Birth Stories – Page 2 – SAD DADS CLUB

Jude

Submitted by Kevin (Jude’s dad)

On December 16th 2021, my wife Dana told me she was pregnant. This was the best day ever.

In the beginning, appointments went smoothly. She started experiencing heavy swelling/puffiness and acne from February to March, which was shrugged aside by her family doctor, saying this was normal. We weren’t going to be getting an OB referral for a while. Around 18 weeks, her blood pressure was rising steadily and she found herself very short of breath and heart constantly racing even when sitting.

We went to emergency in early April 2022 after being on the phone with health link, saying her blood pressure was reaching dangerous levels. When we arrived, the OB making rounds said something isn’t right and Dana needs to submit blood/urine samples. The OB took her on as she noticed how irregular this was.

The were traces of protein in Dana’s urine, which pointed to signs of preeclampsia. Her family doctor was informed at this point that we had lined up Dana’s own OB. After more tests and a few overnight trips to emergency from peaking high blood pressure, the OB urged Dana to stop working immediately and potentially be submitted to another hospital in the city with better technology, doctors and specialists.

Dana was submitted to the Royal Alex Hospital May 2nd 2022 to have better care under the watch of an entire phenomenal OB team. She was almost fully expected to remain there until delivery. Jude’s due date was August 19th. We met with many specialists including doctors from the NICU, who discussed trying to make it to 25 weeks for the best chance of Jude’s survival and overall health.

Due to COVID protocols, I couldn’t spend nights at the hospital with Dana. I would go everyday after work to be with her until around 9:00PM and be in constant communication on the day-to-day tests they were doing. I held on to every bit of hope hearing his heartbeat and seeing movement in the ultrasounds. It was later mentioned that the placenta wasn’t functioning 100% and that Jude was having some difficulty receiving from it, almost as if his lifeline was a straw getting pinched.

May 7th, I went home after seeing Dana until around 9:00PM and watched some hockey with family. The next morning, I woke up to a missed text from Dana around 3:00AM asking If I could call her. I woke up to it around 7:00AM thinking if she hadn’t called, it must not be urgent. When I texted her what’s going on, she replied saying they were busy doing the morning tests and she’d call me afterwards. I planned on seeing her later that morning, so I finished up some laundry.

Mother’s Day, May 8th 2022 at 9:00am, I received a phone call from the Royal Alex Hospital saying I needed to come right now. My heart began racing as Dana had not called me back. My mind immediately jumped to either:

A) She’s delivering Jude.

B) Something horrible had happened.

I got to the hospital and was placed in a room by myself. I waited several minutes until I saw Dana walk through the door. We locked eyes and at that instant, I knew what had happened. Jude’s gone. We broke down.

My world crumbled, and we held each other crying. They couldn’t find Jude’s heartbeat that morning. I could barely mutter the words “What happened” through the shock and tears. This continued for 20 minutes as her mother joined us in the room to console us while they brought up the ultrasound to do a final check for a heartbeat. I’ve never wanted to see something more in my life, watching the screen we had previously seen in past months with joy in our eyes as Jude would move around; only this time there was nothing.

Things moved quickly afterwards, as Dana’s nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. She wasn’t properly clotting internally as her blood platelet count was rapidly dropping. The team said we had to get Jude out of Dana by means of emergency C-section immediately, or we could lose her.

Before she went off for surgery, we had to sign a waiver in case she needed a hysterectomy. Panic had set in as she was wheeled away. I lost my son Jude and could potentially be losing Dana. I was about to lose everything. I was frozen, panicking inside, and falling fast. I waited for over an hour with Dana’s mom, until they came out to say the C-section was successful.

After being that low, I gave them the biggest hug. I needed that win, because it felt like everything was gone and I couldn’t go any lower. They suited me up in the gown and told me how beautiful my baby boy is. He was on the other side of the curtain when they brought Dana in to place all of the IV’s. I told her I was there and went into survival mode. I contained any emotions I had to be there for her. To do anything and everything they needed of me.

After being transported to our room for the evening, we were asked if we wanted to see Jude. Our heads went to dark, graphic places. We didn’t know if we could stomach it, but knew we had to. While Dana recovered and became more conscious, we talked and procrastinated meeting him. Finally, hours later we asked them to bring Jude in. I had so much fear, but the minute I saw him, I fell in love. He was the most beautiful angel I’d ever seen. We held our son, not knowing how long we would get with him, savouring every moment as mother and father.

As a loss-dad husband, you witness your partner go through the most horrible physical and mental pain possible, especially in the first few days afterwards. We spent that night with Jude in his cuddle cot bassinet. The next day, we were transferred to a sponsored room for grieving parents following their loss, similar to a nice hotel room. Dana had more recovery and tests to do, but we had Jude until we told them to take him away.

We spent a week with Jude in that room. Holding him, listening to music, having meals, watching our NHL team in the Stanley Cup Playoffs (I’ve always wanted to watch games with my son), having close relatives up to meet him. Every moment we held him, it felt like he was asleep, and we were just waiting for him to wake up. Tears came often as reality would creep in, but that was the best week of my life in that room with Dana and our son Jude.

