Author: teamsaddadsclub

Submitted by Paul (Teddy’s dad)

On the morning of Dec 30, 2022, my wife and I lived every parent’s worst nightmare. We woke up to find that our child Theodore, who we call Teddy, did not. Our beautiful boy was 15 months old; walking, talking, growing, and curiously exploring the world the way one-year-olds do. And now, suddenly, he was dead. He wasn’t a sickly child, though there were some scares along the way. When he was born, he spent his first two nights in the NICU due to trouble breathing. Then, he had a febrile seizure when he was 11 months old, but even then, we were only in the hospital for a couple of hours before being sent home, the doctor assuring me that febrile seizures were harmless. The day before he died, he had gotten a fever and a cough: but it was just a cold, we weren’t worried. A sick toddler sucks, but they don’t just die from colds, do they?

This isn’t about the pain and the horror of losing your child, so I won’t really get into it, but it’s present; then, now, and every day for the rest of my life. The rest of that morning was a whirl of police and people from the medical examiner’s office coming in and out, taking pictures, asking questions, asking more questions. All the while we’re in shock, we’re in tears, we’re screaming at the sky. And after a time, they were gone, taking our son’s body with them. That was a Friday morning. We were told the medical examiner wouldn’t be able to get back to us until Monday. Suddenly the house was quiet, and my wife and I were left there, shattered, with one question we thought we would have to wait a whole weekend for: why?

Why, is a very big question when you lose your child. One that we asked a lot in those first few days and weeks and months. Even through the fog of early grief, we knew we wouldn’t get answers to the existential “why’s” that we had, so our hope laid with the medical ones. It was the only thing we had to look forward to at that point: answers. Monday came and Monday went. Surely, he’ll get back to us when he knew something, we can wait. Tuesday came, we couldn’t wait anymore. I called.

The medical examiner performed the autopsy, we were told by staff. Nothing “remarkable” was found. We would have to wait for the lab results.

“How long would that take?” We asked.

“Well, they try to expedite cases involving young children,” was the best response we got. Unfortunately, my brother in law’s nephew had also died as a young child. So, we asked my sister how long it took for his lab results to come back.

“Ten months.” 

Well… I guess we would have to wait a bit longer than a weekend. So, we speculated. We ran over the days and hours leading up to his death over and over. Was it something to do with his breathing problems from when he was born? A febrile seizure? Was it something he ate? Covid? RSV? Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe it didn’t matter, the result was the same. But, maybe…

Five months to the day after his death, a manilla envelope came to our house from the Delaware dept. of Health. It could only be one thing. We gave ourselves a few hours to prepare to open it, expecting the medical report inside. When we finally did, it was only his death certificate.

Cause of death: Parainfluenza type 3. This would require some googling. From what we gathered, it was the flu’s cousin, barely indistinguishable from the regular flu. But that was it, all we had was the certificate. No report, no explanation. It wasn’t enough, so my wife called.

To his credit, the medical examiner who performed the autopsy called us back, it was the first time we had spoken to him. He was forthright with us, while trying to remain compassionate. He told us that he didn’t believe the parainfluenza 3 is what killed him. He said there was some swelling of the breathing passage, but not enough to suffocate him. He said the truth was he didn’t know how he died, but that was the only lab result that came back positive, and he had to put down something.

So, five months of waiting and the best we had was an answer to what kind of cold he had when he died, but not how he died. It didn’t work for me; I needed an answer. I like answers. I’m the type of person who checks IMDb during anything I watch: who wrote this? What do I know that actress from? And so on… So, I decided on an answer. Based on theories we had and things the medical examiner said, I created an answer. It was possible, plausible even. But it was also tragic and preventable. It could be best categorized as a series of unfortunate events that led to the loss of my son’s life. It felt pointless. It gave me closure, but in doing so, it broke me.

I mean “full on, right back to the first weeks after his death, I need to call out of work, and I don’t know for how long” broke me. To assign someone so meaningful to me a meaningless death, I lost my faith that there was any meaning to life at all. It hurt to believe it, but I needed to believe something. So, I did. Thankfully, my wife did not.

Several months later, I was fortunate to tell Teddy’s story to a bunch of men in my support group, the Sad Dad’s Club. Afterwards, lying in bed, my wife told me that she hates when I tell people that’s how Teddy died.

“But that’s how he died.” I responded.

“You don’t know that.” She stated bluntly. “The medical examiner doesn’t even know how he died. We don’t know how he died.”

I didn’t argue, but I needed to hold on to what I thought I knew. So, I left it. But she didn’t. She kept looking. And her search took her to SUDC.

SUDC stands for the Sudden Unexplained Death of a Child. You’ve probably heard of SIDS, well it’s like that except for children between 1 and 18 years old. Like SIDS, we’re not really sure what causes it, but the result is the same: a breathing child falls asleep and during that time, they stop breathing. Whatever reflex most people have that tell them “hey, you’re not breathing, time to wake up,” they don’t have it. SIDS is most common, and the chance of it happening after 4 months old tails off, but there’s still a tail. It still happens.

