Photo by Aaron Vandenbrink
Interview by Natasha Ramoutar
Emma Hansen’s debut memoir Still ebbs and flows around the reader, much like its recurring motif of water. At times, it brims with heartbreak; at other times, it is tender and overflowing with love. Hansen guides readers through her journey of grief after discovering her first child, Reid, has died––and she will have to deliver him stillborn––and then through the aftermath of her mourning.
Natasha Ramoutar: There is an overarching water metaphor woven throughout Still––grief coming in “waves,” for example. What were your intentions with this repeated motif? Was the motif added in during the editing process or was it apparent in the first draft?
Emma Hansen: It has always felt intuitive to speak of my grief in relation to water because it’s played a substantial role in my motherhood journey. You might notice that there are many significant moments in Still that happen near or in water: when I speak of the day Aaron and I first meet, by the ocean; in the bath as I labour, pregnant with Reid; the shared dream my father and I have. You’ll find more throughout the book. Even the cover art, illustrated by my sister Alana, highlights the sea. I felt waves captured the non-linear, unpredictable nature of grief––how after walking through a stretch of gentle swells a giant white cap might suddenly appear and take you out at the knees. I was also struck by the connection between the moon and the tides. There was a blood moon the morning Reid was born, and I’ve always felt nearer to him when the phase reaches full. Much in the same way the moon controls the tides, though I cannot touch him, he governs most of my days and nights.
NR: Throughout the book, there are many moments that depict a connection between grief and compassion. For example, when a father in the same prenatal group was so upset he had to leave the room after hearing about Reid, you state that you’re relieved to hear this, “not because the father had hurt, but because his act of mourning somehow acknowledges our grief in a way I need.” In contrast, there are moments where grief and compassion are woven through in an understated way, such as when Aaron returns to work and “tells me this is what he needs, asks if it’s okay that he invites my mom to stop by during the days.” How did you show these different manifestations of grief in the craft aspect of the book?
EH: I believe that grief demands compassion––for self and for others. To convey this in the book I needed to write the truth as it pertained to as many different people as possible. Grief is multifaceted and influenced by the uniqueness of relationships, beliefs, and experiences––no two people will experience it the same way. It confounds me that grief is still defined as something exclusively sorrowful or sad and I often feel that language fails us miserably here. Grief can absolutely be devastating and it can be comforting, or a dozen other things all at once.
NR: During a scene at Bannock Point Petroforms, you recount overhearing a groundskeeper say, “You know, the only thing you truly own are your words; when you give them, you bring honour.” I believe, when writing a memoir, there are many small moments like this that have the potential to be overlooked but come to hold such significance. When in your writing process did you choose to include this specific memory?
EH: It’s interesting to me that you point this out, because it was quite a transformative moment in my grief. In fact, it was the moment I first imagined that my love for Reid might be able to be expressed as a book. One of my biggest fears was that I would fail Reid and he would slip away into nothingness––that he wouldn’t even exist as a memory. I also wanted to make a difference in the lives of others and continue to help shine a light on the shadows that stillbirths have unnecessarily been ushered into. So I knew before I even drafted the outline for Still that this memory would be included.
NR: While the memoir does have a linear, chronological narrative arc, it acknowledges that there is no linear process to grief. You describe your grief as manageable at times, but also write that sometimes “Grief slips out from under my fingers and bites me hard on the back of a thigh or a veiny arm or an exposed bit of neck.” What was it like to write the ending of your book when we know that the experience of grief, in many cases, will never be done?
EH: The ending of Still was the most challenging section to piece together for this very reason. I wanted the final chapter to complete the book for my readers but I didn’t want to contradict one of the main themes I’d spent the previous nineteen chapters working to make clear; grief is everlasting. It changes, and is absorbed into our present lives in a way that allows us to move forward while grieving––and so, loving––always. It was important to me that it didn’t feel like Still had a “happy ending” because that is a narrative that doesn’t resonate with my experience of life after the death of a loved one––I don’t know many people that find themselves in that socially-constructed idea of happiness after devastating loss. As I edited the last draft of the manuscript, death came traumatically and unexpectedly for another beloved member of our family. The ending changed after that loss and it was edited from a place of deep grief. If I re-read that last chapter I can still feel that ache––feel the raw love. I hope that this serves to validate anyone doubting their own grief. It may not ever feel like acceptance and that’s okay. It’s still possible to move forward and experience joy in whatever is to come.
Emma Hansen is a writer and model whose blog post about the passing of her first son, Reid, due to a true knot in his umbilical cord, went viral in 2015. Today, Hansen is trained as a full-spectrum doula and lives in Vancouver, Canada. She is the daughter of Rick Hansen, a former Paralympian and world-renowned disability activist. Still is her first book.
Natasha Ramoutar is an Indo-Guyanese writer by way of Scarborough (Ganatsekwyagon) at the east side of Toronto. She has been published in The Unpublished City II, PRISM Magazine, Room Magazine, Living Hyphen, and more. Her first book of poetry Bittersweet was published in 2020 by Mawenzi House.