Closer to the end of our stay, the team came to the conclusion that there was placental abruption from a blood clot. We were so close. We made 25 weeks. But all signs pointed to Jude staying with Dana longer for a healthier baby.

Leaving Jude killed us inside. Trying to find the nerve to tell the nurse she could wheel him away with all the other loss babies, all while never wanting to leave without our son, the way it should’ve been.

Dana was finally cleared for release, and we left with boxes of clothing, photos, flowers, moulds of his hands, feet and our hearts broken. The drive home was complete silence. I can’t honestly remember the first while at home as I was in a state of numb depression, other than giving Dana blood thinner injections once a day for a month.

It was later concluded that Dana was diagnosed with an extremely rare condition (1 in 200 cases worldwide) of pregnancy induced cushings syndrome. This explained the swelling, high blood pressure and excessive stretch marks. Cushings was diagnosed on the basis of abnormal cortisol and adrenocorticotropin hormone (ACTH) levels, as well as radiographic findings. We just hit the 6-month milestone of losing Jude, and have been supporting each other as best we can, but also facing extreme mental strain. To top it off, Dana is still sick. We are hoping in 2023 that Dana can get one of the abnormal adrenal glands directly above her kidney removed to level out her cortisol levels. This would give us a chance at trying again one day.

I often get asked by people who notice my wedding ring if I have any kids.

I always respond yes, his name is Jude.

A Day We Will Never Forget

Contributed by Spencer (Parker’s dad)

It was a perfect pregnancy. Well, about as perfect as it could be from a dad’s point of view. Other than the first two trimesters working away from town, and then getting a new job locally in the last trimester, things went reasonably smooth.

We were 37 weeks, and Parker was already so big, every week we saw our midwives we pleaded to be induced. Shannon was in so much pain and kept saying that he needed out, but nothing. 38 weeks and the same story; Shannon pleading that she wanted to be induced – but the midwives were short staffed and our primary one was leaving for vacation in a week so we needed to wait. 39 weeks: We were left with students who could not make a call for induction, and had to be placed under a new temporary midwife – who was not there through our entire pregnancy. 40 weeks and he needed to come out. We went for a 40 week ultrasound to determine what our options were and if everything was still going ok inside. Parker was huge, but having a large baby didn’t tick any boxes to be induced vs. waiting for natural labour to start. Shannon did have high blood pressure though, but again, we were told that it was not a concern.

The high blood pressure continued into the next day 40+1, and we were told to go to the hospital to get it checked. The midwife at the hospital said that the blood pressure was high, but too low to be seen inside and gave us a referral to get bloodwork done. We went and got bloodwork and they said that everything was normal.

Parkers heart beat was tough to find throughout the entire pregnancy, and they always had to get multiple people to find it with a Doppler, so when Shannon started early laboring the next morning at 40+2, we thought things were finally going to plan. Finally. Everything was going as smooth as it could go – for me at least. Back rubbing, lukewarm shower, and whatever else I did; it was all a blur. She had been in early labour for about 6 hours at that point and the temporary midwife and student came to check in on us and see how she was doing. They could not find Parkers heart beat on the tiny portable Doppler they had.

They said we should go to the hospital to get it checked on the portable ultrasound they have and then we could come home and finish early labour in our own space until ready to birth. I packed all the hospital bags in the car just in case. The next hour was the single biggest swing in emotional and mental health in my life. Things went from so elated that we were finally at the end of one journey and ready to start the next with our boy in our arms to soul crushing pain. We got to the hospital and got checked in, the midwives were there and waited with us in the holding room we were taken in to. The doctor came in and got the ultrasound prepped and started looking. She saw Parker, and was looking for a concerning amount of time. She looked at us with a pain in her eyes and said the words that will ring in my ear forever “This is where his heartbeat should be. I’m sorry.” We screamed in agony as they left the room.

The midwives came in and tried to comfort us, but mostly it was an endless stream of teams and screaming crying. Eventually the doctor came in and we didn’t know what to think or say. All we could mutter was “What happens now?” At this point we were transferred out of midwives care and into the hospitals official care with doctors and nurses.

We were told that it needed to be confirmed by an official ultrasound tech and would need to wait for that. During that wait, we would need to decide how we wanted to get Parker out; birth him naturally or have a C-section. How are you supposed to decide that when you know there will be no live baby at the end? Shannon opted to try to birth naturally but with an epidural and induction – stating that we have gone through so much emotional pain and trauma that would hopefully help the physical pain of it. So we waited for hours to get it officially confirmed and went back up to the suite that they had prepped. Shannon still need to go through labour so I tried my best to help support, but in reality I was broken. The epidural failed, but she pushed through and did such an amazing job. When it was time to push I was beside her trying to be involved where I could, but at that point there were doctors and nurses everywhere.

