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Helena Pearl

(Submitted by Helena’s dad)

No one sees you.

Anger, humiliation, helplessness, and a deep, crippling sadness. Grief for the loss of your baby, for the loss of all the future memories, for the loss of your previous life. Grief because you love and because you love in a way you have never loved before.

Nothing is simple anymore after your child dies.

I would try to be at as many of the ultrasound appointments as I could, however on March 27^th, 2024 I was unable to attend. The appointment was scheduled for 1pm. On that day I was also finalizing my family leave with my boss and discussing what would happen should the leave start early. I had been talking with a colleague – who was also expecting her first child – about how excited we both were to become parents. My last message to her on Teams was 1:03pm. At 1:05pm I received a call from Melissa. I’ll never forget the tremble in her voice when I picked up the phone; I knew something was wrong. She told me the ultrasound tech could not find a heartbeat and that we had lost our child.

I immediately felt the world melt away. I could feel my mind trying to grasp at it, but it kept slipping further away. Frankly, I refused to believe it was true. My conscious mind thought that maybe they just hadn’t done the scan right, or the machine was not operational. SURELY our baby is not dead.

From the first moment we received a positive pregnancy test until the last time we knew she was alive, it was a good, healthy pregnancy.

I still remember the moment we first found out on August 16^th. It was a Wednesday – and Melissa opened the door before I could put my key in and – smiling – told me she was pregnant.

On Friday, September 8^th, 2023 we had the first ultrasound and heard our first child’s heartbeat for the first time. In that moment I fell completely in love with my child. It was a surreal moment, seeing this little pea size thing with little nubs representing the beginning of feet and hands. We also learned the due date of April 7, 2024 – our 6^th wedding anniversary and also my late grandfather’s birthday.

After 36 weeks, weekly scans began. As the anticipation grew closer to the due date, our worry about something bad happening dissipated. We embraced our future role as parents and thought that all we needed to do was wait for the baby to arrive. We set up all the furniture, I painted the nursery. All this time we had elected to not find out the sex of the baby.

We thought about names and had one picked out for a girl and one for a boy.

Week 36, all was well.

Week 37, all was well.

Week 38 – no heartbeat.

I immediately closed my laptop and left the office without saying a word to anyone. I first tried to take the subway downtown but there were delays. I hailed a yellow cab. Bumper to bumper traffic all the way down to the doctor’s office. SOMETHING had simply gone wrong from a technical perspective and our baby was still alive.

We were told we would have to choose between a c-section or inducing labor; then between cremation or a burial. It was at those last words that we started to cry. They gave us a moment together in the exam room and I broke down sobbing into Melissa’s arms. The clock just hit 2pm.

We got an Uber home. We sat in traffic going downtown, over the Manhattan bridge, down Flatbush avenue, and to our apartment in Brooklyn. We sat on the couch and cried.

We tried to pack for a couple nights in the hospital. Around 5 or 6pm we got ourselves together enough to get an Uber to the hospital.

We sat in traffic up Flatbush Avenue, in traffic over the Manhattan bridge, in traffic up 1^st avenue to NYU Langone on 30^th Street and 1^st avenue. Up until then the site of positive and good memories.

All the while, the world continued to spin, with people going about their lives without knowing the misery contained in our cab.

Finally, at the hospital, the doctor came into the room at the hospital and gave us the rundown of what was going to happen. While she spoke, there was the sound of a healthy, crying newborn, coming through the vent. The room was dark. It was eerie and painful.

When it was time to bring Melissa to the OR, she started shaking uncontrollably, so anxious and terrified as to what was about to happen, and – in hindsight – undergoing the transition from expectant parent to grieving mother. It hurt me so much to see her like that. I have never wanted to hold her and comfort her more than in that moment.

Melissa was lying down and I sat near her head. The only sounds were the doctor’s words and the beeping of hospital equipment. With the surgery complete there were no cries of a newborn, just a silence. They wheeled our firstborn child in the bassinet around the curtain so we could see her.

Up until this moment part of me still thought that a healthy living, crying, wriggling, child would be born. That the doctors had just made some mistake and our baby was alive. I’ll never forget what she looked like. She was small with pudgy cheeks and a bulb nose. Her mouth was open. She was our first child. Melissa had the wherewithal to ask what the sex of the child was. As soon as they said “it is a girl” we both broke down sobbing.

The sky was just filling with light on the 28^th when we held our first-born child for the first time. I have never cried so hard and for so long in my life. I had a headache from crying so much. I wasn’t drinking water, I wasn’t eating food. I was just sitting in the chair and weeping.

I have never felt so far removed from life as I had known it. I felt that I had entered a bizarre, alternate universe that I was not supposed to be in. I felt humiliation. That we had finally achieved some life milestone and were about to be accepted into the “club” but then at the last minute were denied entry. It felt like the world was pointing and laughing at us. Like we were frauds, not real people, not good enough.

On the final day, March 30^th before we were discharged, Melissa and I got to see and hold Helena again. This time to say goodbye.

Helena Pearl Stern was born in the early morning of March 28^th, 2024. She was 6 pounds, 4 ounces and 19 inches long. She was a dream. We love everything about her and will love her and hold her in our hearts for as long as we are alive.

While she never lived in our home outside of the womb, being there without her was excruciating. It felt empty. Everything reminded us of the life we had thought we would have. Melissa’s body was going through everything that a new mom would experience – but with no baby to nurse and bond with.

Every waking moment of every day was a crushing reminder of the loss of our child.

One week after we came home from the hospital was April 7th, our wedding anniversary and Helena’s due date. We drove ourselves out to Jacob Riis Beach in Queens, which is a place we had hoped to bring Helena when she was old enough. We stood close together on the windswept sand and we wept. We thought about how that day would have gone had Helena not died.

My parents coordinated Helena’s cremation at a local funeral home and brought her ashes to us. Melissa’s childhood friend made a box out of birchwood. Her ashes are inside, tucked into layers of silk from Melissa’s wedding dress. Her box is perched on a shelf in her room, which is empty except for an unused nursery chair covered by a sheet, and a happy yellow rug that is folded into a messy pile to prevent our cat from scratching it. We visit her there, and write, sit, talk, or cry.

It has been over a year now and it still feels like we are lost in the world, feeling around in the dark. It is impossible to overstate how much acting we do in social or professional settings. We are totally different people, not simply sad versions of our previous selves. Never in my life has the gap between how I am perceived and who I am been so wide. No one sees you.

Dear Raveena

Submitted by Raveena’s dad, Rish.

Dear Raveena,

It’s snowing for the first time in years. The circumstances are far from ideal. I know I should be worried but I feel oddly calm.

I don’t remember if I saw or heard you first but your cry makes me feel relieved, as does seeing you- you look like a regular baby but just skinny and small. Healthy. Though very pale but I didn’t register it at the time. I know a lot has to happen in the next few minutes and hours but I’m not really scared, in fact I think I’m more worried about your mom. I’m certain you’re strong and resilient. I’m really glad Dr. Narayan is here, he tells me to look over the tarp and take a picture of you. I think about how we had settled in for the evening and just ordered dinner, but by the time it had arrived, your mom was already being rushed to surgery.

