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Guest Post by Gordon
When our daughter Vivienne was born at only 22 weeks and died within minutes, I became part of a club to which no dedicated father would ever seek membership. As she was our only child to date, her death robbed me of the opportunity to be a father in the manner I’d seen my father and my friends become fathers.
In the days and weeks that followed, it struck me how completely the privilege of raising, nurturing and -perhaps a father’s most natural inclination – protecting our little girl had been taken away.
The finality of it was stunning.
What followed was a feeling of helplessness and my own perception that I’d failed to protect her. It didn’t matter that I’m not a physician, nor that the circumstances that caused her death were never fully discovered. In those first weeks and months the overwhelming feeling that I’d failed her haunted me.
In time, through the help of support groups, friends and most importantly, my wife, I’ve come to accept that the circumstances surrounding our daughter’s passing were beyond our control. Whether you ascribe it to God, fate or simply the natural order of things, there is a point where it is possible to accept that, in this life, there is only so much we can do.
So, then, how do you parent a child that’s passed on?
For us, it’s been about treasuring the small memories that we do have, and protecting and honoring those. Given the timing of our daughter’s passing, that meant that the few articles of clothing and assorted items that we’d accumulated in anticipation of her birth are tucked away in a cedar chest that holds her cremated remains.
This, along with a number of other little things-a memorial garden, a stocking on the mantel bearing her name at Christmas and becoming involved with support groups and the March of Dimes- work for us. These give us the opportunity to remember her, honor her and share her with our friends and our family. It helps others connect with her in a way that they can see and feel.
Ultimately, it is up to us and us alone to safeguard her memory and make it possible for others to carry Vivienne in their hearts.
We’ve been fortunate that we’ve had so much support around us as we find the ways to do this. I know from support groups that not everyone is as blessed in that regard.
It’s not uncommon, I’ve found, for those who do not understand what it’s like to experience a prenatal or neonatal loss to suggest that there is a time to ‘move on’ as though the memory of a child is something that can be conveniently tucked away.
That is where the father’s instinct to protect can be put to good use. These suggestions may be well-meaning, but nevertheless leave parents in our situation feeling as though our children ‘don’t count’.
By saying Vivienne’s name, tending to her garden and simply pausing to remember how much I love her each day, I’m protecting my daughter’s memory. It isn’t protection in the way that we traditionally view it, but preventing her life from fading away and reminding others that she did indeed matter.
That’s really all I can ask for as a father, the chance to love my child and protect her in whatever manner is available to me.
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Gordon,
I must start by expresing my sincere sympathy for the loss of your beautifl baby girl, Vivienne. I am the mother of a young man that shares your sorrowful exprience. My granddaughter, Victoria was born at 20 1/2 weeks. My son, Mike, speaks about Victoria often. He tells people that he has not seen recently about her arrival and passing. I feel that his is a very healthy sign of his paternal feelings but some relatives and friends do not agree. I applaud your words as most of what I read is wrtten from a mother’s point of view. I hope my son has the strength to continue to protect the memory of my granddaughter as you are doing with Vivienne. As the mother, it is so difficult to watch my adult son suffer such a tremendous loss and of course I am grieving. I am doing my best but I am not always sure of what is the best thing for me t say or do. Your post has given me some insight into his heart. Thank you for sharing.
Oh Gordon – that was beautiful! I’m the grandmother of two precious Angels — Julia Rose (although miscarried at 17 weeks and my daughter and husband don’t know gender, but felt it was their girl), and Evan Riley (born full term 2 years ago but had unknowingly turned feetling breech, starting birthing quickly at home, end result was a birth gone all wrong and we had to let him go at 4 days old). Both these babes are my daughter’s.
I’ve ready MANY posts about MOMS feeling exactly what you’ve shared – but not many dads. Clearly, it’s a PARENTAL protection — just very nice to read it from a male perspective.
Our family also talks much about both babies — even tho we only got to actually meet and have pics of Evan. They’re both part of our lives past, current, and future. As grandparents our pain goes generations deep…… we grieve for our daughter whose heart has been shattered – twice. We grieve for ourselves having only memories while our friends get to hold and play with their living grandbabies and have birthday parties, etc. We grieve for our sons, who “are” uncles but don’t get to “be” uncles. We grieve for our son-in-law who told me before he married our daughter that his ultimate goal in life was “to be the best husband and father I can be — everything else is a bonus” — and whose younger brother became a dad 3 months after Evan died.
