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Women carry the baby. Some for weeks, others for months. They hold them until that final moment. Their emotions are ever-present in the souls of their eyes. Women talk. They write. They find groups. They seek support. But what about the dads in the scenario? The ones who sometimes never get to see, touch or hold their child. These pillars of physical strength that have their heart brought to its knees on the inside, while they fight off the urge to show it on the outside. Let’s take a walk into the often closed but never imagined thoughts of the grieving father.
There are few things more vital to a man, than the significance of his very existence. Especially with regard to his family. Whereas a woman longs for and needs security, a man longs for and needs significance. The instant life becomes uncontrollable and a man’s significance is suddenly erased by a weakened grip, a man can collapse inward without anyone knowing it – including himself.
Seventeen months before what would become the darkest day of my life, my then newborn son, Caleb, was doing great. That all changed on the 28th day. (See more on this story here.) At 28 days old, Caleb was rushed to the PICU. He wasn’t breathing. He had developed Pertussis. He didn’t want to, or rather couldn’t, breathe when the disease would rise up in his chest.
We stood by, helplessly watching as he turned frightening shades of purple each time a new spasm wracked his tiny body. We watched with begging eyes as his heart rate dropped dangerously low — the anticipation cutting off our own breath. The nurses rushed about, as they tried to get Caleb to breathe with the aid of an am-bu. It became a pattern for him to hold his breath as his body clinched against the attacks. Each time the cessation lengthened, my wife and I assumed that this was it, fear strangled our hope and we felt good-bye creeping into the room.
Caleb’s unprepared body, hidden by a mess of tubes and wires, would go limp in the over-sized bed. My eyes would dart from the over-head monitor to his small face. The feeling of insignificance had never been more brutally honest. I stood there watching helplessly as my son fought to breathe, realizing that I could not do anything to help him. Although he couldn’t speak, his wide-opened eyes stared hard at me, almost pleading for me to help him. It was as though there were an invisible wall between what I could do and what he needed. It taunted me ferociously, pressing an insurmountable distance between us although I stood only inches from him.
Twenty-one long days later, Caleb finally got to come home. The nightmare had ended. I thought I had learned just how little a part I played in the whole life-and-death saga. Eventually, those fearful feelings and inadequacies slowly faded back into the memory vaults of my mind. The routine of everyday life pressed the images from those scary nights in the ICU into a corner rarely visited. The illusion that control was back in my hands had allowed me to falsely believe the thought that even if things got unbearable, it would all work out.
Then the darkest day of my life arrived.
Seventeen months later, there I stood staring at a blank screen that was supposed to project the images of my daughter, Bella. The doctor wrapped up the cord to the sonogram wand and uttered the words, “We’re sorry, her heart has stopped.” Once again, I was violently reminded that I had no control. The prison door of my limits slammed in my face. It was my responsibility to fix things. There was no fix to this. There was no manual to reference. There were no words of comfort to deliver to my sobbing wife who had her shirt pulled up with the residue of the gel still smeared across her swollen belly that held my still daughter.
In this instance, unlike when my son was fighting with the notion of death, death was here. Suddenly the almost moments with Caleb paled in comparison to this very real moment with Bella. Uninvited, unexpected and unwanted, death arrived — to stay. I wasn’t prepared. Is anyone?
Not knowing what to do in a spiraling situation may be the biggest fear to enter a man’s mind. I still remember the doctor asking simple, basic questions like, “Do you need to call anyone?” or “Do you guys want to head to the hospital today?” The answers were far from where the reach of my understanding and dropped off the cliff of confusion. I felt myself falling out of the sky. No parachute. No safety net. No answers.
The instinct to protect and comfort my wife was natural but oddly forced as I stumbled over robotic, one-liners that most sappy soap-operas would pass on. I couldn’t even put together one single sentence of hope. I didn’t believe the words as they left my shivering lips; how would she? I couldn’t find the words to begin to make sense or even understand the loss of our baby girl. This was the first moment in a string of events that I began to shut down my emotions. This may also be the moment that other grieving dads begin to shut down.