I saw Parker when he was born, he was laid on Shannon’s chest, but because there was so much blood loss and needing to take blood samples, he was taken away pretty quickly. Due to the epidural not working and being on all the drugs the hospital gave her, Shannon was pretty out of it at that point. I had to move away from her and to the side, while they worked to stitch her up and take the samples they needed. Eventually they brought him back in the bassinet and we were able to see him and hold him. He was cold. I took him to the window and wanted to show him the world. The physical recovery was going to be hard for Shannon. And we were eventually discharged from the hospital, but not before getting to spend one last hour with him. Walking out of the maternity ward without a baby and crying was surreal. We got in the car and I was bawling the whole time, still. Looking back, it was not the safest thing to do – but I knew we needed to get home away from the hospital. I remember Shannon asking me if I was ok, and I just said that my only job right now was to get us home safe. Turning into our block we saw someone pushing a stroller, It was an immediate reminder of what we had lost not a day ago.

March 14th being a day we will never forget.

Losing Liam

Contributed by Milan (Liam’s dad)

Today is the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. It’s also the day that our son Liam was due to be born.

Liam was born prematurely on August 9 and died shortly after birth. My wife Evelyn had a routine growth check during her 31st week of pregnancy, from where she was sent to the hospital for close monitoring and eventual delivery. This was sudden and unexpected as Liam’s progress was on track only four weeks prior.

I was on a ship in California for work when it all started. Evelyn called me from her doctor right as the ship was entering port. I got my stuff together and Ubered to SFO hoping to reschedule my return flight home for ASAP. Shortly after arriving at the airport, I got a call from our midwife, crying. Liam came out and his heartbeat was weak and going in and out. “They tried for a long time”, she said. In shock, not yet understanding, I asked “They’re going to try again, right?” “I’m so sorry,” she said after a long pause, “it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Within two hours Evelyn and I went from happily and carelessly expecting our second son, to holding his dead body. Within two hours Evelyn went from playing with our older son Nolan in the library and at the playground, to laying in a hospital bed with an empty belly.

My flight was not departing for another 11 hours. All I had was my backpack and photos of my dead baby. I spent hours just sitting and staring at his photos, swiping left, swiping right. And then I was roaming up and down the Harvey Milk terminal, aimless, expressionless, numb. Swiping left and right again. Completely dissociated, I saw myself in 3rd person — the reality is so unbelievable that the only possible explanation is that it’s happening to somebody else. I couldn’t be with Evelyn in the most difficult moments of her life. I couldn’t be with Liam and hold him while he was still warm. The worst were the brief moments when my mind drifted somewhere else, and for minutes I’d forget about what happened. And then I’d remember…

A part of me froze at the moment of Liam’s death and stayed there.

Soon it came the time to let many people know that I won’t be available for a while and why. Every time is extraordinarily difficult because writing about it I re-live it. It took me a long time and strength to let my friends know. I’m afraid that there may be people who care about me and who will learn about what happened by reading this article. I’m sorry.

I haven’t experienced grief until Liam. I never thought much about it. They say that losing a parent is difficult, and losing a sibling is worse. But losing a child has an added element of being cheated. Your child is given to you and then suddenly taken away. I wasn’t prepared for this— how could I be?

Grief permeates the entire fabric of existence and the state of mind. It’s multi-dimensional: I grieve my son who died too early; my wife who was so looking forward to him, and whose life got turned upside down in a mere hour; I grieve the life we would’ve had if Liam had the chance to live; I grieve our two-year-old Nolan who would’ve been such a great big brother to Liam. But most of all, I grieve all the moments, years, and decades of loving Liam the infant, toddler, boy, teen, and adult. Decades that we would’ve had but we won’t, for Liam is dead.

We picked up Liam’s ashes a week ago and he’s finally back home with us. The wait was excruciatingly long and we’re relieved that we can finally be with him whenever we want, and kiss him good morning and good night.

Rainbow Baby Story Pt. 1

Submitted by Jay (Bella’s dad)

After losing Bella on 1/31/17, our world went dark. Figuratively for me. Literally for Elly – when she looked up at the sky, she literally saw black on the sunniest and clearest days Maine had to offer that year.

It was as if storm clouds were always gathering above us no matter where we went.

We had moved out of our East End apartment in Portland and were living in Brunswick, a quintessential New England college town where we first met as undergrads 13 years prior. Senator Angus King and his amazing wife Mary Herman had heard about Bella and our need to move, and generously offered us their beautiful home for the summer. As they tell it, we did them a favor by house-sitting while they were traveling between Washington and their summer home farther up Maine’s rocky coast. The truth is that they saved us. They gave us a change of scenery and a second chance at happiness.

In Elly’s first OBGYN appointment after Bella’s stillbirth, she immediately asked the doctor if and when we could star trying to have another baby. “June”, the doctor replied. “June what?”, Elly asked wanting a more specific date to look forward to. I don’t recall the exact date, but I’m confident Elly does. She had circled it on a paper calendar and would refer to it regularly. It gave her hope amidst the darkness in those early days and weeks.

By the time June rolled around – four painful months later – we were living in our Senator’s home – you know, as one does – and were faced with the awkward realization of what would come next and whether or not that was appropriate. You get the point.