It feels like an eternity sitting in this room. I’m holding your mom’s hand as she dozes in and out while peaking over at you. I can’t see much but the doctors sound very positive during the first few tests. I catch glimpses of your arms flailing around. I remember how you were equally squirmy in the ultrasounds. My predictions for your personality are slowly becoming validated. Thankfully Dr. Narayan is able to tell me what’s happening. It seems we’re off to a good start. I knew you were going to be tough.

They wheel you around for Mom and I to take our first family photo before you and I head for the NICU. I ask the doc if they need to intubate and he said not to worry yet as they have a few tricks up their sleeves. Things look positive. I stay with you for a short while, looking through the incubator. You remind me of a baby bird. I call you my little Birdy and tell you everything is going to be okay. I go back to check on Mom. She had to start pumping around 2:00 a.m. I’m torn between my excitement to meet you and the shared pain of everything she’s been through over the last few weeks. I come back to see you once or twice more that night. The snow has fallen and covered the city. It feels like a good omen.

The next morning all the reports are positive though you did need a blood transfusion. I realize how pale you had looked last night after seeing you with so much color now. Absolutely beautiful, full head of hair. Adorably grumpy expression just like Momma’s baby photos. And those squirmy arms. You make a lot of noise. I come to love the sound of your high pitched cries- emblematic of your strong lungs. After visiting you in the morning, I go outside to see the snow. I take lots of pictures and videos so you can see what it looks like one day. I record a message to you while I walk through the snow. Your Dada wrote me a letter when I was born and would do so at pivotal moments throughout my life. This will be my version of that. I speak to you about everything that happened. I tell you how we don’t have a name for you yet but I think I know what it’s going to be. I talk about how harrowing it had been but then I’d seen how beautiful and strong you were and I knew we were going to be okay. I can’t wait for you to watch this one day. I’m planning on filming more of these videos throughout your NICU stay, a journal for you to watch when you’re older.

I go back inside and your mom is talking to Dr. Hasan. She had been updated on your progress and agreed everything looked great. I bring Mom down to see you. She’s so scared and anxious, but we both speak to you and tell you how much we love you. We decide that your name is Raveena, which means sunshine. We have so much fun with it: Veena. Eeny Weeny Raveena. Raveena Ravioli. Little Miss Raveena. Our light in the dark.

The next day we get a briefing from Brittany the NP. She calls you feisty. We would hear that word over and over again from so many different people, and it was so evident why. You’re already crying and grabbing and getting annoyed. I’m not surprised at all about how stubborn you are, given your parents and entire immediate family. This day, you have to be under the blue light. I know this isn’t comfortable but it does allow us to see more of you. You lay there like a sleeping princess, one hand under your face and the other grasping your wrist. Your Dadi comes to visit. She’s the first relative to meet you. I tell her no crying allowed in the NICU, happy vibes only. Later on your Dada and Ami come to see you too. I wish we could all be with you together but the hospital has strict rules.

Brittany told us how aside from a few minor things you were doing fine. This would continue to be the narrative for the next 10 days, minor hurdles here and there but continuous affirmation about how mighty you are. My daughter isn’t like these other babies. She exudes strength. She doesn’t need intubation. She can eat. She is aware of her surroundings. She knows when I’m with her. She’s content to tell the nurses to fuck off. All of her mom’s independence and too much of her dad’s snark. Probably a hundred generations of stubborness. Everyone remarks on your beautiful long fingers. Like a piano player they say. That makes me so excited because I can’t wait to teach you how to play. You also have these long elegant eyelashes which honestly could come from either mom or me. And even in those first couple days you look so tall despite being tiny. I think you’re going to be tall like me. You have goofy feet with big toes, just like Sahara Bua. Both Mom and I think that you look like her. I knew you would have your mom’s nose, just like your sister did. Just like all the Alibhais. I see a lot of Ria bua in you too, her particular brand of stubborness. I like to sit and sing to you. I read Harry Potter occasionally and sometimes just talk but mostly I sing to you. I started doing it when you were still in the womb. Maybe I’m projecting but I’m pretty sure Pursuit of Happiness is your favorite song, though I haven’t given you many options. Whenever I start singing to you, you immediately start to relax. Normally when you’re not contained you do your feisty dancing movements, flailing and grabbing. But when I sing to you, you do these soft swimming movements. I’m not a bad singer but I think you just like hearing my voice. The other songs I sing the most are: Solo Dolo, Under the Bridge, Californication, Stairway to Heaven, Everlong, Smells like Teen Spirit, and Time in a Bottle.

The nurses tell us not to stroke you because it’s overstimulating. It’s so instinctual to do it so I see why they warn us. Instead I give you hand hugs. At first I very delicately place my hand over you, barely touching. After a day or two, I get comfortable holding you bare without any of the coverings, just letting you feel the warmth from my hand on your skin. The nurses tell me you like to be contained which I can now do with my hand instead of the medical wraps. I worry that you only appear calm because I’m restraining you but I come to realize that you really are more relaxed when I’m with you. I like to gently fold your little arms on your chest and give you a hand hug. I think it makes you feel safe. I love to let you grip my pinky. Your little fist is tiny but so strong. They say it’s just a reflex but I can tell that you feel it’s me.

You take so well to your mom’s milk. The toll this has taken on her has been immeasurable but she is working so hard to make sure you have all the nourishment you need. I read that you’re not supposed to have a suck reflex yet but like everything else you’re ahead of the curve. They let me dip a little q-tip into the milk and feed you. It’s absolutely fucking adorable how you react to it. You clearly love the taste and can nibble on the q-tip.

After 8 days I hold you for the first time. I’m so embarrassed taking my shirt off in the hospital. I’m really nervous, so scared about how delicate you are. As usual, you get grumpy and start screaming at the nurse when she picks you up. The nurse puts you on my chest and you immediately stop crying. Your little left hand grabs at my chest hair and suddenly lets go- like you’re appalled by the texture. But then you relax and leave your hand open on my chest. I had only seen you clench and grab until now. It feels magical but I know something empirically special is happening. You squirm a bit and get fussy here and there but for over an hour we just sit there. I know I’m always going to be able to recall that squirmy feeling of my little Birdy on my chest. I may have dozed off for a minute. It feels transcendent to hold you. I know Mom is scared to hold you but she definitely would have if it weren’t for the hospital not clearing her yet. At any rate, I hoped it would have been her to hold you first but I was so happy to do it. After a short while, mom cuddled with us. I feel so strong and complete. My whole world in my arms. We take great pictures. Mom jokes that one of the pictures looked like I was the one who gave birth. I laugh so much at that and send it to all my friends.

The day your mom is finally cleared to hold you is even more magical. She has endured so much and has been so scared for you, but I was able to capture the exact moment she established that connection with you. I remembered how intense that was for me and can’t imagine how magnified it must be for her. I know you’re going to be daddy’s girl but you look so at peace in momma’s arms, not even the occasional squirminess. I’m even a little jealous but still so happy your mom finally got this moment with you. She held you for far longer than I did and I think you could have stayed with her all night.

These precious hours where we just sit together, me singing and talking to you are the most perfect moments of my life. You’ve met some of your grandparents at this point but I tell you about all the important people in my life. There are SO many people dying to meet you. I tell you about Razak Chachu who also went through his own trials as a baby. I tell you how much you look like Sahara Bua and act like Ria Bua. I tell you about all of my closest friends, your silly uncles who can’t wait to meet you and spoil you. I tell you about your future best friends. There’s Lara who lives in New York but might move here one day. And of course Greg’s baby girl who’s going to be just a few months younger than you. Maybe you’ll even go to school together. I tell you about how even though Dada and I argue a lot, I know he’ll always come through for me and that I’ll always be there for you too.

