Category: Birth Stories

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!

Submitted by Mike (Rafe’s dad)

As I write this, it’s been just over a month since my wife and I lost Rafe at 38 weeks and 4 days along. The suddenness was…shocking. One day he was there, kicking along like usual, with us preparing for my wife’s inducement the next week, and two days later he was gone. 

Now, a month later, the only words I can use to describe finding out are “it was like walking down the street on a beautiful cool day and being sucker punched by Mike Tyson.” 

Rafe wasn’t a surprise baby for us. He was planned and wanted. We’d tried for a few months to conceive naturally but when my wife’s genetic test came back positive for the gene responsible for causing her mom to be four-time cancer survivor, we decided to do what we thought was the responsible thing: IVF with genetic testing of the embryos prior to implantation. 

To make a long story short, when all was said and done, we produced three perfect embryos, and Rafe’s was the first to be implanted.

He was implanted the day after my birthday, and when, ten days later, my wife’s pregnancy test came back positive, our excitement couldn’t be contained. We told our parents and our closest friends, and we began to prepare to be parents.

A few weeks after that, in the middle of the night, we found out one of our closest friends was pregnant too, and that she would be due just a week ahead of us. Exciting times, to say the least, and as painful as it is to remember now, being shaken awake by my wife because our friend had, at 3 AM, decided she was hungry and in the mean time, to text her and tell her she was pregnant, will be a highlight of my life.

We named our son relatively quickly. My wife let me come up with it and I chose to honor her late brother by naming our son Raphael, which started with the same letter. We joked I’d named him after a ninja turtle.

I was so excited, damn it. I wanted, and still, despite everything that was to happen, want to be a dad. I wanted to share my love of sports and history and movies with my son. I saw us sitting together, cheering for our hometown hockey team or introducing him to Star Wars and watching his face light up when he saw Luke’s lightsaber and made the connection that the thing lying on the windowsill looked just like it. I couldn’t wait for him to be here.

Because he was an IVF baby, my wife’s OB suggested we start seeing an MFM specialist. That was, he said, protocol for IVF patients, and so we said OK. My wife would see he once a month for ultrasounds, and for 38 weeks and two days, it was a textbook pregnancy. He kicked and danced to music and blew kisses. His heartbeat was perfect, and his growth, while somewhat slow because we aren’t tall people, was still normal.

And that’s what gets me: according to the MFM, everything was normal. But if everything was normal, how did my son die? 

Because at 38 and 2 days, my wife went to the MFM for a checkup pre inducement, and we had a healthy baby boy. The MFM noticed something (and I can’t talk about this for obvious reasons) and told us to come back two days later as a precaution.

Well, two days later, Rafe was dead, and there’s no concrete answer as to why. 

We walked into that doctor’s office expecting to be told we’d need to deliver that day. Instead, the doctor wasn’t even there. Get this: she was on her way to take her kid to a Taylor Swift concert instead of being in her office when a patient she’d asked to come in as a precaution did so. I don’t know about you guys, because I’m not a doctor. But if I’ve got a meeting where I’m responsible for possibly making a decision (and I have a lot of those in my line of work), you better believe I’m in that meeting. That’s without me being responsible for a mother and her baby. So how a doctor who IS responsible for that could justify taking the day to go to a concert is beyond me. I can’t forgive that sort of callousness and overconfidence.

The sonogram tech saw it first. She told us nothing, just to wait for the doctor, who must have been called. The doctor got to the office forty minutes later to tell us the news. My wife screamed, and cried and asked the doc to check again, which she did and confirmed no heartbeat.

And so, we got sent to the hospital, where we were met by my wife’s regular OB. He had, just that day, submitted the paperwork to schedule my wife’s inducement and was just as shocked. A doctor who has been in practice for thirty years told us he hadn’t seen anything like this in decades. There was no cord issue, no placental abruption, nothing. Just there one moment, gone the next. 

I’m the only one who saw him. My wife was put under because asking her to push when there was no reward at the end was pointless, and the docs did a c-section. Rafe came out silent, looking like a mix between my wife and I. He was beautiful, but I didn’t want to hold him. Instead, I held my wife and made the call to make sure she didn’t see him afterwards. I focused on her, because as much as I loved my son, I understood I wouldn’t make it through this without my wife. So, I silently said kaddish for him and held my wife before I was escorted out.

The last month has been…a blur? Yeah, that’s probably the best word to describe it. We had to return all the gifts, the stroller and his bedroom set. We put some things in storage for the next baby and have watched our dog occupy what should have been the nursery. It’s like she knows there should be more in there, and doesn’t understand why there isn’t.

