Daddy's Letter to Shiloh #2

What am I going to do without you, Shiloh? Wherever I look, I see your little face, your closed eyes. You look like you are dreaming. But you are not dreaming, Shiloh, you are dead. The realization of this and what it will mean for mommy and me becomes heavier by the day. Heavier, because I know I will never get more from you and I will never be able to give more to you. The pictures of you will be the same forever. There will be no new memories, no family vacations with silly pictures of us, no milestones in your development to document and to share. I know so little about you, but I want to know it all.

What will I tell people about you? What do I want to remember about you? You are my child, but to remember you just hurts so damn much. The good memories- CRAP, the plane just shook- is this you, sweetie, telling me that you are here with me?

You are right, there are good memories of the pregnancy with you- 39 weeks and 5 days worth- your development in mommy’s tummy, your kicks and punches, buying things for you and picturing you wearing them, reading about being a daddy and dreaming about being one for you, the summer off- just getting ready for you. Is this the way I should see it, glass half full- I had you and you will always be my child, rather than glass half empty- I will never have you fully. I think I need more time to see the glass as half full, but I may never see it that way. I miss you. I miss myself. And I miss mommy.

Your loss changed us forever. So what am I going to do without you? I will have to learn to live with it. I will have to reserve a part of me just for you. This part has to be really strong. I will also have to learn to find myself again. This means that I will have to separate my life and yours. But I also know that I don’t have to be miserable, angry, absent-minded, directionless, and unhappy, to miss you. I love you. You are my child, and I hope that, with time, I can see it this way without losing the ground from under my feet every time I think about you.

Just Those 39 Weeks

For just those 39 weeks
I had you to myself.
And that seems too short a time
to be changed so profoundly.
In those 39 weeks,
I came to know you...
and to love you.
You came to trust me with your life.
Oh what a life I had planned for you!
Just those 39 weeks...
when I lost you,
I lost a lifetime of hopes,
plans, dreams and aspirations.
A slice of my future simply vanished overnight.
Just those 39 weeks...
It wasn't enough time to convince others
how special and important you were.
How odd, a truly unique person has recently died
and not enough mourn the passing.
Just a mere 39 weeks...
And no "normal" person would cry for months
Over a tiny, dead baby,
or get depressed and withdraw day after endless day.
No one would, so why am I?
You were just those 39 weeks, my little one.
You darted in and out of my life too quickly.
But it seems that's all the time you needed
to make my life richer
and to give me a small glimpse of eternity.

- (Adapted from) S. Erling

Wreckage

I’m sifting through the wreckage that is my life
I can’t seem to find what I am looking for
Salvation?
Comfort?
A pain-free existence?
Everything is in jagged pieces
A veritable mess
Almost unrecognizable
There’s nothing to turn to
Nothing to lessen my pain
Nothing to take it away
Your time has come before it has come
Because of this, I am furious
I am holding my breath
Why was I denied my happy ending?

Letter to Shiloh #6

Daddy and I just got back from a visit with Dr. Collins in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He is a G-d send. This man really cares and is willing to spend all his free time talking about what happened to you and what to look for next time we have a baby. I was worried about being in such a public place, and talking for so long, because I was afraid of being too emotional. Every time I think about you, I cry uncontrollably. I haven’t yet made it to the point where I can feel bittersweet about your memory. I don’t think that this will come for a long while though.

Nevertheless, I didn’t break into tears until, in the middle of our conversation, Dr. Collins received a call from another woman who just recently lost her baby due to a UCA. He asked if I wanted to speak with her. In hearing the pain in her voice, my own came rushing back, unrelenting, unforgiving. My three-month-old wound had been torn open yet again.

The feeling of helplessness and emptiness is renewed and more palpable, and all of the sudden, it happened just yesterday. How unfortunate for my body, which has such short respite between powerful bouts of sorrow. I felt myself crawling inwards as I visualized, for what must have been the hundredth time, pushing out your lifeless body. With every memory, the edges of my agony get a tiny bit duller, but it’s still enough to rock my world.

It is so difficult for me to comfort other women, even though we’ve had the same or similar experiences, because my pain is still so raw. I am lost for words, I think because, no matter what I say, it’s not going to bring their child back. But I feel like I owe it you Shiloh, to attempt to console others. I feel this sense of entitlement to the unwanted wisdom that goes along with such an experience. It’s somewhat selfish because I want everyone to know your name, to know what you look like, to know just how much you are loved. And I want these women to reach out to me and tell me about their lost sons and daughters. You are people. You lived. You loved. You are loved.

Daddy's Birthday

Today is daddy’s 33rd birthday and he is so incredibly sad. We both are. We thought that we would be able to share this day with you. We pictured ourselves pushing you around in your new stroller, taking you to the beach and playing in the sand, kissing you goodnight. We pictured ourselves doing so many things with you. But we find ourselves alone and sorrowful. We’ve lost our future in you. Direction hasn’t found us, purpose hasn’t fulfilled us, and emptiness still lurks, especially in the daylight hours. Come back to us. It’s impossible to really live without you.

Shiloh Jayden

Serene
Hearty
Innocent
Lovely
Omnipresent
Heavenly

Joyful
Angelic
Youthful
Delicate
Exquisite
Natural

Elizabeth McCracken's Memoir

I recently finished a memoir by a woman who also lost her first baby (An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken). She perfectly describes so many experiences and feelings that I am unable to find words for. It’s surprisingly very satisfying for me to see those words, to know that they are universal amongst women who’ve experienced the loss of a baby.

“I just thought he was a sure thing,” she says of her stillborn son early on in the story. This sentence so accurately encompasses my own disbelief and horror at what has happened. After overcoming the shock and numbness, she writes of the days after, "Nothing had changed. We'd been waiting to be transformed, and now here we were, back in our old life." I’ve said this almost verbatim to people I have spoken to about you, and have written it to you in your letters. Nothing has changed, but everything has changed. It’s such a terrible feeling, knowing that we were supposed to welcome you into this world, to have you become the center of our lives, and then in the blink of an eye, to have to say goodbye to you and live without you forever.

She also talks about how she thought (as did I... how naive of me) stillbirth was a thing of the past, something from the Victorian age- black and white photos of dead babies, eyes closed, brows furrowed, dark lips, toys stuffed into their lifeless hands. Who would have thought that there are, to this day, still so many stillbirths (2/100 births in the US). If it is so damn common, how come doctors do seemingly nothing to prevent it?

Elizabeth McCracken had me empathetically nodding in agreement at almost every statement. Yes, I’ve said that. Yes, I’ve experienced that. Yes, I’ve done that…. I feel as though I could write a strikingly similar story, the plot and the outcome, much to my dismay, unchanged.