Ironically, these first few moments of horror were just the beginning of what my life and mind were about to face. The days were about to get silently darker and much longer.
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About Paul
Wow! I couldn’t stop crying reading this! What an amazing perspective. :’)
Thank you for reading and being honest with your emotions. I trust you were able to pull some good out of the article.
Paul, I am so sorry for your loss…
but i know he is also feeling pain!
I recently miscarried myself… reading your post has brought some insight to maybe how my boyfriend, Markus, might be feeling! I miscarried in April. Til today he has yet to say 1 word about the baby or our loss. His silence hurts me.
again sorry for your loss! you and your family will be in my prayers.
<3
I am also sorry for your loss. I’m sure each man’s grief is particular to the individual, but I also hope this gave you some insight and some idea as to what some of the thoughts may be inside the mind of a man who has lost a child. Silence is a great shield for men. It doesn’t necessarily imply weakness, but rather a defense mechanism and shield. I’ll pray for him specifically and hope that one day he will be able to put into words or actions how he feels. God bless!
http://paul-deleon.com/2011/02/09/the-28th-day/
Here is the link to the rest of the story about the days my son spent in NICU.
I have two twin baby boys, who too, were too beautiful for Earth. Keep telling Bella’s story. I know she loves you for it and for being her dad.
I am very sorry for your loss. I hope Bella’s story can help mend hearts and help identify the very real emotions that come along with the journey of grief. Bella, ironically, has reached more people in her silent birth than I have ever dreamed of in my very vocal life. I hope she continues to make a difference. Thanks for reading!
Wow. I am sorry for your loss. You and Bella do indeed make a difference. Thank you for sharing such a difficult time and helping others to understand their own grief. I agree wholeheartedly that our children’s silent births can speak volumes. As difficult as these situations can be, I personally experienced an indescribable peace that is still a part of me today and continues to comfort me when I am tormented by “what ifs”.
Keep sharing … it makes a difference. God bless.
Paul, your story is so moving. My son is the father of a “baby girl too beautiful for this earth” as well. As I write to you with tears streaming down my cheeks I see Bella playing in a beautiful field of flowers with Victoria, my Grandbaby. I have no words to console you. Of all people you know there are no explanations. Continue to tell the story of Caleb and Bella. Your insights are helpful to all that read your words. I will share Bella’s story and that of her Daddy, Paul with my son, Mike. He is having a very hard time expressing his feelings and working through his grief. Hopefully it will help him understand “he is not alone”. He tries to be strong but losing something as precious as your baby girl gives every man “permission” to grieve anyway that feels right. You have done that by telling your story. Maybe we will meet one day when Bella and Victoria introduce us to all the “babies too beautiful for this earth”. Your wife is lucky to have a sensitive partner. Grieving alone or in silence is like grieving twice or one hundred times. God Bless your family.
Wow, such a wonderful challenge! First of all I am sorry for you and your sons loss. Your vision of Bella and Victoria playing together is a vivid imagination and one that I have allowed myself to visit quite often when thinking of my daughter. I’ll be praying for Mike and that he will be able to put his feelings into action. When we lost Bella, it wasn’t enough for me to just think she was in Heaven floating around on some cloud. I had to put her into a real place. I wrote this piece that helped me visualize her and her surroundings. Perhaps it can be a help to your son as well. God bless! http://paul-deleon.com/2011/04/20/bellas-story/
Your place is beautiful, powerful and consoling to anyone grieving the loss of an infant. When I was younger, it was easy for me to imagine the place called “heaven”. As I grew older, I still believe in the afterlife but lost my sense of it as a real place. Bella’s story gave that back to me. I have the visual imagery and audio as well, now that you reminded me in heaven “those too beautiful for earth” are not restricted in what they can do. Certainly our girls play, laugh and speak. I am going to bed with tears but for the first time in almost 9 months, (less than 3 hrs to another months birthday in heaven) I have a little smile. I hope I dream about Victoria, Bella and the other babies everyone is missing tonight as they try to sleep. You have given me a great gift in honor of the 9 month milestone – the first time i could smile thinking about the one that is not with me tonight.