But thought of having another child have been the hardest. Rafe was our first pregnancy, and I don’t know how I’ll handle the next one. The best information we have was that it may have been a sudden infarction in the vessels of the umbilical cord. But we don’t know for sure, and that’s part of what scares me. It’s like a stroke, and there’s absolutely nothing we can do to predict it happening again. Beyond that, I’m absolutely terrified of being the kind of dad who over-parents because I can’t handle losing another one. I was so excited. And now, I’m terrified to be that excited again.

Mike

Submitted by Andy (Alice’s dad)

Alice’s Story:

It’s been two years since the worst day of my life, the day my first child was born. That is a sentence I never thought I would write, but it’s my sad reality.

The first 5 months of 2021 was the most exciting time in my wife and my life together. Late the previous year we had decided to expand our family, and shortly after that we found out that she was pregnant. I remember she was so excited, she couldn’t wait until Christmas to give me my gift, a positive pregnancy test. Our baby girl, Alice we decided, was to be the first grandchild on my wife’s side (the 7th on mine, but the excitement was still there), and everyone was overjoyed with planning. Even better, her sister and brother-in-law announced they were pregnant only a month later. The whole family was abuzz getting ready for the two new additions, and planning out all the exciting things we would get to do now that there would be little ones running around.

I can still remember every doctors visit, and the nervousness coupled with anticipation that every single one brought. My wife and I had a miscarriage a few years earlier, and that experience had scared us into waiting longer for children. That feeling never went away through the pregnancy, and every little detail that seemed abnormal raised alarm bells. Alice was small, but through everything all the tests showed a healthy growing baby. I can’t count the number of times I had to talk my wife down, tell her everything was OK, being a bit small didn’t mean anything. We were past the 12 week mark, so that meant we had nothing to worry about, right? If only I knew then how wrong I was.

In early June, life was getting chaotic. We were putting the finishing touches on the baby’s room, the baby shower was right around the corner, and we were scrambling to make up for lost time on a daycare. So when my wife started panicking one week, saying that something felt wrong and she didn’t think Alice was moving, I brushed it off as nerves, assured her everything would be fine, and to not worry about it. But if it would help her feel better, I encouraged her to go ahead and call the doctor. I think my encouragement pushed her to hold off a couple of days, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that something about her reaction had me scared too. I still find myself reliving constantly, because deep down I’ll never know if those couple of days may have made a difference, and if my positivity may have cost my daughter her life.

That Friday, I left work early to drive to the doctor’s office. My wife had called early that morning, and they told her to come in right away (it had been a few days since she felt a kick at this point). The entire hourlong drive from work I was a nervous wreck. I remember thinking through every worse case scenario, making up my mind about who I would save if I had to make an impossible choice, but still trying to convince myself that everything would be OK. When I finally got there, I remember seeing the doctor in the hallway, and his sullen look and the words he spoke to me, “Did Stephanie tell you already?”, before quickly rushing me to the room when I answered “no,” confirmed our worst fears. There was no heartbeat, our daughter was gone.

The next few days were a blur. I remember going home and immediately taking apart the crib I had just put together the week before. I had to have something to do, to distract myself from the painful reality my life had become. Our families quickly rushed into town, and we scheduled an induction for the next day. We spent the entire weekend in the hospital, and the entire time I kept myself as busy as possible, making sure my wife was properly taken care of, that she would make it through and be alright. I did not allow myself to stop worrying about her, because it would mean I’d have to acknowledge the reality of what had happened.

That Sunday, June 13th, 2021, our daughter finally arrived, and with her every emotional wall that I had built up came crumbling down. I had always been told that you never truly feel like a father until you hold your child in your arms, and I can confirm with absolute certainty that that was true for me. Unfortunately, that moment that I had always built up to be the pinnacle of happiness in my life turned out to be my very worst. I still have flashbacks sometimes to that moment, holding my baby girl in my arms, unable to contain the flood of tears and despair, knowing that my job, to protect my family at all costs, had been a failure. Everything else in my life melted away, and all that was left was an empty pit where my heart used to be.

The next few months were the most trying of my life, and of my marriage. While my wife was a wreck, barely able to eat and under constant surveillance as her family and I worried about what she might do, I kept myself as busy as possible. I forced myself to be the rock, to keep our life together and be the support that she needed, even though deep down I was as broken as she was. I went back to work after a week, choosing not to share openly what happened for fear of having to relive it, but reliving it all the same every time someone asked me when I would be on paternity leave or when my daughter was coming. I was constantly worried I would be let go because I just could not maintain my concentration, and most days I didn’t care as I felt life could not get worse than it was.