Any couple who has tried to get pregnant knows that it’s not always as easy as they make it seem in middle school Sex Ed. I went to an all boys Catholic school, so I never did the whole condom on a banana thing, but suffice it to say that the closest thing to Sex Ed. at my school was the concept of abstinence. We were led to believe that if we were even in the same room as a girl, she would immediately get pregnant. So the idea of trying to get pregnant was completely foreign to me. I had no idea women could track their menstrual cycles to determine the best opportunity to conceive. While Elly and I have been incredibly fortunate not to struggle with infertility, it took us a couple of tries to get pregnant after Bella. Three to be precise. And it was agonizing. Each month, the anticipation was palpable. We were ecstatic about the prospect of Elly getting pregnant again, and devastated each time a test came back negative. That summer was a rollercoaster of emotions.

We had been invited France that August for the wedding of very good friends from business school and initially thought we’d be going alone, leaving our 2-year-old and 6-month-old at home with grandparents. But that all changed after Bella’s passing. There was no way we were ever letting our only living child out of our sight ever again. The bride and groom were incredibly understanding and said we could of course bring Jack.

On our way to Bordeaux, we had a brief layover in Lisbon, Portugal where Elly decided she should take a pregnancy test. Having not brought one from the US, she purchased a Portuguese test at an airport pharmacy/convenience store. After peeing on the stick and attempting to decipher the Portuguese directions, it wasn’t immediately clear what the pink lines meant. So, we flagged down a random traveler who appeared to speak the local language, shoved the urine-soaked test in his general direction and asked him if it was good news.

“Depends,” he quickly retorted. “What are hoping for…?” Fair question. He smiled and told us the best news we had received in months. We were pregnant! We hugged each other. We hugged Jack. We hugged the random guy. We were elated!

Elly then quipped, “Well, I guess I won’t be having any wine in France!”

We were so happy and yet terrified. While we knew that Elly didn’t have any underlying health conditions that had caused Bella’s tragic death at 40.5 weeks, we still worried that it could happen again. I remember reading an article about stillbirth that quoted someone who had suffered two separate full-term losses. “No. That’s not possible. People can’t lose multiple babies,” I blurted out. Thankfully, Elly didn’t hear what I actually said. I spent the next 9 months reassuring her that, of course, we wouldn’t lose another baby. That doesn’t happen. The truth was that I no longer trusted my instincts and belief that positive things happen to positive people.

France was the perfect distraction from our anxiety, but it all came rushing back almost immediately upon passing through customs in Boston. Vacation was over and we needed to figure out a way to get through the next nine months.

Your Birth Story – Part 1

Submitted by Jay (Bella’s dad)

Pure Joy

January 31, 2017

Dear Bella,

We learned Mommy was pregnant with you on Sunday, May 29, 2016, while we were at a family wedding in California. It was early in the morning, and we hadn’t slept much the night before because your big brother was very jet-lagged from the flight out on Saturday. But seeing that little white strip turn pink woke us right up! We were so excited to return to New Haven, Connecticut, for Mommy’s first ultrasound. We couldn’t wait to see you!

Back home, I remember the details from the first trip to the doctor so vividly: listening to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody on the drive to the doctor’s office with Mommy and your big brother; the absurdly complicated parking meter system once we arrived; Big Brother jumping up and down on the temporary plastic construction mats lining the hallways; the number of times I changed his diaper during a 30-minute appointment (twice); the midwife’s sleeves of tattoos; Big Brother having a blast playing in the examination rooms while the doctors, midwives, and nurses ran tests on you and Mommy.

Finally, they told us that you were due on Friday, January 27, just two days after Big Brother’s birthday! I’m probably conflating multiple visits in my mind, but whatever the case, we were so excited to finally see your first pictures. You are beautiful! We compared your first ultrasound photos with Big Brother’s. As siblings, you look alike, of course, but we could tell you are unique.

Unlike Mommy’s pregnancy with Big Brother, she got morning sickness a few times during the first trimester with you. Otherwise, Mommy said it was a very easy pregnancy – you were the best baby! Mommy had little back pain until the very end (whereas she was in a ton of pain throughout most of her pregnancy with Big Brother). This meant that she was able to sleep through the night most nights. You were super active during the day, though. I had never seen a baby kick and stretch so much. I was convinced that you were, in fact, a little girl – a firecracker, like your mother. We wanted your gender to be a surprise, though, so we didn’t find out until you were born.

I told people all the time that your pregnancy was flying by compared to Big Brother’s, but would also readily admit that I wasn’t the one actually carrying you, so Mommy may have felt differently. It was probably because our family experienced so much change over the course of those short months from April 2016, when you were conceived, until January 2017, when you were born. I accepted a new position at a firm in Portland, Maine at the end of April, graduated from business school at the end of May, and – just a week later – we found out Mommy was pregnant with you! We spent the summer traveling around New England to see family and friends from Downeast Maine to Cape Cod, across Connecticut and Rhode Island. Between weddings and family gatherings, we looked at apartments in Portland, ME – your first home! We finally moved from New Haven to Portland on August 1, 2016. We didn’t start telling people Mommy was pregnant with you until around that time. We were so excited for everyone to meet you!