I tell you about all the things I’m into, shamelessly trying to imprint all my nerdy hobbies and interests onto you. I’m sure you’ll think most of it is lame when you’re older, but I at least want to foster an interest in science. I tell you everything I know about the universe. I want you to pursue your own path but I secretly hope you’ll be a badass scientist who changes the world or helps us understand it better. Or if you go into politics like me, I bet you could be POTUS. Or maybe this experience will shape you and you’ll be a doctor like Ami (I’m pretty sure you’re going to be studious like her and Mama). At one point I had wanted you to be an astronaut but now I’m too scared to let you go that far away. The doctors tell me that talking to you is good for your development. I would’ve spent all my waking hours talking to you anyway. I even make up my own songs to sing to you.

(Hey there Raveena)

>Hey there Raveena, don’t you worry about nothing, because daddy’s here with mama and she’s about to get to pumpin’, just for you… Oh you don’t know the things we do… little boo… Oh, you’re just a wee baby, oh, you’re just a wee baby.

Hey there Raveena, what’s it like in baby city… Daddy’s here with Mama and she looks so fuckin pretty, Just like you… girl I hope you know that we love you, little boo.

This one always makes Mom so emotional but it’s our favorite song. I even sing it while we are at home.

The day you start getting sick, I’m not worried. Why should I be? Preemies get infections all the time. My mighty Raveena can beat a fucking infection. She doesn’t even need to be intubated. Your medical team talks about “when’s” with you, not “if’s”. It’s still painful to see you unwell. By this point, I KNOW you. I can read so much from your chaotic little movements, your cries, and your reactions to my voice and touch. I can tell you don’t feel well. Your belly is distended and it’s a scary sight. The thought is distressing for both me and your mom but I have to stay positive for both of you. I’m a little scared after the first test results, but objective optimism is still on my side. Much weaker preemies have beaten much worse infections. And you’re the renowned mighty Raveena of TX Children’s NICU. As I predicted, your body defeated the infection. Of course you did it, my badass girl. They tell me that, as long as they’ve caught it early, it shouldn’t affect your brain. At this point, I believe this was our roller coaster moment before we sail out of this fucking place and take you home. A close call, but every NICU survivor has a story like this.

When those final test results come in, there is a moment in which I realize it’s all over and I lose control. All the internal structures I had forged over so many weeks to take care of you and your mom come crashing down violently. I break objects around me. I flip over furniture, throw things into the walls. I want to tear my house down brick by brick. I want to destroy the world. I wish I could undo all of time and revert existence back to a singularity. I have failed as a father. I promised you everyday that everything was going to be alright, that I would always keep you safe. But I failed. For the first time in this whole ordeal, your mom has to anchor me. I am filled with rage and agony but I know I have to be strong for the remaining time we have with you. I keep my composure until we reach the hospital and I enter your room and see you. I fall to my knees. I tell you how sorry I am and beg for your forgiveness. I can’t understand why there’s nothing I can do. I’m supposed to die for my child and I so desperately wish I could. I would cut out my own heart to save you. Immense willpower but nothing to do with it. While we’re still in your room I try to sing to you but I can’t keep it together. Eventually we decide to move you to a calmer room without all the wires and beeping. Mom holds you. You finally meet Razak Chachu and your Nani. I can bring myself to sing to you again. I sing all of our songs. I’m doing my best to make sure these moments are peaceful and that you can feel it. Mom cradles you while I hold her. We cry, we smile, and we revel in your amazing beauty and strength. You bless us by opening your eyes and looking right at your mom, and then me. Thank you so much for that gift, my perfect little Birdy. I kiss you, hold you, and breathe you in until you leave us to be with Raina.

Mom bathes you and I swaddle you for the first and only time. I kiss you and promise to hold you and your sister in my mind and heart forever.

I am, and always shall be, your Dad.

Jude Henry Vos

Submitted by Jude’s dad, Kevin.

Hey Jude —

It’s been three years since we met you on Mother’s Day, May 8th, 2022. Our lives have changed so much since then, and it’s compelled me to stop and reflect. There are so many things we should be doing with you this year — enrolling in minor hockey, hitting balls at the driving range, beginning pre-school, splashing around in the local wading pool, or guiding you down the small slopes on your first snowboard.

Your mom and I still talk about you often. We play songs for you and always watch for that monarch butterfly fluttering close — a reminder of you, a sign that you’re still near.

Since then, we’ve moved from Edmonton to Calgary, started new jobs that give us more time together as a family, and welcomed your little sister, Rose.

A few months after we lost you, I met the most incredible group of fathers through the Sad Dads Club. That community helped nourish a very empty hole in my heart — one that can never truly be filled without you. It helped me feel less alone, and over time, helped me see you as a light in my life, even in the hardest moments.

We’re looking forward to spending time with you in Waterton Lakes National Park for your birthday, just as we’ve done every year — sitting atop Bear’s Hump in the same spot. I don’t know how that place became the one where we feel closest to you, but I’m so glad it did. Our dog Sloan can’t wait to hike up with us and show Rose why that breathtaking view is where we remember you the most.

Happy Birthday, Jude.

Thank you for making me a father.

We’re still missing you.

— With all my love,

Dad

Harper Grace Champlin

Submitted by Harper’s dad, Brett.

It has been 894 days since 11/3/2022 when Harper Grace Champlin was born still. It feels like both an eternity and just yesterday that we held our baby girl in our arms. Life has returned to a semblance of normalcy, although the concept of what is normal is ambiguous, as how could life ever be normal without our daughter being physically present.

In the two and a half years since, we’ve done our second cross country move by returning to Colorado from Connecticut, welcomed our rainbow daughter – Maren, and watched Emerson grow into a beautiful and thriving 4.5 year old. Yet all that excitement does not fill the void that Harper’s passing has left in our life. It is hard to imagine or put into words, the sadness I feel nearly every day when I look at the box containing her ashes or watch as her baby sister experiences a “first” something that we will never witness with Harper.

Tasks that used to feel impossible have become easier such as waking up in the morning, returning to work, and venturing into the public where triggers are always present. In the early months after losing Harper, I found it impossible to enjoy hobbies that I used to love. I could no longer pick up books to read as that is what I was doing when I received the phone call from my wife that Harper’s heart had stopped beating. My love for baking escaped for what felt like an eternity only to return when I decided to start Harper’s Cookies – a concept that is still more a vision, but will one day become a reality – to raise money for Sad Dads Club and for ways that we can honor Harper as a family. I’ve slowly learned that Harper would want me to be happy and that my living daughters deserve my true and authentic self.

I wish Harper was here, but she is not and I choose to honor her by committing my time to helping other Dads on their own grief journeys and by growing the SDC community so we can continue to reach Dads who need our help. Sadly, pregnancy and infant loss can never be eliminated entirely, but Harper lives on inside me as I share my grief journey with others in the hopes that they too recognize that there is hope after loss.

I miss you Harper and I love you so much.

Our New Normal

Submitted by Jonathan (Theo’s dad)

The day I found out we were pregnant, it was the last thing I expected to hear that day. We tried naturally for almost a year and had to turn to IVF due to medical reasons. I remember it being a random day during the two week wait period after the embryo transfer. My wife came outside while I was with our dog and she created a sign with the positive pregnancy test. My mind was instantly flooded with joy and excitement as I was looking forward to our new normal with our son.