Over time, my wife and I slowly built back the pieces. She worked with many counselors, grief coaches, and support groups, and eventually she convinced me to join one of them with her. Sharing my pain with others going through the same was a mixed bag, but providing encouraging words to others and having them tell me how impactful they were helped me to push myself down my own path to recovery. During that time, we also learned a lot about our friendships. Some of our closest friends before that time are people we don’t talk to as much anymore, and some people we thought of only as good acquaintances are now some of our most trusted confidants. You learn a lot about those around you when you see who is there to support you when you’re in need.

After a tough holiday season when we refused to celebrate (spending Christmas getting drunk and gambling away our money in Las Vegas), we decided we should try to rebuild, and almost immediately learned we were pregnant again. That pregnancy was unlike the first, we refused any celebrations, and barely did any planning as we wanted to let ourselves down easy when we inevitably lost another child. But despite our fears, our son, William (Liam), was born on September 22, 2022.

We are now nearly 9 months past our son’s birth, and despite the happiness of having a living child, the heaviness of having lost our daughter still weighs on us. Not a day goes by when we don’t think of her, and wonder how things would have been different were she here. Every new milestone that our son, or our nephew (who would have been 1 month younger than Alice had she made it to her due date) experiences is bittersweet, as the excitement of watching them grows only accentuates all the experiences we will never have with Alice.

Though life gets better, and dealing with the loss gets easier, two years on I know that the pain will never go away. Instead, I try to honor her memory to create a positive legacy out of a tragedy. For her birthday, we will be buying all the gifts she deserved and donating them to local children’s shelters and hospitals. I did not know about the sad dads club when I went through this, but I hope that sharing my experience can help others going through the rough time, and that Alice’s legacy can be making life easier for others going through the worst time of their lives.

Submitted by Luke (Aila’s dad)

Opening a birthday card one week before the actual day is always a treat, but more so in 2022. My wife, Michaela used the opportunity to improve a bad day at work by giving me a card filled with a sticker family (which she knows I hate), featuring the two of us, our two cats and a baby; her special way of telling me this is our year. Excitement does not hold enough weight – we were over the moon, and quickly consumed by preparing for everything baby. We decided not to find out the gender and simply referred to our precious gift as Bagel because bagels are delicious.

Six months later, we entered June ready to take on the final three months. As the month got started, Michaela began to experience severe abdominal pain, nausea and other symptoms that warranted a visit to our local ER. While there, we were informed it was likely a gallbladder issue and were provided with some pain meds before going on our way.

One week later from the day after that initial visit, my wife was in more pain than ever, unable to be still, let alone get sleep. We once again visited the ER in the early morning hours, with the thought that the gallbladder was still the culprit. After traveling back and forth between ER and Labor and Delivery, while doctors argued over whether they should remove the gallbladder or not, we finally had an OB involved. The OB took surgery on a pregnant woman off the table and began to focus on the ultrasound which Michaela had done the day after her initial ER visit – we learned her focus was on Bagel measuring at 20 weeks, despite Michaela being 24 weeks pregnant. There were no additional details shared – or maybe there was? – but I was easily distracted by the OB who was beginning to coordinate a transfer to Calgary for more specialized care. Within the hour, my wife was on her way in the back of an ambulance for further assessment there.

Neither of us had slept, so I went home to get some sleep before travelling up myself. When I woke up, I felt hungover – it quickly passed when I saw the notification jam on my phone. Not only had my wife made it to Calgary, but she had news she did not want to share via virtual communication. I ate the worst Subway of my life, and hit the road, making the trip in record time. The entire drive, I knew what was coming – I prepped what I would tell the cop who could pull me over for speeding, forecasted managing my headspace for Calgary rush hour and for what would happen when I got to the hospital.

I will never forget the first thing my wife said when I arrived – “I don’t think we are leaving here with our baby”. I learned she had been diagnosed with HELLP Syndrome, a type of preeclampsia which put both my wife and Bagel in danger due to impact on the liver and placenta. My wife then presented me with data showing the likelihood of survival, comorbidities, and statistics based on the introduction of steroids for Bagel. The data told the entire story, and I felt helpless that my mind was made up for me before I even had the chance to think, talk, and even breathe. We were told we did not have the time, and labour would need to be induced as soon as possible to save Michaela.