Mommy had to travel to Hawaii, South Africa, and London during the fall. She said you were the best travel buddy! She didn’t really start showing until around mid-September.

The holidays flew by – you grew so fast between Thanksgiving and January.

Your due date came and went, with no signs of any progress that weekend. Despite the cold weather, Mommy wanted to get some exercise outside, so we all went to Crescent Beach State Park on the Sunday before you were born. We were hoping all that walking would get the labor started. Unfortunately, that didn’t work.

On Monday, January 30, Mommy went to her doctor’s in Portland for her regular weekly check up. Mommy sent me the following texts that morning:

9:55AM: Sounds like my water maybe broke? Need to have ultrasound so waiting around until they have time.

10:40AM: Plenty of fluid (my water didn’t break) but baby’s heart rate low so doing a stress test

I responded:

10:41AM: Ok. How are you doing? What does that mean? Is that a problem?

Mommy replied:

11:07AM: It’s low but fine. I have to come back at 3. Gonna go get something to eat.

I responded:

11:39AM: ok, good. Let me know if you need anything, my love.

Mommy went grocery shopping and got acupuncture for her back pain. She fell asleep for an hour during the appointment. She went back to the doctor; everything was fine around 3:35 p.m. when she texted me with an update. She was so excited for you to come that she almost asked the ultrasound technician to tell her if you were a girl or a boy, but she managed to be patient.

Our good friends, Rob and T, dropped off dinner for us that night. I was home at 5:30 p.m.

Around 7:00 p.m., while Mommy and Big Brother were bathing with you and then again when she was reading you both bedtime stories, Mommy noticed that you weren’t moving as much as usual. You were typically very active during Big Brother’s bedtime routine. Mommy was worried, but I told her that you were probably just getting into position in the birth canal. Mommy slept very well that night.

In retrospect, you had likely passed away already.

The next morning, Tuesday, January 31, Mommy still didn’t feel any movement when she woke up. Again, I assured her that you were probably in position, but suggested that we call the doctor at 9:00 a.m. to check in. In the meantime, we played with Big Brother – he insisted on wearing his Halloween costume – a lion outfit – for the first time since October. We had a great time playing in his cardboard box fort – the byproduct of a new nursing chair we got for you and Mommy. While we were playing, Mommy took a shower.

At 8:30 a.m., while she was reading Big Brother a book in our bed, Mommy’s water broke. We were so excited! We began packing up and I brought all of our bags – with clothes for us and for you, of course, as well as pillows and blankets, some oranges and other snacks, and enough Gatorade to hydrate the New England Patriots – down the four flights of stairs to the car. Mommy called the doctor’s office and told the nurse that her water broke, but then mentioned that there wasn’t any “fetal movement”. I vividly remember her using that term. It was so technical and incongruous with the joy we were feeling. I was a little nervous, but mostly excited. I could tell Mommy was anxious – she knew she hadn’t felt you move in more than 12 hours. I kept saying that you probably moved during the night when Mommy was sleeping and that you were just already in position. “Big Brother didn’t move that much,” I kept repeating. Nanna, your nanny, arrived a little before 9:00 a.m. We told her we were going to the doctor’s office and would update her once we knew more.

At 9:09 a.m., I sent my coworkers the following email:

From: Jay Tansey <jay@companyXYZ.com>

Date: Tuesday, January 31, 2017 at 9:09 AM

To: CompanyXYX

Subject: At doctor’s with Elly…

I’ll keep you posted!

Less than 30 minutes later, I replied all:

On Jan 31, 2017, at 9:37 AM, Jay <jay@companyXYZ.com> wrote:

The baby passed away. Please cancel my meetings.

Jay

———-

Bella (Jay)

Submitted by Jay (Bella’s dad)

Bella Mae Pepper Tansey was born on January 31, 2017. Unlike the details of her older brother and younger sisters’ births, I don’t know the exact time she came into the world nor her precise weight or length. It’s all a blur and that breaks my heart. I know she was born in the late afternoon, many excruciating hours after our doctor uttered the most devastating words Elly and I have ever heard: “There’s no heartbeat.”

Bella was due two days after her big brother’s second birthday and six days before Elly’s. She was perfectly healthy and absolutely beautiful. Sure, I’m biased, but unlike most babies (including our other children), Bella wasn’t a wrinkly blob. She had a full head of dark, curly hair and the most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen. Pudgy, rosey cheeks, long eyelashes, full lips, and a precious little nose. She was perfect. She was full-term – 41 weeks, actually – and passed away peacefully four days after her due date and just two days before the c-section date, which was scheduled for Elly’s birthday.

An amniotic band wrapped around the umbilical cord and, seven minutes later, she was gone.

I will never get to change her diapers, bathe her or watch her learn to crawl or walk. I’ll never hear her blow raspberries or stumble through her first words. I’ll never drop her off on her first day of school, teach her to swim, ride a bike or play hockey. I’ll never help her study for the big test or congratulate her on a job well done. I’ll never get to scare off her middle school crushes, hug her after her high school breakups or walk her down the aisle. There will be no father-daughter dance.