Our pregnancy journey was difficult. We felt like we were given a shit hand to begin with. While the typical pregnancy journey starts with something “fun and easy”, it certainly was far from that for us. It felt like a job especially for my wife. Constant driving back and forth to appointments which were multiple times a week, constant tests and procedures, and I would guess maybe around 80ish injections over a few months. Our hard work paid off in the end, we were blessed with 6 healthy and usable embryos. Theo was our first. The experience definitely brought us closer together as this was a challenge only a small percentage of people would understand.

Throughout the pregnancy we would always talk to Theo as if he was in the room with us rather than in my wife’s belly. He was such an active little boy, he would kick constantly just like his soccer playing dad. Every night he would kick and move around like crazy; I’m sure he was telling us that he wasn’t ready to go to sleep. We saw our future of him kicking the ball around in the backyard playing with our dog Ruby.

Our pregnancy difficulties began around week 14. My wife and I were at the airport looking forward to our babymoon. We were excited and felt like after 14 long weeks that it was the right time to go on a trip. Many people don’t know with IVF, we knew we were pregnant since the very beginning. For most people it might be the typical 6-8 weeks, for us it was like week 3. The weeks felt so long so we felt like we deserved a little vacation. Everything seemed normal until around 5 minutes before we boarded our flight, my wife came running out of the bathroom in tears. She was bleeding, A LOT. At this point we already finished our time with the fertility clinic and already met with our OB. The number one thing they both told us was that bleeding is bad, and if you saw any bleeding that you are probably having a miscarriage.

We quickly left the airport and drove to the nearest hospital. After waiting for several hours they took us in, they did every test and scan. Theo was fine and perfectly healthy, but they couldn’t find the answer to the bleeding. We didn’t bother to question the doctors because all we cared about was Theo’s health. After that appointment we met with our OB, he had his assumptions but didn’t want to give us a definitive answer for what it was but told us this our new normal. Bleeding is okay but if you experience excessive bleeding then go straight to L&D. Throughout the next four weeks we experienced small bleeding episodes but nothing of concern compared to what happened at the airport.

About four weeks later it happened again. Another extreme bleeding episode (around 18 weeks) however there was a lot of fluid that came out as well. We immediately thought my wife’s water broke and we went straight to L&D. Same thing, they did all their tests; Theo was healthy, and her water didn’t break. Again, no explanation for the bleeding or fluid. The story repeats itself as now we were told, more bleeding is your new normal and if its excessive then go straight to L&D again. At this point, frustration was growing because none of this seems normal.

Finally some good news. Around 20 weeks we visited MFM for the bleeding episodes. They scanned us and told us that they found a hematoma which if I understand correctly is an internal bruise and causes the bleeding. The hematoma had no impact on Theo whatsoever. It would take several months to heal but we were so happy to have an answer to something.

However my wife’s blood pressure had begun to rise. Once again, we were reassured that everything was fine and that the elevated blood pressure was typical during pregnancy. By 22 weeks my wife had developed swelling in her ankle and face. It was Labor Day weekend and we thought let’s just go to the hospital anyway. They took her blood pressure and it was alarmingly high leading us to the worst two weeks of our lives. She was in the early stages of preeclampsia (with severe features) and we were transferred to another hospital with a higher level NICU just incase of early delivery. My wife remained an inpatient for two weeks.

The two weeks were brutal. Upon our first arrival we met multiple doctors, all pushing for termination and when we said no so we can give Theo a fighting chance, they left in disappointment. They read all the measurements from the previous hospital and told us he was very undersized (keep in mind two weeks ago at our anatomy scan we were told he was growing perfectly). A few days later they decided to remeasure him and it was clear that he was continuing to grow although he was a bit on the smaller side. One doctor even said, “This isn’t the slam-dunk termination I thought it would be.” That statement still haunts me. My wife was an absolute rockstar, doing everything in her power to keep her blood pressure down with medication and by remaining calm. We avoided socializing and any activities that might spike her pressure.

We held on to 24 weeks on the dot, it was a sunny morning when a doctor ( one with good bedside manner) came in and gave us the run down of what was going on. My wife’s preeclampsia developed into HELLP Syndrome and delivery was happening NOW.

Theo was born on September 11, 2024 weighing at 15 ounces via emergency c-section. Theo was an absolute champ in the NICU just like his mom. Just like in his moms belly, he was active and showing that he was a fighter. Throughout the pregnancy I often said that he was a fighter and that he loved proving the doctors wrong. He was so handsome and I was so proud of him. I will always be proud of him. He had his moms hair which I thought was amazing. I love him more than anything else in this world and always will. Tragically, Theo would pass away on September 12, 2024 around midnight. We were able to hold him, talk to him and spend time with him. Watching him take his last two breaths and watching his nose fill with blood after he passed haunts me every day and will continue to for the rest of my life.

Its been more than a month since Theo has passed. The days are long and they just don’t feel right. There is this weird feeling in the air that just feels like its hard to breathe. We can’t believe this is our new normal. We were looking forward to what our new normal was supposed to be. The middle of the night changings and feedings, the crying, being locked in the house. We would do anything to get those days. Our emotions swing from sadness and hopelessness to anger and frustration. We feel like the healthcare system failed us. About three weeks after Theo passed we met with MFM to discuss what occurred. The conversation about future pregnancies was inevitable. They expressed confidence in being able to help us with future pregnancies and even shared stories of people who had identical stories who went on to have children. They discussed and gave us a game plan on what the journey would like.

While their confidence for a positive outlook was great, frustration and anger grew. While were not ready to discuss having more children, it felt as if our pregnancy was a test run. Had action been taken sooner, perhaps things could have turned out differently. It’s frustrating to think that complications weren’t communicated with us from the start. We know we’re in the minority but we felt its crucial to be aware of the risks.

As we continue to grieve, we’ve realized how important it is for expectant parents to be fully aware of the possible complications, no matter how rare they might be. While these negative outcomes affect only a minority of pregnancies, it’s so extremely important to know they exist. We weren’t ready for this, and we feel that no one truly prepared us for the worst. If there’s anything we’ve learned from this, it’s that awareness and preparation are key, even if it’s painful to face those possibilities. We have spoken to so many grieving parents and they all said similar things, how doctors treating every pregnancy as “normal” rather than trying to find the small percentage of people who need to be with MFM throughout their entire pregnancy. I think it’s important for expecting parents to do their research on worst case scenarios because like us, your new normal might not come.

What Is Father’s Day?

Submitted by Mark (Abel and Lucy’s dad)

Father’s Day is multifaceted. Any holiday really is, so this is not a comparison over which has it subjectively “better,” “worse” or vying for victimization points. It’s just a true, authentic, realistic, focus on Father’s Day.

I do have to preface that societally, Father’s Day is celebrated differently. Father’s Day at times seems to be thrown in as “this should probably be celebrated” but can appear as more of an afterthought. That’s not to diminish at all the importance, and necessity, to honor and celebrate Mother’s Day, or other holidays.

Taking the focus back to strictly Father’s Day: It comes in different forms (I apologize if I unintentionally left out other variables):

-Fathers who are happy to celebrate across the board. They are rightfully celebrated, celebrating their father(s) (step, in-laws, etc.) and are celebrated themselves.

