’s Cake help to normalise what is a relatively common experience for families and assist in challenging the lingering taboo about speaking openly about stillbirth and infant death.
While working at Red Nose as a bereavement support worker, I was always on the lookout for contemporary picture books that could support children whose siblings had died. I decided that one day I would draw on our own experience as a family and write a book for bereaved siblings.
That book has been many years in the making, but I’m grateful that I can now share it with the world, see it being read by families and stocked in libraries around the country.
Gilbert’s Cake is a tender meditation on grief, love and the enduring bonds within families. The story follows the backyard adventures of a little girl who draws her family together in celebrating the brother she never got to meet. Gilbert’s Cake is beautifully illustrated by Helen Nieuwendijk and published by Gilded Snail. To learn more or purchase a copy, please go to www.gilbertscake.com
My hope is that Gilbert’s Cake will inspire families to share their own stories and perspectives about grief with each other and those around them. Every family that has experienced baby loss has a story of grief and love that they long to share. It’s so important that we have books and other creative and community spaces for these stories to be expressed.
You can learn more about Gilbert's Cake at gilbertscake.com
Losing Gilbert has made me more aware of the fragility of life and the importance of support and connection in navigating loss and grief. 16 years on, I have learned that we can survive, even thrive, following losses that, at the time, feel too much to bear.
I have also learned, as we approach Gilbert’s 16th birthday, that grief never ends. It is not as sharp or overwhelming, but it’s still a part of me, just as Gilbert is. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
You can view Gilbert's tribute page here.
Gilbert is our first child, born still at the very end of my pregnancy during Winter in 2010. Gilbert was a handsome baby boy. He had gorgeous, chubby cheeks and ruby red lips. He looked so peaceful the day we met him, his big eyes softly closed, and his fingers gently curled into his palms. After three difficult rounds of IVF, and 40 weeks of pregnancy, Pete and I were so ready to bring our baby home and settle into life with him, to begin the life we’d been planning for so long. But it wasn’t the way it turned out.
Instead, we faced life without our son. We spent just one evening and the next morning holding Gilbert and introducing him to our closest family and friends before he was taken to another hospital for an autopsy and then to the funeral home. Going home to his perfect little nursery without him in it was just the start of learning to live with this enormous and unexpected loss. But even in his absence, Gilbert taught us so much; that love never dies, that we could stick together even as we fell apart, and that we could weather pretty much any storm.
A few months after Gilbert’s stillbirth, I attended my first support group, run by SANDS (an organisation that later became part of Red Nose Australia) in October of that year, we attended our first Walk to Remember with our parents, on the banks of the River Torrens in Adelaide. This was the first of many Walks to Remember that we would attend in memory of Gilbert.
Through the Red Nose Australia community, I found a sense of belonging at a time when I felt like an outsider in my own life. Being surrounded by people who understood baby loss gave me permission to grieve, to speak Gilbert’s name aloud, and to slowly find a way forward.
Many years on, I was fortunate to work for several years in the Hospital to Home bereavement support team at Red Nose Australia. It was a wonderful opportunity to stand alongside others in their grief, learn more about grief support and become more involved in the Red Nose community. I have stayed in touch with my beautiful Red Nose colleagues, and I continue to volunteer at community events every year.
Say Their Name Day is so important in helping our community to move beyond the taboos of the past that silenced and isolated parents when a child or baby died.
Speaking our babies’ names aloud is an act of remembrance. It connects us to the children we miss and helps us feel a greater sense of belonging in a world that can feel foreign after the death of a child. There is no healing in forgetting, even if it were possible; we heal through remembering and celebrating the love that lives on.
Much like any parent who will happily speak about their children given the opportunity, bereaved parents also love to be asked about their child. In the months after Gilbert was stillborn, I remember hoping that people would ask me about him. It was so hard to be part of conversations where other people spoke about their children or shared their birth stories. When no one mentioned my loss or my pregnancy with Gilbert, I felt invisible and unsure about whether to speak or remain silent. Even after all these years, there’s still a little voice inside me that questions whether I will be judged for oversharing if I mention my firstborn. I usually overcome this internal fear and speak his name with pride. I’ve come to realise that this is what works best for me.
Gilbert’s name had been chosen months before his arrival. A secondary loss after his stillbirth was realising that we would never call “Gilbert!” out across the park or through the house. We’d planned to write GILBERT on school forms and lunch boxes, to hear it read out at assembly and in waiting rooms. These things never came to be, so it’s bittersweet to hear his name now and to see it in print. But it’s always an experience that is so appreciated.
Two years after Gilbert was stillborn, his twin siblings were born safely at 37 weeks. Harriet and Flynn are now fabulous 13-year-olds. They love Gilbert and have always included him in their descriptions of our family. Despite never having met him, there is definitely a sibling connection between them all.
Since I began working on my picture book, Gilbert’s Cake, Harriet and Flynn have been involved in the project. It’s given us so many more opportunities as a family to honour Gilbert and express our love for him.
Our culture is not well-versed in the language of grief.
Deep sorrow is not easy to speak about, especially for grown-ups. And when death occurs at the most unexpected of times – during pregnancy or infancy - these conversations seem even harder. How can we have more honest conversations with our children about death? The answer, of course, is through story.
We have come a long way as a culture in recognising the impact of perinatal grief, but bereaved families often still feel invisible, isolated and even ashamed.
Stories such as Gilbert’s Cake help to normalise what is a relatively common experience for families and assist in challenging the lingering taboo about speaking openly about stillbirth and infant death.
While working at Red Nose as a bereavement support worker, I was always on the lookout for contemporary picture books that could support children whose siblings had died. I decided that one day I would draw on our own experience as a family and write a book for bereaved siblings.
That book has been many years in the making, but I’m grateful that I can now share it with the world, see it being read by families and stocked in libraries around the country.
Gilbert’s Cake is a tender meditation on grief, love and the enduring bonds within families. The story follows the backyard adventures of a little girl who draws her family together in celebrating the brother she never got to meet. Gilbert’s Cake is beautifully illustrated by Helen Nieuwendijk and published by Gilded Snail. To learn more or purchase a copy, please go to www.gilbertscake.com
My hope is that Gilbert’s Cake will inspire families to share their own stories and perspectives about grief with each other and those around them. Every family that has experienced baby loss has a story of grief and love that they long to share. It’s so important that we have books and other creative and community spaces for these stories to be expressed.
You can learn more about Gilbert's Cake at gilbertscake.com
Losing Gilbert has made me more aware of the fragility of life and the importance of support and connection in navigating loss and grief. 16 years on, I have learned that we can survive, even thrive, following losses that, at the time, feel too much to bear.
I have also learned, as we approach Gilbert’s 16th birthday, that grief never ends. It is not as sharp or overwhelming, but it’s still a part of me, just as Gilbert is. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
You can view Gilbert's tribute page here.