Unless you’re just in the mood for a good cry, you’re likely reading this because you or someone close to you recently lost a child. I am so deeply sorry for your tremendous loss.

After Bella passed away, I felt like I had gone from an overly inflated balloon, bobbing along so high that I might burst, to a very reduced, but not completely deflated balloon – just hovering. I’m not sure if I’ll ever reach those highs again. The deep sadness of the death of a child will always be a part of me, and of Elly. But I’m still a balloon, though. And a pretty fun one that a kid would pick at a grocery store or a county fair.

I have fun and I experience so much joy. I love Elly, Bella, and our living kids so, so much. I love life. It’s just a little different now. Yes, it’s been impossibly difficult at times, but I’m ok. I promise – and I don’t use that word often or lightly – but I sincerely promise that there’s happiness in your future too. You and your partner are strong and resilient. It may not feel like that in these darkest of days, but you will not only survive, you will thrive again. Step by step, moment by moment. You too will find joy.

This is the worst club in the world, and sadly, it’s less exclusive than we imagined. However, that means there is support out there. While you may be across the country or on the other side of the planet, and, at times, you may even feel like you’re alone in another galaxy, please know that you are loved and that we will always hold you and your baby in our hearts.

Be kind to yourselves and stay strong.

With love,

Jay

In the midst of our grief, I received the below wish list, which was sent to me by a friend of a friend whose child was stillborn. I found parts of it comforting after we lost Bella and it’s a good starting place as you begin piecing life back together. It’s also a good resource for friends and family looking to support loved ones in the wake of stillbirth or pregnancy loss.

Wish List After Stillbirth

I wish our baby hadn’t died. I wish I had her back.
I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak her name. Our baby lived and was very important to us. I need to hear that she was important to you as well.
If I cry and get emotional when you talk about our baby, I wish you knew that it isn’t because you have hurt me. Our baby’s death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about our baby, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you more than ever.
I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about our baby, my favorite topic of the day.
I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that our baby’s death pains you, too. I wish you would let me know things through a phone call, a card or a note, or a real big hug.
I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of our baby until the day I die.
I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss our baby, and I will always grieve that she is gone.
I wish you wouldn’t expect me “not to think about it” or to “be happy”. Neither will happen for a very long time so don’t frustrate yourself.
I don’t want to have a “pity party,” but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.
I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I’m feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
When I say, “I’m doing okay,” I wish you could understand that I don’t feel okay and that I struggle daily.
I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I’m having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
Your advice to “take one day at a time” is excellent. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I’m doing good to handle an hour at a time. I’m living moment by moment.
I wish you understood that grief changes people. When our child died, a big part of me died with her. I am not the same person I was before our baby died, and I will never be that person again.
I wish very much that you could understand – understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But I pray daily that you will never understand.

Isabelle (Chris)

Submitted by Chris (Izzy’s dad)

July 21, 2018

Isabelle Lee, my heart, my angel.

My Izzy, it is impossible to put into words how much your mother and I love you. We have loved you since the day we learned you were coming and will continue to do so forever.

I am not going to lie Izzy, this one hurts, it hurts a lot. We couldn’t wait to meet you, and while we did not meet you in the way we wanted, we did, and will cherish every second you were in our arms.

Your mother and I are not totally sure how to take the next steps forward, but we will walk them for you.

Your family loves you; I know you saw all the love in that room. You will always be our first born and we already miss you so much it hurts.

That love will grow every day. We love you from now until forever Izzy.

Love,

Your parents”

I became a Sad Dad on July 21, 2018.

What you read above was written in the hospital room as our stillborn daughter lay next to us. This is the first and last time we got to hold her. The hope of what could have been, the memories we were excited to create, the life we were eager to share, all gone in an instant.

I do not recall writing that letter, but I am glad I did. That letter was read when we laid our daughter to rest, and every word of it remains true.

Sad Dads is not a community anyone wants to join, but if you find yourself here, please know you are safe. Safe to share, safe to listen, safe to feel.

I will have much more to share about my personal journey as the Sad Dads Community takes shape. No journey is the same, no journey is right or wrong, there is only YOUR journey.

Whatever brought you here today, I am sorry, but we hope you have found a home.

Lila (Rob)

Submitted by Rob (Lila’s dad)

December 17, 2017 I’ve wanted to write about this day, and Lila’s birth story, for years. I’ve given myself every excuse to wait for the perfect moment and let inspiration hit. I started writing this a few years ago, but quit before I could finish. I never went back to that draft. There will never be a perfect moment to share this story because life is imperfect. This experience proves exactly that. The foundation of the Sad Dads Club community is rooted in vulnerability and encouraging others to share their story – in whatever form they are able to get it out of themselves. My hope, in all of this, is that we can support one another and feel a little less alone as we navigate new and existing pain. Hope you’ll join me if this is something that you need. Welcome to Sad Dads Club.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017.