Pleasant dreams.
My wife and I have experienced the same horrific event, I have a journal but it is hand written, I have been where you have been.
It is a fellowship of suffering (a phrase I often use) that we all find ourselves in. Unfortunately none outside of it can understand and the last thing we want is new members. Keep writing! Keep expressing! That is all part of the process! Thanks for reading.
This is such a beautifully written and honest portrayal of a father’s perspective. Thank you for sharing, bravely, what many find it so hard to say. I stood on the other side and watched the life drain from my husband when we heard the words “incompatible with life” in regards to our son. I watched him struggle with the agony of not being able to save and protect us, or fix my brokenness. I watched him slip further inside for years, until he found his way back. We are looking for fathers to participate in a project for Sufficient Grace Ministries, and would love your input. We are a non-profit organization, offering bereavement support and materials free of charge to families all over the world, who experience the loss of a baby or child. We have a need currently for a booklet that focuses on the father’s perspective. This will hopefully be helpful for hospital staff and caregivers in meeting the needs of grieving dads, as well as something for fathers to know they are not alone…the feelings they have are valid and experienced by others walking this path.
Here are some of the questions we are asking:
What are ways the hospital can help support a father specifically?
Are there things that would have helped initially and also later on in the grieving process, understanding that men and women often grieve differently?
What has been helpful and not-so-helpful to you both initially and as you walk through the grief process by hospital/funeral homes/others?
What kinds of support would be helpful to fathers?
Is there anything else you would like to share from a father’s perspective?
If you are willing to participate, please email your thoughts/answers to:
sufficientgraceministries at gmail dot com
You can read more about our outreach for grieving families here:
http://www.sufficientgraceministries.org
Thank you again, for sharing from your heart. Sharing your experience, while heart wrenching, has great value for not only the other men walking this path, but for the women who love them, as well.
Blessings to you…
Thank you for the kind words and sharing part of you and your husbands heartache. For me, writing was always something I wanted to do. I prayed for years for God to allow me to be able to have the ‘dream’ job of writing. Of course, I never prayed that my words would come to life with the passing of my sweet daughter but God knows. The booklet idea sounds wonderful and I would love to be a help in any way I can. I will work on the questions/answers and send over an email. Thank you for offering and thank you for reading.
My personal site was having some problems and not all the links on the page that houses all the articles I have written in regards to our stillborn daughter were not working. If you’d like you can now visit the site and check out the links. http://paul-deleon.com/our-sweet-girl-in-heaven/ Thanks to all who have read the article and commented. I will reply individually soon. God bless!
Dear Paul,
Your story truly helps me to understand what my husband is feeling. You are so right about us women, We do seek out other’s who have been in our shoe’s, talk out our feelings and fears. I am glad you are taking to the time to write these post as they help me to better understand and support my husband better.
Thanks for reading Melissa. I’m not happy you and your husband have had to experience the loss but I am glad that what you read may give you something to think about or reflect on or reference. My thoughts go out to you and your husband as you continue on your journey.
Paul,
My husband is struggling so badly with the loss of our daughter-ironically too-March of 2011. It is tearing him apart, her loss has changed who he is and I don’t know him anymore. Your post is perfect. I am the Mom of a micro-preemie who spent 4 long months in the (NICU). For years, I had so much guilt over the why’s the how’s etc. I didn’t have to imagine the pain she would encounter on a daily basis because I witnessed it. Today she is healthy and thriving but until we lost Lily-as you said, her NICU stay doesn’t pale compared to the full blown loss of a baby. We were so close so many times but we escaped the shadow of death with our micro-preemie …until Lily was born. As you already know we will never be the same, the darkness is overwhelming sometimes but somehow the sun does shine again each day. Many thanks, I am going to share with my husband.
