On Rosh Hashanah it is written....

One thing that I've lost in this whole debacle is, if not exactly my faith, my connection with organized religion. I've belonged to a synagogue for many years, and, on the whole, have asked little or nothing from it, while faithfully making my annual contributions. When, finally, I needed their help, there was no-one there for me.

Last Rosh Hashahnah (the Jewish new year), still pregnant, I went to services and listened as the cantor recited the traditional formula -- that G-d is deciding, for the year to come:

who will pass away and who will be born,
who will live and who will die;
who will perish by fire and who by water;
who by sword and who by wild animals;
who by hunger and who by thirst;
who by earthquake and who by plague;
who by strangling and who by stoning;
who will have rest and who will doomed to wander;
who will be at peace and who will be tormented;
who will be at ease and who will be bothered;
who will become poor and who will become rich;
who will be brought low and who will be raised up.

And, hearing this mournful list, I knew, even as I felt her kick, that my baby and I would not be recorded in the Book of Life for a good year. That, instead, she would die and I would suffer, and that no prayers of mine could change what had already been written.

After the baby died, while I was still in the hospital, I called the synagogue, hoping for some kind of spiritual guidance. Somehow misunderstanding my plea, the rabbi and cantor believed that I was telling them that I wanted no further contact with them because I wanted to protect my privacy.

A month or so later, having heard nothing further from the synagogue, I again called the Rabbi, who told me (without, I think, any particular malice), that my daughter, having lived for such a short time, could not be counted under the traditional rules as a person, and that none of the rituals for mourning or naming applied. The Rabbi said the naming blessing would be inappropriate, since my daughter was already dead, and that I was not entitled to the normal period of mourning, since my baby had lived less than a month.

When we talked about the burial service, and I told him that I didn't want any of my family members there, he began to argue with me. He told me that, unfortunately, he had had to preside over many, much worse cases, where the dead child was five or ten years old. I thought, but didn't say, that if someone had given me the option of my child living for five or ten years, rather than dying after few hours, it wouldn't even have been a close question which choice I would have picked

Subsequently, the rabbi mailed me a pamphlet about mourning a miscarriage. It was as though he hadn't listened to a word I had said. Without minimizing in any way the pain of a miscarriage (after all, I suffered one -- or perhaps a stillbirth-- depending how you count these things, with my daugther's twin), I know that losing a child who has lived, however briefly, was not the same thing.

Later, the rabbi sent me a note, saying that he had sent me the brochure so as "not to be intrusive." It's hard to understand his point of view, no matter how hard I've tried. I'd been begging for some kind of spritual guidance and comfort ever since my child had died. I would have welcomed any "intrusion," which would have shown, at least, that someone cared and was trying to help me deal with my loss.

Perhaps, Judaism simply isn't prepared to deal with the death of a newborn baby. Maybe it's a kind of gap within its otherwise extensive mourning rituals. But, at least right now, it seems impossible, to embrace a religion that, seemingly, has no room to acknowledge my loss. Even assuming that, yes, my child didn't "count," surely I "count" and surely there is some responsbility to "comfort the bereaved" (the mitzvah of Nichum Aveilim)

I don't understand. And, yes, I feel even more alone and lost. Is there anyone, perhaps from a more traditional background, who could help me with what I can't help seeing as a betrayal?