Snow was on the ground. It was one of those brilliantly bright and cold days in Portland, Maine. Not a cloud in the sky as the sun shot off the snow creating a (near) blinding effect. My wife was pregnant with our daughter, our first child, and had reached full term. On this exact day, she was 37.5 weeks along. December 30 was our predicted due date. We had a ton of fun wondering if Lila would arrive before, on, or just after her due date. “Maybe she’ll be the first child born in Maine in 2018!” Time was becoming, more so, an elusive concept – we were so excited to welcome our daughter into the world and couldn’t believe that we were so close to meeting her. Getting pregnant had not been the easiest feat for us. Receiving that phone call from my wife, in my office, is a moment I’ll never forget. I was so happy. Elated, ecstatic, buoyant. Those are better words to describe how I remember feeling when she told me that her pregnancy test came back positive, and that we were expecting a baby at the end of the year. I was so excited to become a father.

Back to that bright, mid-December day: you couldn’t be outside without squinting – for whatever reason, I can’t shake the power of the sun from that day. It was so, so bright outside when we got into the car for our regularly scheduled weekly check-up appointment with the doctor. My wife and I got into some trite spat about whether or not the recycling needed to be put out before we left for our appointment. I, the more stressed out and anxious one about these things, was certain that we’d miss getting our recyclables picked up if I didn’t cart out the bin before we left. My wife, more acutely observant as to when the truck actually arrived each week, was promising me that it’d be fine if we put them out once we got back. For whatever reason, I let this trivial disagreement linger within me. I carried that energy with me in the car, and even let it follow me into our appointment. My wife was being weighed and having her blood pressure checked as I kept my gaze on nothing in particular in the distance with my arms crossed.

We were then escorted into a room where the nurse or technician – to be honest, I’m not sure of her official professional title, and I feel like a dick for saying that – would observe Lila’s heartbeat using one of those wands with a rolling ball at the end of it. My sour mood, catalyzed by the recycling bin ridiculousness, was starting to lift as I realized I’d hear the sweet music of my daughter’s heartbeat momentarily. I loved hearing that sound. It was like a deep vibrating oceanic rhythm that felt so soothing, so promising, and so pure. As my wife lifted her shirt to expose her belly, the wand began to search for Lila’s heart. I was familiar with that static silence before it caught the heartbeat and my eyes were locked on the device that would soon bring my daughter’s, Lila’s, heartbeat to our ears. Suddenly, my heart sank. I didn’t hear anything and too much time had passed. From experience, I knew it could take a few seconds, but this was extending into an alarming lapse with no heartbeat to be heard. The technician/nurse seemed slightly concerned, though not panicked. She said they were going to conduct an ultrasound, so we’d need to move to another room. My wife looked at me with a bit of concern and felt around her belly with her right hand – she said something in that moment about being able to feel Lila move, which, looking back, was likely a defense mechanism to keep us both from freaking out. My eyes were wide and I couldn’t swallow. My wife sensed my deep, deep fear.

We switched rooms, and my wife lifted her shirt again. Our doctor joined us to to conduct the ultrasound. She applied the gel and started going across my wife’s belly, again. No sound. A deafening absence of that beautiful rhythmic heartbeat. The technician’s color was gone from her face as she looked at our doctor and shook her head. That was the moment that changed everything for us: Lila had died. She had no heartbeat. She was gone. I saw our doctor grab my wife’s hand and remember my wife screaming and bursting into tears. My hands went to my face, and I wanted to keep them there. There and then, I could hide behind a self-created darkness, at least for a moment, and escape what had happened – rather, what was happening. This was really happening. In that moment, my heart broke. It really, really broke. My wife was still sobbing on the table with the doctor tightly holding her hand. I removed my hands from my eyes, and suddenly we were getting into our car How did we exit the building? How did we get through the waiting room of the doctor’s office? Did they clear out that space? Had anyone else been there? Did anyone see us or hear us? I always think back and wonder about those transitional moments I can’t remember. I held onto my wife in the parking lot as I helped her in the car. She could barely stand.

It was a ten-minute drive back to our house and I’ll be damned if I have any idea how the fuck I was able to drive. I was laser focused on the road squinting through the brightness of the sun and repeating to my wife “we are going to get through this, we are going to get through this” – truthfully, I don’t know what possessed me to say that because I wasn’t sure I believed the words coming out of my mouth. I didn’t know at that moment how I, or we, could ever be happy again. Our daughter was still in utero, unalive. The weight of what we had to go through next was crushing. How could we do this? How could my wife deliver our daughter? How could we hold her? How could her eyes never open? Those questions invited a deep darkness that I could feel spreading inside of me. Suddenly, a canyon of pain opened up and went on endlessly. We got home and aimlessly started packing our bags for the hospital. This was actually happening. My wife called a friend on the phone to tell her what had happened. My mind and body continued to pack our bags for the upcoming hospital stay, but I couldn’t physically feel anything: the shirts, the socks, the sweatpants, the toothbrush, the toothpaste, and whatever else I thought we’d need. I called my mom somewhere around this time – could have been my dad. I don’t remember, but I am pretty sure I called my parents and spoke to one of them as I dropped items into a duffle bag. We had to bring Lila into the world even though she’d never get to see it, or us. Darkness grew. The closer we got to that “next step,” the more excruciating the pain became. “Our daughter is dead inside of my wife,” I kept thinking. I was nauseated. Meeting my daughter, Lila, was something I had been so excited for. Now, I was dreading it.