While in the hospital, the gender remained a secret. Since receiving the birthday card, I knew it was a girl and nothing was going to change that – my wife, friends, and everyone else thought boy. We eventually asked a nurse to let us know what to expect. We were informed that we were having a baby girl; being right has never hurt so much.

We were settled in a new room, as much as you can use the word settled. Amazing staffing and accommodations cannot distract you enough from heartbreak. Michaela received her first induction at 0200 AM on June 10. Our first day was full of naps, anticipation, and helpless wonder – we eventually went to sleep for the day at 1030 PM, getting ready for the next induction sequence in a couple of hours. When that time came at 1230 AM on June 11, we discovered that our daughter, Aila Marley Palmer was born as a stillbirth, still in her amniotic sac as a veiled birth. She was beautiful and smiling – totally at peace. The doctor allowed me to cut Aila’s umbilical cord, a moment very special to me.

Over the next two hours, we were given time alone with Aila. I have always joked time does not exist, and at that moment, it did not. The time we had with her while a blur of emotion, will never be forgotten – the way she smelled, her smile, and her tiny body. We settled on Marley as a middle name in honour of Michaela’s family dog, who passed away the evening before we were transported to Calgary. We know Marley was waiting for Aila, ready for her next assignment.

My wife summarized the anguish best “It is hard to describe the existence of both the deepest pain and love sharing space together.”

After four days in the hospital, we were expected to return to normal life. “Normal life” from when? Our last 6-months of expecting, or the state full of hopes and dreams before Aila? We did not know, nor did we realize we were becoming new people – we were now parents, baby or not, it cannot be taken away from us. There was some strength in that sentiment, which I think allowed us to lean on one another further as we figured this out ourselves.

I should have left the hospital with my two girls, one a loving mother, and the other a bright-eyed girl with unbridled potential – I left with my wife, which I am forever grateful for as I could not imagine manoeuvring through the loss of both. I am forever changed and the void from not leaving with Aila feels impossible to fill.

We may be broken but are healing. For six months we walked around our community park imagining the day Aila would be with us in her stroller, eventually holding our hands as she gained confidence walking. Now, it feels like we are gaining our confidence walking, feeling Aila’s love hold our hands. We were robbed of those moments we dreamt of, but baby girl, we promise to keep dreaming.
– Dad

Submitted by Evan (Noelle’s dad)

We had our first prenatal appointment on October 26th, 2021. The doctor used a small sonogram to show us our baby, and all we could see of her was a tiny pulsing pixel on the screen. That was Noelle’s heart. At the time, we had no idea that her tiny and impressive sign of life, would also be her cause of death. On Valentine’s Day 2022, right in the middle of American Heart Month, and on the very day we are meant to celebrate love, we were told that the right side of Noelle’s heart didn’t form correctly and that it would lead to severe complications.

Five days later, as a means of escape, we went to the Botanical Gardens. While visiting the butterfly exhibit, a blue butterfly with a broken right wing landed on my wife’s back. We knew it from the second we left our appointment, but that blue butterfly was further confirmation that Noelle is more than her diagnosis, she is beauty and sadness, healing and pain, grief and joy. That butterfly was a little bit different than all of her friends, and she struggled a little more to fly, but she flew free among her friends and she was most amazing butterfly in the garden. We quickly started noticing butterflies everywhere. On clothes, on posters, on trees and bushes outside. Noelle was with us, not only physically but spiritually.

The next three months were a whirlwind of highs and lows, of hopes and fears. One symptom would improve, and another would get worse. Twice a week, we would walk away from the hospital with another unpronounceable diagnosis to add to Noelle’s extensive list. That would be accompanied by hours our sifting through medical websites and online testimonials, desperately searching for any sign of hope or any success story of babies like Noelle. But Noelle was unique. Her diagnosis was unique, her treatments were unique, and her fighting spirit was unique. The intervals between those doctors visits are when we had the good memories: rewatching the ultrasound videos on loop to see Noelle move her head, eyes, arms, and legs; feeling her dance along to music in the car and while we are shopping; encouraging her to kick us by feeding her lemonade or hot Cheetos.

After countless trips to the hospital, imaging, 2 hour drives for appointments, phone calls, Zoom meetings, and genetic testing, Noelle showed us that she was ready to emerge from her cocoon and take her chances with the outside world.