—Fathers who are celebrated by their children and families while mourning the loss of a father in their life (due to death or other circumstances).

—The bittersweet Fathers who celebrate because of the children they have on earth, but mourn the loss of another child/grandchildren.

—Those who detest Father’s Day due to the unfortunate absence in their lives whether by death or circumstances.

—Those who have lost a child at any juncture of life and do not have any other children.

—Those who had stillborn children, children spending time in the NICU, early childhood passing, etc., and are mourning the presence of the child they once held in their arms for such a brief moment, until their child paved the way to heaven for them.

—Those who had a miscarriage. I say this with all due respect and honor to the mother, but in most cases societally, the mother had the miscarriage, and the father is just kind of “there.” Fathers had a miscarriage, too. Not the physical portion as the wife/partner (which again needs to be honored); however, they do experience the mental and emotional loss.

I will continue to focus here, since these are my personal experiences. Not to diminish any of the other experiences. They are all different, unique, and matter.

I am not the spokesperson for all who have lost a child, specifically miscarriages. This is, however, my story, and one I am sure many in my shoes may feel. This is not a “woe is me” but more about sharing a perspective, a story, a heart. Also, while I do believe many fathers of child loss may feel similar to me, there are those who may not be in a place where they want to be immediately acknowledged.

I was never able to hold, touch, or see our children. Honestly, I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. We never got to that point. Yet so much runs through my mind. The life I always thought would happen is not the reality we live.

When Father’s Day comes, I celebrate my amazing father whom I am blessed to have. I mourn awe-inspiring grandfathers I have had in my life. I celebrate my father and brothers-in-law. I celebrate my friends who are fathers.

And yet, I feel as if I’m in a vacuum. Not really sure where I fit in. I want nothing more than to be acknowledged as a father. To feel like a father. But what does that even feel like?

On a day like Father’s Day, the best thing someone can say for an individual who has lost a child is, “I’m thinking of you today.” While some may say, “Happy Father’s Day,” it does sting a little as it isn’t always happy, but I do not fault them whatsoever. Societally, what else has there been to say to men who lost their children? Even with the sting, it’s still an acknowledgment that we are fathers, and for me, there is no ill-will when this is communicated.

There are two areas to definitely avoid for fathers (and I’d say mothers) of child loss:

1. This is God’s plan.

I am willing to bet almost no individual who has lost a child believes that. While their heart may be in the right place, it’s a complete oversimplification and diversion from the circumstance and experience.

2. Totally ignoring the situation.

For me personally, this is the worst. Granted, it’s complicated and uncomfortable for all; I do realize that. However, if the father has established something to say in these moments, the action of ignoring the day completely isn’t about “not knowing what to say.” That’s making the other individual justify their reasoning for not engaging in the uncomfortable. What it really does is far worse. Whether unintentional or not, it reemphasizes the awful feeling that we are not the one thing we long to be and feel: a father.

All many of us want is to feel that we are a father. Some of us will never truly hold our children in our arms. And while being able to lead through roles such as an uncle, teacher, coach, father-figure, etc. is wonderful, it will never, ever, fill the void of being able to guide our own children. There is no substitution.

I can only assume that a primary worry of any parent is losing their child before they are called to Heaven. That is exactly what these losses are. Losing our children before God calls us home, no matter the brevity.

When you lose a child (or children) the world changes, and will never go back to the way it was seen before. This doesn’t necessarily mean a pessimistic view, but a different one due to the holes we have in our entire beings. Again, this won’t always be negative, just a different way of moving forward in life, working to be one degree different than the day before.

Life experiences chip away at our innocence. Others completely destroy it like a wrecking ball. These are one of those events. Aspects of idealism forever change to realism. A switch from utopian ideals to Nietzsche’s Pessimism of Strength. Frankly, some days are beyond awful, but not everyday. And in those times I try to work hard to make our angel babies proud of their father. It’s not the “old me.” It’s a different me. And different is okay.

Many may want “the old you” back. However, that isn’t realistic. I am assuming many parents with earthly children would not be able to fathom a life without their kids (and hopefully they don’t have to), but that is the true reality that Fathers of miscarriage/child-loss live with everyday.

Therefore, the expectation should not be the old us, but rather the new which is persevering everyday; having good days, bad days, and the “we don’t know how we feel” days. We learn. We grow. We adapt. We continue to navigate this side of Heaven until God calls us home and unites us with our children.

Many of us crave to feel that we are fathers. We don’t have the physical connection that mothers have. Many of us are longing for it and have no clue how to find that connection. And maybe we never will. However, the encouragement and reassurance that we are in fact fathers is more helpful than many will ever truly know.

Here is to hoping that we can acknowledge all of the previously mentioned as fathers, no matter their story.

It may be uncomfortable for some to talk about. However, the daily discomfort those who have lost a child/children have in our hearts until we see our children again can be subtly eased, if only momentarily, with the acknowledgement and reassurance that we are in fact fathers.

Why My Child Died

Submitted by Paul (Teddy’s dad)

On the morning of Dec 30, 2022, my wife and I lived every parent’s worst nightmare. We woke up to find that our child Theodore, who we call Teddy, did not. Our beautiful boy was 15 months old; walking, talking, growing, and curiously exploring the world the way one-year-olds do. And now, suddenly, he was dead. He wasn’t a sickly child, though there were some scares along the way. When he was born, he spent his first two nights in the NICU due to trouble breathing. Then, he had a febrile seizure when he was 11 months old, but even then, we were only in the hospital for a couple of hours before being sent home, the doctor assuring me that febrile seizures were harmless. The day before he died, he had gotten a fever and a cough: but it was just a cold, we weren’t worried. A sick toddler sucks, but they don’t just die from colds, do they?

This isn’t about the pain and the horror of losing your child, so I won’t really get into it, but it’s present; then, now, and every day for the rest of my life. The rest of that morning was a whirl of police and people from the medical examiner’s office coming in and out, taking pictures, asking questions, asking more questions. All the while we’re in shock, we’re in tears, we’re screaming at the sky. And after a time, they were gone, taking our son’s body with them. That was a Friday morning. We were told the medical examiner wouldn’t be able to get back to us until Monday. Suddenly the house was quiet, and my wife and I were left there, shattered, with one question we thought we would have to wait a whole weekend for: why?

Why, is a very big question when you lose your child. One that we asked a lot in those first few days and weeks and months. Even through the fog of early grief, we knew we wouldn’t get answers to the existential “why’s” that we had, so our hope laid with the medical ones. It was the only thing we had to look forward to at that point: answers. Monday came and Monday went. Surely, he’ll get back to us when he knew something, we can wait. Tuesday came, we couldn’t wait anymore. I called.

The medical examiner performed the autopsy, we were told by staff. Nothing “remarkable” was found. We would have to wait for the lab results.

“How long would that take?” We asked.

“Well, they try to expedite cases involving young children,” was the best response we got. Unfortunately, my brother in law’s nephew had also died as a young child. So, we asked my sister how long it took for his lab results to come back.

“Ten months.”

Well… I guess we would have to wait a bit longer than a weekend. So, we speculated. We ran over the days and hours leading up to his death over and over. Was it something to do with his breathing problems from when he was born? A febrile seizure? Was it something he ate? Covid? RSV? Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe it didn’t matter, the result was the same. But, maybe…

Five months to the day after his death, a manilla envelope came to our house from the Delaware dept. of Health. It could only be one thing. We gave ourselves a few hours to prepare to open it, expecting the medical report inside. When we finally did, it was only his death certificate.