Wow, I am so very sorry for your loss and the experience you have had. The resemblance to our stories is uncanny. I do pray and hope the post can shed some light on where your husbands mind may be. Each situation, even if similar, is so very different. Trying to put ones way of expressing grief up against another, will never be exactly the same. I am willing to personally be of any help I can be to your husband. If I can be. If you would like you can check out my blog-site that has other entries from my own perspective. One step and day at a time. That’s all you can ever truly control. Thank you for reading and commenting! God bless!
Hi Paul. I posted a comment after reading the first part of your journey and was touched by your kind reply regarding ways I could help my son express his feelings of grief and loss. I find your words to be so moving. Have you considered writing a book about your experience to help others deal with the loss of their child, feelings of helplessness and the long process we call ” grief”. You speak from the heart and you have a talent for conveying your message in a powerful way painting a picture with your words. I want to read part 3 soon.
Thank you so much for the kind words Colleen. Was your son able to read the post I sent you? I am actually working on a book that entails a series of events that led up to and through the loss of our daughter. It’s tentatively called “Fellowship of His Suffering”. I have only written 5 chapters so far, but I am working on it. My goal is that it can shed light into the dark tragedy of infant loss, but also bring forth purpose and hope for those that are left behind to put life back together. I’d love to share the chapters with you, if you would like to read them. They cover the weekend we lost our daughter in great detail.
Paul, I am honored that you would share your work with me. Your words have been comforting and enlightening. I shared Part 1 of your story with my son the very next day. He read the words silently and slowly the tears streamed down the two cheeks I loved to kiss when he was an innocent little boy. Michael needed a man’s perspective on grieving. My husband has been devasted since Victoria’s passing but does not express his feelings freely and openly like you do. I believe you have helped my son to honor the memory of his precious daughter and keep her memory alive. He tells friends that did not know what happened that he became a father in December but his little girl was too tiny to survive. I anxiously wait to learn more about your daughter and the journey you have appropriately entitled ” Fellowship of His Suffering”. Please keep writing; you truly are talented. What better tribute could a father give to his daughter?
I am so humbled that you feel what I have shared has been a gateway for your son and his loss. This is the exact reason I pick up a pen and begin writing. I want my pain to help someone elses and this is what motivates me to continue to give Bella a voice. If you would like, you can email me at paulddeleon@gmail.com and I will happily send you what I have written. Just keep in mind it is unfinished and it abruptly ends because I am still in the middle of writing it. Thank you for the kind compliments and for reminding me that even in my darkest pain, there is hope and purpose.
Please keep writing – you have a gift and are open to being used so that others may suffer less. Thanks.
Paul,
We lost our daughter Ava in August 2011, her heartrate had decreased several times during delivery and the Dr. did not act quick enough to save her. Your words mirror almost exactly on what this feels like when you lose your child so abruptly. We went into the hospital the happiest we have ever felt and left with our world completely devastated. We have made it past that one year milestone as some call it but to be honest it doesn’t hurt any less it just seems like we are just more.conditioned to to manage the pain of grief . Thank you for the article , we belong to aclub no one wants to be a part of. take care man, Ryan
Paul,
Strength and prayers to you. I, unfortunately, have shared your experience. We lost my son, Kyle, the day before his due date. The prior year, my wife’s first pregnancy ended with a miscarriage at 7 weeks. It was heartbreaking when we saw that there was no longer that tiny flutter on the monitor. But it paled in comparison to the second time we heard the words, “I’m sorry. There is no heartbeat.” We were at the hospital that morning because my wife was having contractions, and we assumed that it was time. She had expressed some concern because she had not felt him kick that morning, but I kept reassuring her that everything was fine. That he was just getting into position to make his grand entrance. It was so incredibly difficult to try and be the strong one, the encouraging husband, when I was utterly devastated. Standing along side while your wife endures the pain of labor, knowing all the while that we would never hear that first baby cry, was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. Thank you for sharing your story. God bless, and have a great holiday with your family.