On May 10th, 2022, 2 days after Mother’s Day, Noelle was born at 10:06 in the morning. She was 4 lbs, 3 oz, 17 inches long and had a head full of magnificent red hair. And just like a butterfly, her life was not measured in years or even months, but in fleeting, awe-inspiring moments. 62 minutes. She fought for her life for 62 short minutes before she decided that it was time for her to rest. She decided it was time for us to stop fearing for her. To most people, 62 minutes is no more than one episode of a TV show or a commute to and from work. But for her mom and dad, 62 minutes with Noelle in our arms felt like an eternity of bliss and serenity.

Just because her life was brief, does not mean it was tragic. When we announced our pregnancy to my parents we gave them a onesie with a card attached that quoted a conversation between two best friends. It said: “How do you spell ‘love?’ Asked piglet. “You don’t spell it, you FEEL it” replied Winnie the Pooh.” We used that quote to announce Noelle’s entrance into the world. Now, one very short year later, we have just passed the anniversary of her diagnosis. And there is another conversation between those same friends from the Hundred Acre Wood: “How does one become butterfly?’ Pooh asked pensively.
‘You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar,’ Piglet replied.
‘You mean to die?’ asked Pooh.
‘Yes and no,’ he answered. ‘What looks like you will die, but what’s really you will live on.”
Butterflies pollinate plants and help more of them grow. Without butterflies, there would be far less love being spread, and therefore, less beautiful flowers. Without Noelle, there is certainly a lot less beauty in the world. But there doesn’t have to be less love.

Noelle Harper Cipra. We will follow your lead and emerge from this experience stronger than ever and we will be transformed by your birth in a way that we will one day fly alongside you among the clouds. Because you are still our daughter, and you are still a granddaughter, and a niece and a cousin, a friend, and the prettiest angel in Heaven.

So to all of the parents out there reading this who have been through a similar experience, I pray that you acknowledge your child’s beauty every time you see a butterfly (or any other sign that they are close), acknowledge their strength every time you feel scared, and acknowledge their love every time you feel your own heart beat.

We love you Noelle. And we miss you more than words can describe. And most of all, we are so proud of what you have done and everything you will do.

Love, Evan (Noelle’s Dad)

Submitted by Rob (Theo’s dad, and from 4theo.co.uk)

For as long as I could remember the one thing I wanted in life was to be married and have children, so when Rob and I discovered that we were excepting we couldn’t have been happier. I loved being pregnant knowing that inside was a beautiful little baby, I had a text book pregnancy, the excitement was building as we had decided not to find out the sex. Making it 39 weeks pregnant we thought nothing bad could happen at such a late stage and that as I’d had no problems and all my pre-natal meetings were fine. On Monday 3 August I had a midwife appointment, I listened to the baby’s heartbeat and all seemed OK. She tested my urine and said I had a trace of protein but said that this is normal for this stage of the pregnancy, however once I had left the appointment I went in to Dr Google mode which said protein in the urine could be a sign of pre-eclampsia to be honest I really didn’t think that much into it as the midwife had said it was normal at this stage. On Wednesday 5 August I had a really bad headache, I tried everything to shift it but nothing would work, the baby had been moving but not as normal it was more a jerky kind of movement. Something just didn’t feel right. After chatting with Rob I decided to call the midwife unit. I explained about how I was feeling and they said for us to come down. This was about 10pm, all I had in my head was the pre-eclampsia I had been looking at earlier in the week.

After a little wait, we were seen. I had my blood pressure taken several times, looking back now its because they couldn’t believe the readings they were getting for someone that appeared to look so well, in fact I got up and walked across the labour ward into another bed which they couldn’t believe. I really didn’t think anything was wrong, then suddenly they were a lot of people in the room asking a lot of questions, when we asked what was going on they said I had very severe pre-eclampsia and it was said that the baby would need to come straight away. Shear panic set in and I got really upset as I was so worried about the baby, not really fully understanding what pre-eclampsia was, I didn’t even think that there could actually be something wrong with me, suddenly I was being put into a gown and cannula’s were being inserted, into both wrists, elbow and my foot.

It took a while for them to insert a cannula in my wrist, I later found out it was because my veins had started to shut down, I was just wishing they would get on with it and get our baby out! It was then decided I would need a general as this would be quicker – which was my worst nightmare not to be able to see my baby being born and being separated. I was wheeled down to the surgery and I said goodbye to Rob. They initially tried to put me to sleep but my cannula had tissued so they had to try somewhere else, all the time I could hear the baby’s heart rate dropping, I just wanted this nightmare to be over!!