Cause of death: Parainfluenza type 3. This would require some googling. From what we gathered, it was the flu’s cousin, barely indistinguishable from the regular flu. But that was it, all we had was the certificate. No report, no explanation. It wasn’t enough, so my wife called.

To his credit, the medical examiner who performed the autopsy called us back, it was the first time we had spoken to him. He was forthright with us, while trying to remain compassionate. He told us that he didn’t believe the parainfluenza 3 is what killed him. He said there was some swelling of the breathing passage, but not enough to suffocate him. He said the truth was he didn’t know how he died, but that was the only lab result that came back positive, and he had to put down something.

So, five months of waiting and the best we had was an answer to what kind of cold he had when he died, but not how he died. It didn’t work for me; I needed an answer. I like answers. I’m the type of person who checks IMDb during anything I watch: who wrote this? What do I know that actress from? And so on… So, I decided on an answer. Based on theories we had and things the medical examiner said, I created an answer. It was possible, plausible even. But it was also tragic and preventable. It could be best categorized as a series of unfortunate events that led to the loss of my son’s life. It felt pointless. It gave me closure, but in doing so, it broke me.

I mean “full on, right back to the first weeks after his death, I need to call out of work, and I don’t know for how long” broke me. To assign someone so meaningful to me a meaningless death, I lost my faith that there was any meaning to life at all. It hurt to believe it, but I needed to believe something. So, I did. Thankfully, my wife did not.

Several months later, I was fortunate to tell Teddy’s story to a bunch of men in my support group, the Sad Dad’s Club. Afterwards, lying in bed, my wife told me that she hates when I tell people that’s how Teddy died.

“But that’s how he died.” I responded.

“You don’t know that.” She stated bluntly. “The medical examiner doesn’t even know how he died. We don’t know how he died.”

I didn’t argue, but I needed to hold on to what I thought I knew. So, I left it. But she didn’t. She kept looking. And her search took her to SUDC.

SUDC stands for the Sudden Unexplained Death of a Child. You’ve probably heard of SIDS, well it’s like that except for children between 1 and 18 years old. Like SIDS, we’re not really sure what causes it, but the result is the same: a breathing child falls asleep and during that time, they stop breathing. Whatever reflex most people have that tell them “hey, you’re not breathing, time to wake up,” they don’t have it. SIDS is most common, and the chance of it happening after 4 months old tails off, but there’s still a tail. It still happens.

It happens to roughly 1 in 100,000 children. Doesn’t sound like a lot but let’s break that down. According to SUDC foundation (www.sudc.org); in 2021, 249 children between 1 and 4 died a sudden unexplained death in the US. Does it stop after 4? Nope! Even 107 teenagers between 15 and 18 were affected by SUDC. With dozens of children in the age groups in between as well. In total, in one year, 450 US children just suddenly and inexplicably died. Maybe that number isn’t very high compared to the number of children there are in the US, but 450 families going through our pain per year is WAY too many for my taste. And despite what is listed on his death certificate, despite what stories I tell myself, my son’s death was one of them.

I understand why the medical examiner gave us an answer on the certificate, even if he did rescind it soon thereafter. We found out a lot of families get the answer we did, whatever comes back positive, though they mostly don’t get the follow up phone call. And I get it. They want to give us what I wanted to get: answers, closure. But there’s a problem with this practice.

What we didn’t get is the community of parents who are going through exactly what we’re going through because we spent months thinking we don’t qualify. I was lucky to find a tribe of loss parents in the Sad Dads Club, because unfortunately, the support for men who lost their children is so few and far between that those of us who seek it out band together no matter the cause of our child’s death. My wife, though, even though there’s so much more support for moms than there is dads, hadn’t been able to find her tribe, until now. What we didn’t get was Teddy’s name, along with the many others misdiagnosed after death, automatically added to this group. Turns out that research may show a connection between SUDC and febrile seizures. Hmm, maybe not so harmless after all, huh? His death could help researchers who are studying what causes this. With the false diagnosis, that doesn’t happen. Sure, that doesn’t bring my son back, but maybe it could eventually provide us with actual answers, and more importantly help prevent this from happening to other children.

So, now I know. My son, Theodore Xavier Zurheide, died as a result of SUDC. And it’s still not an answer, but it’s a much better one than what I had made up before. It gives us research to participate in, it gives us something to advocate for, it gives us something to strive for, a way to find meaning as we journey through this life we did not plan for. I gives us community. It gives us purpose. And after going through something as isolating and life shattering as losing your child, that’s a lot more important than answers.

Presence

Submitted by Ethan (Cana’s dad)

As a loss parent, the holiday season seems to bring a hurricane of emotional turmoil each and every year. In what should be a season of hope and joy, the bells you used to hear now ring empty. Returning to nostalgic holiday traditions, music, and movies is like looking through a nightmarish kaleidoscope, where old favorites now take on new twisted themes and meanings.

Christmas songs about longing to be reunited with a loved one become painfully relevant after child loss: “Please Come Home for Christmas.” “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” “All I Want for Christmas is You.” The list goes on and on, and you now hear every song differently. It no longer feels like “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” though that throw-away line about “scary ghost stories” finally seems fitting. You feel like you’ve become a ghost yourself. People who know of your loss seem to tremble as you walk by, though they hope you don’t notice. You’re truly a specter to them: the Ghost of Christmas “I can’t even imagine…” You’re a walking, talking reminder of the grim reality that children can, in fact, die. Without warning, reason, or explanation. Jacob Marley’s iron chains and frightening dental work have nothing on you, and the terror that you now seem to bring certain people.

After two holiday seasons without my firstborn daughter, I’ve found that one of the most isolating parts of this lifelong grief is the feeling that she’s been forgotten. That people are afraid to talk about her. That it’s easier for them to pretend she never even existed. Any loss parent will tell you that the silence surrounding their child’s death is far more insidious than you think; even the simplest acknowledgement of their child’s life can make a world of difference, especially during the holidays. This year, give the gift of being a listening ear, even if it’s just a humble acknowledgment that you don’t know what to say. I promise you that authentic, honest compassion is the best gift that you can offer a loss parent, at any time of year. In our darkest moments, your presence and willingness to listen is a simple yet priceless gift.

To Cana

Submitted by Ethan (Cana’s dad)

Cana,

It’s been one year since we met you, and one year since we lost you. Even a full year later, the details of those 30 hours between finding out that your heart had stopped and meeting you face-to-face are as vivid as ever. Standing motionless on the patio at work when I got the call that your heartbeat was gone. The blur of the drive to meet your mom at the doctor’s office and rush you both to the hospital. The phone calls that I made to your grandparents one by one. Our uncontrollable sobbing in the ultrasound room, and the complete disbelief that this was really happening. The dreadful fear in knowing that when we would finally get the chance to meet you, you would already be gone. The deafening silence of the delivery room when you were born the next day. That beautiful face that looked so much like your mom and me.

