WHEN SKIES ARE GRAY

Henke reckons with the loss of a child in this intimate memoir.

Progressing through a full-term pregnancy, only to deliver a stillborn baby, is an unimaginably cruel twist of fate (“Death took not only my child but also our future memories yet to be made, like the intonation of love in my murmur of her name she would never hear”). For the author, an already (self-described) overly anxious person, losing her unborn daughter to a fetal infection sent her anxiety into overdrive during the post-partum period. Riddled with guilt, Henke wondered if her daughter’s death was her fault and tried to figure out what she could have done to keep her alive. As a licensed therapist, the author used the techniques that she had at her disposal to facilitate the easing of her grief following a timeline that she had set. With the support of her husband, family, friends, support group, and therapist, Henke found ways to deal with her loss—writing became paramount, ultimately resulting in this memoir. The author has a tendency toward overusing descriptors at times, giving minor details a weight that should be reserved for more important ones. Occasional grammar choices also make some passages confusing or unclear. Still, Henke’s finely detailed chronicle of her failed pregnancy, the aftermath of her daughter’s death, and the pregnancy that followed bravely explores the author’s rawest emotions, the most intimate corners of her relationship with her husband, and the constant betrayals of a thought process undermined by insecurity and uncertainty. She refuses to shy away from the difficult truths, using almost clinical language rather than gentler euphemisms that might soften the blow. The author also references an impressive mix of literary works—including The Prophet (1923)and The Giving Tree (1964)—to conjure imagery that aptly conveys what she’s feeling at a given moment. The result is an emotionally challenging journey through grief and vulnerability to hope.

A poignant remembrance with therapeutic underpinnings.