The next thing I remember is waking up to a nurse and asking what I had, she said it was a boy and your husband has named him Theo. I was so pleased, next I remember Mum and Rob being over me and I asked if he was OK, and mum told me he was really poorly.

Once I finally came around it was explained that Theo has stopping breathing inside of me, as my blood pressure was so high (216/110) that this had been forcing the body to pump the blood to him. Once I was in hospital, before they could deliver Theo safely they needed to bring my blood pressure down as I was extremely close to having fits and a possible stroke, something I didn’t realise at the time, as they brought it down, this in turn then cut the supply to Theo. They had to resuscitate Theo for 35 minutes before they finally found a heartbeat. Thankfully the consultant was on call so therefore needed to make her way into hospital if she had been in, they would have stopped after 15 minutes meaning we wouldn’t have met out baby boy alive.

Once they found a heartbeat he was whisked off to the Neonatal ward. As Theo had stopped breathing for such a long time he suffered a massive brain injury and he probably wouldn’t survive if he did then he would be severely brain damaged. They actually discovered that he could breathe by himself when he came down to the ward when I met him and have a cuddle at about 5 hours old. He managed to live for 44 beautiful hours, where we got the opportunity to change him, bathe him and see his ridiculously long toes and to spend some time with immediate family meeting and saying goodbye to our baby.

I stayed in hospital for a week after Theo was born as I was so poorly, I had to have 24 hour midwife care for some of this time and was on a magnesium sulfate drip for the prevention of seizures. My blood pressure was difficult to control and I ended leaving hospital taking three different types of blood pressure medication to control it, having to take medication every three hours until gradually it could be reduced as my blood pressure started to come down. Going through this type trauma has left me feeling extremely anxious, still even to this day.

It breaks my heart that up until this point Theo was a healthy baby boy and it was just this horrible disease that killed him. All the signs of pre-eclampsia are unfortunately also normal pregnancy related problems, such as swelling of the feet, face and hands, headaches, pains just above the ribs and vision problems. My blood pressure had been normal on the Monday when it was checked and its scary to think that something like this can literally spike within days. I was told that I was lucky to be alive, if I hadn’t gone in that night I would have passed away in my sleep – this is something that changes you as a person and something that even today I really struggle with.

Once you have had a miscarriage, stillbirth or neonatal death the joy in subsequent pregnancies is diminished. The innocence is gone, you realise that death can happen and the fact that you might not be able to take your baby home. Being pregnant was something I loved so much, and now I dread the thought of future pregnancies knowing that there’s a chance that it could happen again.

My message to any expectation mums out there is to be aware of what is happening with your body and to always trust your instincts, if something doesn’t feel right get straight down to the midwife unit. Please please never listen to people telling you what you should be feeling, it’s your body you know what is right for you and your baby. The long term dream would be that there are more scans offered in pregnancies, especially in women’s first pregnancies as you don’t know how your body will react. Neither my mum or sister had pre-eclampsia so I was classed as low risk. I think all first pregnancies should be treated as high risk until a base line is established for that woman. I was told that Theo had been struggling for a couple of weeks and he had stopped growing (he was only a tiny 4lb 15oz of perfection when he was born – again all my measurements had been normal) if I had been treated as high risk and if I had a scan later on in my pregnancy – in the third trimester then Theo could still be here today.

If the money raised and sharing our story helps just one person then they would mean the world to us, if we could stop one person from going through this excruciating pain of losing a child then our job is done.

I don’t think most people truly understand how much is lost when a baby dies. You don’t just lose a baby, you also lose the 1, 2, 10 and 16 year old they would have become. You lose Christmas mornings, loose teeth and first days of school. You just lose it all. Not knowing what Theo would have been like as he grew up is just sometimes just to hard to even think about. It’s true that when you lose a child, you are haunted with a lifetime of wonder. I do believe that I am the lucky one, the lucky one that knew Theo, who carried him and whose life will now be divided into a before and after because of him. One thing I do know about our baby boy was he was an incredibly strong little fighter, something his mummy and daddy are still learning to do. We will keep fighting to keep Theo’s memory going in a hope that it will help someone else.

Submitted by Eric (Hadley’s dad)

My partner, Jill, and I struggled with infertility for several years before we finally received a positive pregnancy result. This day was the happiest day of my life. However, it would be short-lived. During the fetal anatomy ultrasound at 19 weeks into the pregnancy, we learned that our daughter, Hadley Maeve, had several severe brain malformations. We learned over the next four weeks, her prognosis was “grim”, and if she were even to make it full term – which they believed to be highly unlikely – she would have a shortened lifespan; would likely not be able to see or hear; would not recognize us; would be unable to sit, stand or walk; would never live independently; would undergo many medical procedures in order to keep her alive, none of which would help to improve her condition; would have uncontrollable seizures which could not be ameliorated by medication; would not be able to breathe or eat on her own; and would be in pain and suffering during the entirety of her short life.