We chose to honor these babies existence. And asked God to not waste our pain. The non-profit EvansEmbrace.org is now a reality. We gather specific items for Memory Baskets and donate to Seattle Area hospitals to be given to parents of stillborns and neonatal loss. Julia’s Joy is under the umbrella of Evan’s Embrace – for which I use donated wedding gowns and sew into little presentation and burial gowns and rompers for little ones 20 weeks gestation up to full term….. also donated to local hospitals.
It doesn’t take away the pain – but it does help to know that we can come alongside others at such an awful time to help shoulder their pain.
Yes — welcome to the club none of us ever wanted to be part of. But here we are. Sharing eachother’s burdens. I’m so sorry that you don’t have sweet Vivienne here to parent and enjoy — but you are doing what she’d be so proud of — loving her to the moon and back — keeping her sweet memory alive — sharing her with us. I’ll have to tell Julia and Evan to find her on Heaven’s playground and tell her we met down here on earth. Who knows – maybe they’ve already been getting into some sweet mischief up there! Colleen — I’ll bet your grandbabe is also part of their playgroup!!
Blessings on you both!
♥ Gramma Vicki — Seattle, WA
Dear Grandma Vicki,
God Bless you for your beautiful work – my Grandbaby Victoria was buried in a beautiful white gown. We live in New York so you were not the special person that made that gown but someone with a big heart like yours made saying good-bye more dignified. She also wore a pink gown, hand knitted hat, was wrapped in a crocheted blanket and held a tiny stuffed animal. Her hands each had a little ring; looked more like a bangle bracelet on her tiny body which my son and “daughter” wear on chains around their necks as a constant reminder of our precious little girl. Women like you made this possible and I want to say “thank you”. It’s comforting to know that I am not alone as a grandmother that cannot hold her grandchild but just remember her as she looked and all the plans I had made for the two of us and the entire family. Hope one day to have another grandchild but Victoria is forever the one that made me a grandmother. Thank you for turning your pain into an organization to help others and for mentioning my name in your post. Your kindness has touched me forever.
God Bless you and I pray one day you won’t have to make any more little gowns for babies that cannot be with us but play together somewhere we can only imagine!
Colleen
Thanks for your sweet note, Colleen. I can just picture your beautiful little Victoria as you’ve described her so eloquently. Precious memories you have there – and I feel honored you shared them with me.
My gramma heart shares your pain.
♥ Vicki
Beautiful post, Gordon. Eve, our stillborn daughter, was also our first child, and like you said — the finality of losing a child, especially a first, is absolutely stunning. But I like the ways you’ve found to “parent” your sweet Vivienne and remember her. Her name is lovely. I’m so sorry she’s gone.
I could not have said this better myself. It is so important to remember, every life is precious in God’s eyes.
This is beautiful. My biggest fear is that people will forget my daughter. Protecting your daughter by keeping her memory alive is so precious- and something that I can totally relate to.
Thank you for sharing the male perspective on this.
Gordon, just a few hours ago my son and I were together. When he said his daughter’s name “Victoria” your story came rushing back into my mind. Two fathers trying to protect the memory of their little girls. My eyes filled with tears and I wanted to share your story with him. I didn’t because we were in the car and I didn’t have a PC, iPad or Internet connection on my phone. I do promise when he visits on Sunday I will tell him about Gordon and Vivienne and hopefully he won’t feel as alone. His friends do not understand and have said that he makes them feel uncomfortable when he talks about his daughter. I think your words will show him that he is just being a dad.
Colleen,
Thanks so much for your comments. I can certainly sympathize with your situation, and please know I’m very sorry to hear of your family’s loss. It is difficult to know what to say to others in our situation, and I know you as a grandparent are grieving yourself.
It saddens me to hear that your son’s friends seem to have a hard time offering support. I can say that one thing that was very helpful for us was to find a grief counselor who specialized in prenatal and neonatal loss-the hospital at which your granddaughter was born or their OB may be able to recommend someone. She helped us find support groups, which allowed us to spend time with people who understood the hole this has left in our lives, and helped us understand that we weren’t alone.
Our counselor helped me immensely with figuring out what I needed and how to express what I needed to my friends. Often, what we need is someone to listen and agree with us that life is simply unfair. I hope that your son finds a path to comfort and peace. You’ve obviously been very supportive of him, and if you continue to make that clear to him, that will certainly be a positive thing for him.
Thanks Dad!