I have no idea where we parked at the hospital. My wife was escorted in a wheelchair with her head down as tears fell into her lap. The hospital lights were too bright. Voices crashed together and created a piercing hum. Surrounded by doctors, nurses, and strangers I felt myself disconnect. I was drifting. I don’t remember anything about getting settled into our hospital room, or what instructions they gave us, if any. Life was moving and progressing, but I was removed from the momentum. All I could feel was the weight of dread, darkness, and sorrow inside of me. Was this how the world would feel forever? I had to get ready to meet my daughter. And then say goodbye. Could I bring myself to do that? How could I possibly bring myself to do that?

We were in our hospital room for hours. Lila’s delivery kept getting moved back. I understood: there was no immediate risk for us. Who knows how many lives were being saved in those hours while we waited. The life we wanted to welcome, nurture, and watch grow was already gone. Piercing silence, anxiety, and tears filled our hospital room. It was palpable. Somewhere around the late afternoon, I had my first-ever panic attack. I didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t stop crying. My wife was holding me as I rested against her belly. I wanted my daughter back. No one entered the room, but I’m sure they heard me. That’s where everything became too real for me. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to my daughter. Evening fell and around 10pm they were ready to deliver Lila. My wife was taken to the delivery room and I was left to put on scrubs and wait until they called me. A nurse sat with me and asked me questions – one of which was whether or not our daughter had a name. “Lila” I remember saying, barely audible. “Lila” she repeated back to me. My gaze remained fixed on the floor. I tried to count the lines in the floor. Part of me tried to escape the moment and a bigger part of me struggled to remain present. I sat in silence with the nurse until it was time for us to join my wife in the delivery room. And to meet Lila.

“Maybe she’s fine. Maybe they’ve made a mistake and she’ll come out just fine. Alive. They’ll be able to help her once they see her. Maybe.” Through subsequent years of therapy and grief counseling, and recounting that internal narrative, I’m told that my body and mind were defending themselves against the toughest part of this traumatic day as it approached. I had to believe that there was a glimmer of hope and that she might be ok. My wife opted to deliver Lila via c-section. I walked into the delivery room and saw my wife’s gaze locked on the ceiling. I settled next to her and put my hand on my wife’s head and stroked her hair. We talked and she told me she wanted to have sex. That made me smile and laugh. Clearly the medication was working to calm, soothe, and remove her, somewhat, through this unbearable process. I told her we couldn’t right then, but assured her we would later. There was commotion on the other side of the curtain as they worked to bring Lila into the world. I focused on keeping my wife engaged in our conversation. Telling her how proud I was of her, and how in awe of her strength I always have been.

Then, Lila joined us. The doctors and nurses gave a prompt that they were delivering her, and I looked up. That glimmer of hope was immediately shattered. I saw her beautiful face, her perfect new-born body, but I didn’t hear a sound come from her. The medical staff held her so carefully and she looked so absolutely angelic. My eyes stayed on her as they carefully brought her to be weighed. I was called over to cut her umbilical cord. There was my daughter. My sweet, beautiful, perfect daughter. My first born. I started telling her how much I loved her and how excited I was to meet her, finally. She was finally here, just not in the way we expected. The feeling of cutting her cord was so bizarre. All my life I’ve known I wanted to be a father. That moment in the delivery room of cutting my child’s cord was supposed to be so joyous and memorable. It was one of those things, but not both. They wrapped up my daughter and placed her on my wife’s chest. In that moment, likely due to the medication, I watched my wife forget that Lila wasn’t alive. My wife smiled widely, closed her eyes, and kissed Lila’s head while repeating “my baby, my baby.” It was one of the more difficult things I’ve seen in my life. There was beauty, but there was pain. Lila was delivered at 10:49pm on Wednesday, December 13, 2017, stillborn.

The three of us went back to our hospital room. My wife asked to hold our daughter while she slept that night. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up the next day, next to my girls. I’ll always marvel at my wife’s resilience. We had been bonded before this, but now we were fused. There is so much more of this story to tell: the proceeding days in the hospital, returning home, and eventually welcoming Lila’s (healthy) baby brother, Dallas, into the world. That will take time and energy to convey, but I am up for it.

The night before I woke up on December 13, 2017, I had a vivid dream. I was trying to hold Lila, but I couldn’t. My arms were positioned to cradle my newborn baby. But she was floating away, she wouldn’t settle into my arms no matter how much I moved my body to try and hold her. At that moment, I believe, Lila left us. I never told my wife about that dream. A lot of dreams I forget hours after I wake up, but I’ll live with the memory of this one for the rest of my life. No details have faded. No brightness surrounding her has dimmed. Every single day, I talk to her – out loud. I start every day by saying the same thing, but I want to start writing it more: “I love you, Lila.”