So, my partner and I made the decision that no parent should ever have to make and chose to spare her any pain by inducing labor early at 23 weeks gestation.

One of the things I kept thinking of when I knew that Hadley wasn’t meant to stay in this world, was that I would never get to feel her hold my hand or finger. I was so jealous that my partner was able to carry her, and have that contact with her, but that I would have nothing. On February 19, 2021, at 2:08 p.m., our beautiful Hadley Maeve was born alive, if only for a few precious moments. In those moments with us, as she lay on Jill’s chest, she recognized Jill’s touch, and squeezed my finger. My heart melted, and I think about that amazing gift she gave to me every day. Hadley passed shortly thereafter, and we spent the next 48 hours with her, holding her, caressing her, dressing her, swaddling her, reading to her, singing to her, taking pictures with her, and cherishing every moment we could, knowing that we only had a short time to create a lifetime of memories with her.

I tell people that when a parent loses a child, their entire world turns upside down. I’ve described it to others as feeling as though a piece of your soul has been pulled from your gut. Parents are not supposed to survive their children. In my naivete, I believed that to be a truism, but many of us who have peeked beyond this veil of ignorance know this not to be so. As a society, we are not taught to grieve, to express the level of sorrow that accompanies loss. This is in part due to how Western culture deals with death, dying, and grief. The Western approach – incorrectly – has been to “fix” those who are grieving, believing it to be a deviation from the norm; something that is abnormal; something that needs to be fixed. In actuality, grief just is, it just needs to be, and it is a part of all of our lives, whether we chose to admit it or not. The truth is that grief and loss make indelible marks on each of our lives, shaping us into who we are at this very moment.

After our loss, we reached out to Carol McMurrich over at Empty Arms Bereavement Support. This organization has been integral in our grief journey. I’ve been fortunate to be a part of several closed dad’s groups through Empty Arms, and nearly two years out from our loss, have now shifted into the role of being a facilitator of that group. I am honored to fulfill that role and continue to learn from fellow loss dads every time we meet to discuss dads’ unique grief experiences.

Apart from Empty Arms, my time in nature and my work with the elements, and energy medicine have been fundamental in my grief journey. I enjoy working with other practitioners to develop and host workshops for fellow loss parents. Through ritual and community, we work to restore balance in our lives and to visit our healing process.

If you’re interested, I would be honored to speak with you and to share my experiences and journey with you and your audience through the podcast. Whatever I can do to help and support fellow sad dads everywhere…I’m in!

Thank you so much for creating this space to honor the unique experience that loss dads go through.

Many blessings to you.

Warmly,
Eric Atstupenas (Hadley Maeve’s Dad)

Submitted by Brett (Harper’s dad)

My daughter, Harper Grace, was delivered stillborn on November 3, 2022. The day before was like any other – I went to work where I had a conversation with a coworker about my excitement for our impending arrival the day after Thanksgiving and my wife stayed home with our two-year old daugther Emerson. That night, after putting our daughter to bed, my wife told me that she hadn’t felt our baby moving and that something was wrong. She went to the ER by herself while I stayed with our daughter. Within a few minutes of arriving at the hospital, my wife called with the devastating news – our baby didn’t have a heartbeat. The remainder of the night is a blur – my parents rushed to our house to babysit Emerson while I gathered myself to go to the hospital so that I could be there when our daughter was born. Delivered via c-section, I vividly remember how quiet the operating room was – there was no sound of a baby crying – only the voices of the doctors and nurses as they worked and the quiet sobs of two grieving parents.

Now, two months removed from our loss, life around me is slowly returning to normal. I’m returning to work, chores still need to be done, and Emerson is getting bigger each day, but yet, life remains at a standstill as I wonder if the void of Harper will ever be filled. I’ve grown to accept that there will be days where I need to hug Emerson a little closer or need to slip away and cry – those emotions, any emotions, are okay.

To Harper: Daddy loves you. Even if you aren’t with me physically, I commit to living my life with you always at the front of my mind. I will be the best father and husband possible because that’s what you deserve.