Through all the anger, sadness and pain of losing you, you have still taught me so, so much this year Cana. I now know that there is no “moving on,” there is only “moving with.” Moving on implies that I’ve “gotten over” something. That I’ve left it behind and moved past it. How could I possibly do that? There is only moving forward, and learning to be okay living in/with that pain in a healthy way. I also now know that time absolutely does not heal all wounds; at best, they just stop bleeding. Sometimes, that has to be enough. A part of my very being was removed when you died, and I can’t expect that kind of wound to fully heal back to what it once was. If carrying the pain of losing you is the only way of knowing just how deeply I love you, I will gladly carry that pain; it is worth the price.

One year ago, it felt like my world was crumbling around me. In the year since you died, you’ve helped me find the most heartfelt, loving, amazing people among the rubble. People who know the same pain that your mom and I feel, or at least have the empathy to imagine what it must be like to lose your firstborn child. Because of these people, sharing your name and your story doesn’t bring me sadness anymore, but unbridled joy. It also now brings me a strange comfort, knowing that I’m ultimately headed to where you are now; you simply got there before me. Some people can’t fathom being at peace with that idea, but that’s how this type of loss can change you. I’m simply unafraid of the end, because I know that you’re already there waiting for me somewhere. Your mom and I owe it to you to make the most out of the time that we do have on this side of life, knowing that we now live for you too. I promise that I will do everything in my power to make you proud by being grateful for every breath I have here on this side. Happy first Heavenly birthday, my Sunshine.

Love,

Dad

Kenny

Submitted by Jeremy (Kenny’s dad)

The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindsides you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Those words were never truer than on Wednesday December 12th 2018.

I sat at my desk, a normal morning at work. I am reviewing flight data we had taken out on Lake Ontario the day before.

To be quite honest I don’t know if I had been more worried or less worried about Kenny being born, since we had our miscarriage about a year or so before. Kenny had been healthy the whole way through the pregnancy. A strong boy. Nothing to make us think that we would have any issues this late in the game. Both Jill and I chalked up the miscarriage as something not healthy with the pregnancy and the baby and that’s how we lived with that in our hearts and mind. And honestly, I was very sad about it, but I didn’t give it much thought until we lost Kenny. Even now, I barely remember those days, seems like such a fog.

I’m proud to be a Dad. Always have been. Since the day I held Soph. She was perfect, well almost. I jest, but she had acid reflux like none-other. She cried all the time. I held her all the time. The only way she slept was if she was laying on my chest in a chair. She’s ‘grown’ now, 11. I miss those earlier days. Just her and I. Something about those serene moments when she finally slept, that if I could choose, I’d go back in a heartbeat to those days. As sleep deprived as I was. Two years passed and then we had Zachy, wow! What a change. No acid reflux and I could actually sleep, a little. The best part of him being born, was Sophie being there. She was so excited to meet her new brother. She makes the best big sister, as bossy as she is, she only looks out for his best interest.

Zachary loved to sleep. I’d swaddle him up tight and he’d fall right to sleep. As much as it was nice to have him be a good sleeper, I can’t help but say I wish I had those times where he slept on my chest like Sophie did. I guess that’s something Sophie and I will just share. I’m fine with that!

Jill calls.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say.

“I’m not sure, I’m not feeling very well. I have my students watching a video and I’m having pains in my belly.”

“You think it’s contractions” I say.

“Doesn’t feel like contractions, I’m not really sure. After class I’m going to go down to the nurse. Can you meet me here at school?”

“Sure, I’ll let them know I’m leaving. I’ll be over in about 20 minutes” I say

I tell my boss that I’m leaving, and that Jill may be having contractions. Everyone in the office wishes me good luck. Kenny is early if he’s going to be born today, but only by about two weeks. Nothing medically to worry about if he is.

I’m nervous, though. Not because Kenny is early, but I was always on the fence about having a 3rd child. Financially, logistically, emotionally. But I have a lot of love to give. I can definitely love another addition to the family. Jill and I can do it. We did it with Sophie and Zachary. Kenny will be no different.

I don’t remember much on the car ride over to the high school. Mostly because I think this is routine labor. So just more worried that Jill is comfortable.

I walk into the main entrance. Liz our neighbor (who is also a teacher at the high school). Meets me at the foyer.

“Well, I think he’s going to be coming today!” She says jubilantly.

“It’s too early I say, he’s not due for another 2 weeks and Jill was pretty much on time with Zachary and Sophie” I say skeptically.

She leads me to the nurse’s office. Jill is on a gurney with two ambulance drivers attending to her. “What the hell is going on?!” I say.

A nurse in the office tells me that Jill was feeling lightheaded, so she called the ambulance. Thank God for that, I will find out later.

Jill is feeling very faint and can barely keep conscience. I’m now starting to panic, but I’m not showing it yet.

“Ok! So, what’s the hold up? Why is she not on her way to the hospital?” I ask urgently.

The one ambulance driver tells me that Jill wants to wait until the bell rings, she doesn’t want to make a scene with kids in the hall.

“To hell with that! This does not look like labor to me! We need to go now!” I reiterate this a few times, without being a total dick and ensuing any panic. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime my words are finally heard and they take Jill to the ambulance. I follow to the hospital. I barley remember the trip, just remember staring at the back of the ambulance. Precious cargo aboard.

They take her to emergency. Word is they are taking her to triage in the birthing area of the hospital. I know the area well. Been there twice before. I’m not allowed to park at emergency. I park on the opposite side of the hospital. I’m in a virtual panic at this point, trying to not let it get the best of me. I have no problems getting to the maternity floor. I go to talk to the nurse at the station off the elevator and she doesn’t say a word and just points down the hall.

I run/walk to triage and the nurse has Jill hooked up to the heart monitor frantically looking for a heartbeat. They think they find it and we hear a heartbeat, but it’s Jill’s. Her stomach is now enlarged and hard. Not soft like it has been the whole pregnancy.

“What’s going on?” I say, a lot of concern now.

“I’m not sure, there seems to be some blood in her uterus and I’m having difficulty getting a heartbeat” Says the nurse “I’m going to get my supervisor”

Moments later a small woman, with glasses walks in swiftly! “Let’s see what’s going on, honey.” She says sweetly

She frantically moves the monitor around, whispers something inaudible to another nurse.

They bring in a portable ultrasound. They whip the stick back and forth along Jill’s stomach. Searching…..searching….searching. Other nurses have started to come in, now. I start to feel hot, I begin to sweat. I’m about to say something…..

“Honey, I’m sorry, but you lost your baby. He’s gone. Do you understand what I am saying to you?” The supervising nurse says, rather curtly, leaning over Jill. Jill is crying. I’m shocked, stunned. Not sure what to feel. Like the floor has been let loose from underneath me. She said it so curtly. But how, how do you say something like that in the heat of the moment, in any tone and not have it totally destroy you? I can’t say if I admired her professionalism and ‘courage under fire’ but I guess there is no easy way to tell you or someone that your son is dead.

A doctor walks in, I think I’m sitting down now, but I can’t remember.

“We need to get her to surgery stat.” He says. I really don’t remember what exactly he said, but I’m pretty sure he said stat.

“She’s bleeding out right now and we have to get the hemorrhaging to stop, otherwise it will be catastrophic” Catastrophic!? I blink. You mean I could lose Jill, too!? I didn’t speak. I couldn’t speak.

“Yeah, Doc, whatever you need to do” I say, my voice horse and my throat dry. I squeeze Jill’s hand. She’s taken away to surgery. The room is empty. I sit there for I don’t remember how long. A nurse comes in.

