Each October, Baby Loss Awareness Week asks us to pause and acknowledge the grief of parents whose children have died in pregnancy, at birth, or in infancy. It is a week held in absent silence, in candlelight vigils, in the whispered sharing of pain that is so often hidden.

Too often, when we speak of baby loss, we imagine it only as a contemporary grief. We think of the mother in her twenties or thirties, or of parents newly navigating the impossible path of loss. Yet there is another story, less often spoken. It is the story of those who experienced the death of their baby decades ago, who are now older, and who still carry that grief in ways that are both visible and unseen.

Over the years I have had the privilege of sitting with older people in care homes, in hospices, and in the quiet of their own homes. Many have told me stories that had lain untold for years. Some have spoken for the first time of the child they lost as a young woman or man – sometimes through miscarriage in an era when such things were cloaked in silence, sometimes through stillbirth when no photograph, no name, no ritual of farewell was encouraged or permitted.

The grief of baby loss is unlike any other. It is the shattering of expectation, the fracture of future. For older people, the weight of this grief has often been borne in silence. In previous generations, the language of loss was denied them; they were told to “move on,” to have another child, to “forget.” But grief does not forget. It embeds itself in memory, in anniversaries, in the way a mother looks at her grown children and quietly counts the one who is missing.

For many older people, there was little space to acknowledge loss. Hospital practices of the 1950s, 60s, and 70s often denied parents the chance to hold their baby, to name them, to bury them. The cultural silence of the time compounded the wound. The result is that many live today with an unspoken grief that has stretched across the decades.

I recall one woman in her eighties telling me, with tears on her cheeks, about the stillborn daughter she had in 1961. It was the first time she had ever spoken of her child outside her family. “I wasn’t allowed to see her,” she told me. “I wasn’t allowed to grieve.” Half a century later, the pain was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

Baby Loss Awareness Week should be for her too – and for the many like her whose sorrow has not diminished with time but has simply been carried.

There is something uniquely cruel in losing a baby. Unlike other bereavements, it is not only the present you mourn, but the entirety of a future denied. Older people often carry a double grief – not just for the baby they lost, but for the adult that child might have become, for the grandchildren they might have known, for the family stories never written.

In the long arc of life, that absence remains a presence. It shapes birthdays, family gatherings, even moments of joy. Many older people find that as they age, as memory sharpens around the edges of their life story, the loss of a baby comes back into sharper focus. What was buried in silence emerges again, demanding acknowledgement.

For those of us who support older people – whether as carers, nurses, family or friends – there is a responsibility to listen to these stories when they are offered. Bearing witness to long-buried grief is an act of dignity. It says: your child mattered; your love is not forgotten; your story deserves space.

Care as we know well is not only about attending to the body. It is about holding the soul in its fragility, recognising that the person before us is shaped by every joy and every sorrow they have carried. Baby Loss Awareness Week calls us to remember that grief does not age out. It does not fade with time. It remains part of the fabric of who someone is.

If we are to be a society that truly cares, we must do more to recognise the historic grief of baby loss among older people. Bereavement support today has improved enormously compared to the past, but many who experienced loss in earlier decades were denied the rituals, the recognition, and the care that parents now rightly expect. I know about and am in awe of the absolutely amazing work of “Held in our Hearts“ and can only imagine the immense support that older people could have received had such an organisation existed decades ago.

Health and social care professionals need to be alert to the presence of this long shadow of grief. Care planning, life-story work, and spiritual support should all create space for people to share these experiences if they wish. Training in bereavement care for those who work with older people must include awareness of historic baby loss.

At a policy level, baby loss strategies should explicitly acknowledge that remembrance is not time-limited. Services and charities working in this field should consider outreach to older people, enabling them to name, remember, and commemorate their children in ways they were once denied. Public rituals, memorial spaces, and acts of collective remembrance should be inclusive of all generations, not just the newly bereaved.

Recognition will not erase the loss, but it can bring comfort, healing, and dignity. It can help older people feel that their children are no longer forgotten, and that their grief is no longer borne in silence.

For many older people, remembrance is not a burden but a necessity. To remember their baby is to acknowledge that their child lived, however briefly, and that their love endures.

In marking the losses of older parents who grieve their children decades on, I am reminded of the words of Christina Rossetti in her poem Remember (1862). Though written in another age, her words capture both the longing for remembrance and the acceptance that love endures, even when speech is silenced:

Remember

Christina Rossetti

 

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

 

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

 

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

 

Donald Macaskill

 

Photo by The Good Funeral Guide on Unsplash