To Emerson: I can’t imagine how confusing the last few months have been for you. So excited to welcome a sister in to the world, you would climb onto Mommy’s lap and kiss her belly. You are an amazing big sister with so much love and joy. You bring me to my knees with both sadness and love when you ask to kiss and hug the urn that contains Harper’s ashes. Mommy and Daddy love you so much.

To Grieving Parents: My heart aches for your loss. Find comfort in each other and in life’s little joys. Grief knows no timeline – don’t rush it.

To Grieving Fathers: Welcome to a club you never want to join, but if you do, you’ll be surrounded by the only men in the world that have been in your shoes. Feel your emotions – sadness, anger, disbelief – any and all feelings are acceptable. Seek out support when you need it – you can’t tackle this on your own. Lastly, love like you have never loved before. Live life like you don’t know what is happening tomorrow. Remember, you are not alone.

Our baby girl is beautiful, she is loved, and she is always with us. Harper Grace – Daddy loves you, Daddy misses you, and I’ll see you again one day.

Submitted by Corey (Harmon’s dad)

We learned in mid February that my wife, Aja, was expecting. It was the greatest day of my life, and honestly the following 4 months were a dream. Everything in life was coming together, we were about to move to a bigger and better experience, and we were finally starting a family – nothing felt better than those 4 months.

June 11, 2022. We were moving Aja’s work materials from our house down to her new office in Calgary (about a 2 hour drive), and thankfully her parents and brother were there to help us out. We packed for a short amount of time before we went to her gynecologist appointment, where we were told that Harmon, our baby boy, was in perfect health. Strong heart beat, he was sitting in a good position, everything checked out. We returned to the move, where we had 2 trucks and 2 trailers packed.

As we were loading up, Aja wanted to jump in with her parents and brother so as to catch up. The first miracle, as their truck was stuffed full and she had to make the drive with me instead. The second miracle came when we pulled off to fuel up, while the in-laws travelled onwards. The trip was pretty bleak due to heavy rain, so we were travelling pretty slow, and we had only got past the halfway point when Aja said she didn’t feel right. She had experienced a separate medical issue earlier that month, registering her as a high-risk pregnancy, so we initially thought this could be related.

We pulled off at Innisfail, AB, and not 30 seconds after pulling off Aja’s water broke. By now she was hyper-ventilating and panicking. We drove straight to the hospital where I dropped her off at the emergency so that I could go find a parking spot. By the time I got inside, the nursing staff were just admitting her into a private room. The next 20 minutes are a blur to remember. Nurses were running everywhere, the doctor was preparing for an emergency delivery, and I was standing by Aja, who was crying and just looking at me repeatedly saying “Im sorry”. Apart from Aja, the only thing I recall vividly was hearing the doctor say, “there are no signs of life, we have to deliver now”. I am so very thankful that Aja blacked out for this entire experience, because it is one thing that I will hold closely for all time.

Harmon Wesley Roy was (still)born, weighing 1 lb, 1 oz. The doctor said that he was very well grown and developed for his age.

Miracle 3 – The hospital staff, all of them, were so incredibly wonderful. They gave us every support we could ask for, and more. In all of the tragedy, how they treated us and Harmon still makes us smile. By this time, Aja’s parents had managed to double back to be with us. the following 2 or so hours were just us in a hospital room, holding our son, watching him, imagining we would see him take his first breath. It was the most surreal moment of my life.

Then the doctor came back in, and I do not envy her for what she had to do. Since Harmon was past 20 weeks old, legally he had to be committed to a funeral service. What would you like to do with him, as in cremation, burial, etc? Do you know of any specific funeral home you would like to send him to? Among the questions, we also had to sign the paperwork showing that we had a stillborn child. Nothing to show our son had been both welcomed and then ushered away from this world. It was devastating. We agreed to send him to a funeral service back home, where we would have his remains cremated.

After all that, we had to get on the road again. This time we were ahead of Aja’s parents. The rain was pouring down, as it had been all day now. We had made it within 40 km of our destination when the trailer, full of work material, hydroplaned. The trailer spun out, took the truck with it, and we spun around two and a half times on the busiest highway in Alberta in the pouring rain. For those who know the QE2 Highway, it is always busy, but somehow this had occurred when there was a 40 second gap in the traffic. The 4th miracle. We both believe this was Harmon coming to see his Mom and Dad for the first time, checking in and making sure all is well. It was honestly a miracle we had not died.

That morning, we had been in paradise. Everything was good. Everything was safe. The three of us were a team. By the end of the day, after what seemed like trauma after trauma after trauma, there were two of us slowly going in to get a hotel room.