“Oh, honey, we need to move you to another room. You can’t stay here.” Out with the old, in with the new, I guess.

She takes me to a large, dimly lit room. A ‘birthing’ room. What will be our ‘recovery’ room for the duration of the hospital stay. I sit there for what seemed like forever. Time literally stands still, but feels like it extends on forever. I really have no concept of time at this moment. I think of my Dad, right now. I don’t know why, but maybe because I remember a similar feeling when he passed. I think of what he may have done in a situation like this. I want to cry. But I can’t, the tears don’t come.

A lady walks in from the hall. She speaks some words, introduces herself. I don’t remember fuck all on who she was. Only that she’s a Chaplin. She sits down, takes my hand. I take it back. She says some shitty platitudes that I don’t remember.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I need some time here. Can you please leave.” I curtly say. Inside I was boiling. I’ve never been able to be rude to strangers, one of my faults, perhaps? Not that it was her fault my son died. But ‘comfort’ from some stranger, who’s a Chaplin, when right now I’m not sure I believe in A God anymore after the last……what day is it now? Is not something I needed.

I sit by myself. In a dark room and it fucking suits me just fine. I find comfort in that dark, not sure why. My thoughts race, but I can’t remember what I was thinking. I snap back for a moment. Holy fuck, the kids! What time is it!? 11am? Honestly I can’t remember what time it was only that I got some time before I need to get home to meet them off the bus. A bit of relief, but only for a second. Holy shit, the kids….what do I say to them!?……I start to cry.

“Mr. Paris!?” A doctor walks in from the bright hallway.

“We have your wife stabilized, she lost a lot of blood, had to transfuse about 4 pints of blood……and your son, well I’m very sorry about that……just wanted to let you know, though he’s a perfect boy.” I fucking lose it. Full on water works now.

“Fuck, Doc, don’t say that to me.” Is the only words I can muster.

“I’m very sorry about your son. They’ll be bringing your wife up shortly” The doctor leaves. I asked the nurse how long until they bring her up. They tell me in about 10-15 minutes. I tell them I need some air. I don’t remember much after that. I think I went for a walk.

I come back up to the recovery room and press the door open, I stopped and looked. Jill had her back to me. Lying in bed in a yellow hospital gown. I walk around to the other side, she’s still ‘asleep’ from the anesthesia. I sit down. I take her hand for a minute and just look at her. We’ll survive this.

We’ll do it together. Just like we took care of Sophie and Zachary together. We have to. This is too big a burden to carry all ourselves. Looking back now, I may have been a bit naïve.

My memory is a fuzz from then on. I remember nurses in and out checking vitals, machines beeping. I remember leaving for a few brief moments to take walks. I remember calling my Mom. Not much to say except her grandson didn’t make it. She’s very sympathetic and compassionate, most likely in shock. I think it’s an abstract thing for her. For all who didn’t get to hold Kenny. Some people think stillborn and that it means that there was something wrong with him health-wise. But in all reality, he was healthy up until he died. And maybe that is the hardest thing to take, that he was fine…..until he wasn’t. The problem was that Jill had a placental abruption. A separation of the uterine wall from the placenta. Even if it had happened at the hospital, it was highly unlikely that he would have survived.

I drove home that day reluctantly, as horses, dogs and other animals needed taking care of. I also needed to meet the kids off the bus. The kids…..how do I break this to the kids? I dreaded it. I dreaded breaking their little world, with the harsh outside world. We work so hard to insulate some parts of the world from them. To introduce the harsh realities of life in some sort of spoon-fed way, as to how we as parents, think they should be exposed. The real reality is that none of us are actually insulated from life. We are always exposed.

I destroyed the kids’ world. I did it as gently as I could, without sugar coating it. They asked where Mom was; I stalled for a brief second. They asked again. I told them to sit down. I told them that Mom had to go to the hospital as there was a problem with their brother. I told them that I was so sorry, but their brother had died. We hugged and cried. I think that is the hardest thing that I have had to do as a parent. To break their world. To comfort my children, when I too needed comfort. So hard to put your needs aside in this sort of turmoil and attend solely to what your children need. They tried to comfort me too. We comforted each other. I’m proud of them.

I’m not a religious man, I don’t know if I believe in a God in the traditional Christian sense (both my parents did/do) but I am very spiritual. I feel like there is a spark in all of us, a soul perhaps. The very essence of the universe is really in all of us. So sad that we can be disconnected from that. I do remember on one of my walks coming across the hospital chapel. I walked in. It was empty. Jesus on the cross at the front of the room, a few pews and an altar. I remember sitting down and telling God to go fuck himself. That how could everything I had been told about a loving God, could he ever let something like this come to fruition. If he exists, him and I will have words when I get there. How could he take my son?

The next few days were a blur, even though I was at the hospital at all hours I could be there. My Mother was able to take care of the kids. I remember taking walks, a lot of walks. Especially when Jill was sleeping. We held Kenneth when we could. As much as I wanted to hold him, it was so incredibly painful to know that I would never know the color of his eyes. Never hear him cry. Never be able to have him sleep on my chest or wrap him in a tight swaddle. I remember the weight of him when I held him; like I remember Sophie and Zachary and how they felt when I held them. Funny how your instincts as a parent kick in at that time. I knew exactly what to do and how to care for my boy. Except this time, I didn’t. I didn’t know how to grieve a dead son. I still don’t.

The hospital asked what we wanted to do for arrangements. We decided to have him cremated. Well, Jill made the decision on that. I didn’t argue. They gave us a list of places to call. I feel like a coward now, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make the call to have the arrangements done. What kind of father am I? Can’t even call for your own son’s arrangements? I guess if I did, it would have made it feel more real, more final. A regret, now looking back.

The day that broke me was the day we were supposed to go home. I remember being overwrought about it all. Crying in the car on the way to the hospital. Breaking down when I met Jill in the hospital room. We were supposed to be going home with our big guy. Instead, we were going home with a box. How is a human life supposed to fit in a box like that? It was the consolation prize for all we went though. “Sorry your son died, but here have this!” I remember the last time we held and saw him. I kissed his forehead, said goodbye. I remember them wheeling him out. I wanted to scream– my heart broke. That was the last time I’ll see my son. A few hours later we got on the elevator to go down to the car. It was crowded. We could barely fit. People talking about their day. How could they talk about their day when we were going home with nothing!? I have never felt so empty and gutted.

I came to the realization that the world just keeps spinning. Just like when my Dad died, like when my father in law died. The world didn’t care that they were gone or that Kenny was gone.

It’s hard to say how I see the world now. Somedays I’m angry and I hate that this beautiful place can be so cruel. Otherday’s I’m softer. I go back and forth as to if this event has hardened my heart or softened it. Somedays I can’t tell. I try to honor my son the best I can. I fall short many times. I’ll always wonder what kind of boy and man he would have been. I look at Zachary and see what could have been. I feel bad about that, only for Zachary, as he’s his own person. I hate making the comparison, but it’s all I have to go on. I think Kenny would have been a good brother. I think Sophie and Zachary would have been great siblings. They honor him quietly. In their own way. It breaks my heart when I see them struggle to make sense of it. I struggle to make sense of it. I don’t know if it will ever make sense.

Crazy how such a little life, like Kenneth’s can have such a profound impact on our lives. And then I realized it was because he is my son. He’ll always be able to do that!