It happens to roughly 1 in 100,000 children. Doesn’t sound like a lot but let’s break that down. According to SUDC foundation (www.sudc.org); in 2021, 249 children between 1 and 4 died a sudden unexplained death in the US. Does it stop after 4? Nope! Even 107 teenagers between 15 and 18 were affected by SUDC. With dozens of children in the age groups in between as well. In total, in one year, 450 US children just suddenly and inexplicably died. Maybe that number isn’t very high compared to the number of children there are in the US, but 450 families going through our pain per year is WAY too many for my taste. And despite what is listed on his death certificate, despite what stories I tell myself, my son’s death was one of them.

I understand why the medical examiner gave us an answer on the certificate, even if he did rescind it soon thereafter. We found out a lot of families get the answer we did, whatever comes back positive, though they mostly don’t get the follow up phone call. And I get it. They want to give us what I wanted to get: answers, closure. But there’s a problem with this practice.

What we didn’t get is the community of parents who are going through exactly what we’re going through because we spent months thinking we don’t qualify. I was lucky to find a tribe of loss parents in the Sad Dads Club, because unfortunately, the support for men who lost their children is so few and far between that those of us who seek it out band together no matter the cause of our child’s death. My wife, though, even though there’s so much more support for moms than there is dads, hadn’t been able to find her tribe, until now. What we didn’t get was Teddy’s name, along with the many others misdiagnosed after death, automatically added to this group. Turns out that research may show a connection between SUDC and febrile seizures. Hmm, maybe not so harmless after all, huh? His death could help researchers who are studying what causes this. With the false diagnosis, that doesn’t happen. Sure, that doesn’t bring my son back, but maybe it could eventually provide us with actual answers, and more importantly help prevent this from happening to other children.

So, now I know. My son, Theodore Xavier Zurheide, died as a result of SUDC. And it’s still not an answer, but it’s a much better one than what I had made up before. It gives us research to participate in, it gives us something to advocate for, it gives us something to strive for, a way to find meaning as we journey through this life we did not plan for. I gives us community. It gives us purpose. And after going through something as isolating and life shattering as losing your child, that’s a lot more important than answers.

Submitted by Ethan (Cana’s dad)

As a loss parent, the holiday season seems to bring a hurricane of emotional turmoil each and every year. In what should be a season of hope and joy, the bells you used to hear now ring empty. Returning to nostalgic holiday traditions, music, and movies is like looking through a nightmarish kaleidoscope, where old favorites now take on new twisted themes and meanings.

Christmas songs about longing to be reunited with a loved one become painfully relevant after child loss: “Please Come Home for Christmas.” “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” “All I Want for Christmas is You.” The list goes on and on, and you now hear every song differently. It no longer feels like “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” though that throw-away line about “scary ghost stories” finally seems fitting. You feel like you’ve become a ghost yourself. People who know of your loss seem to tremble as you walk by, though they hope you don’t notice. You’re truly a specter to them: the Ghost of Christmas “I can’t even imagine…” You’re a walking, talking reminder of the grim reality that children can, in fact, die. Without warning, reason, or explanation. Jacob Marley’s iron chains and frightening dental work have nothing on you, and the terror that you now seem to bring certain people.

After two holiday seasons without my firstborn daughter, I’ve found that one of the most isolating parts of this lifelong grief is the feeling that she’s been forgotten. That people are afraid to talk about her. That it’s easier for them to pretend she never even existed. Any loss parent will tell you that the silence surrounding their child’s death is far more insidious than you think; even the simplest acknowledgement of their child’s life can make a world of difference, especially during the holidays. This year, give the gift of being a listening ear, even if it’s just a humble acknowledgment that you don’t know what to say. I promise you that authentic, honest compassion is the best gift that you can offer a loss parent, at any time of year. In our darkest moments, your presence and willingness to listen is a simple yet priceless gift.

Submitted by Ethan (Cana’s dad)

Cana,

It’s been one year since we met you, and one year since we lost you. Even a full year later, the details of those 30 hours between finding out that your heart had stopped and meeting you face-to-face are as vivid as ever. Standing motionless on the patio at work when I got the call that your heartbeat was gone. The blur of the drive to meet your mom at the doctor’s office and rush you both to the hospital. The phone calls that I made to your grandparents one by one. Our uncontrollable sobbing in the ultrasound room, and the complete disbelief that this was really happening. The dreadful fear in knowing that when we would finally get the chance to meet you, you would already be gone. The deafening silence of the delivery room when you were born the next day. That beautiful face that looked so much like your mom and me.

Through all the anger, sadness and pain of losing you, you have still taught me so, so much this year Cana. I now know that there is no “moving on,” there is only “moving with.” Moving on implies that I’ve “gotten over” something. That I’ve left it behind and moved past it. How could I possibly do that? There is only moving forward, and learning to be okay living in/with that pain in a healthy way. I also now know that time absolutely does not heal all wounds; at best, they just stop bleeding. Sometimes, that has to be enough. A part of my very being was removed when you died, and I can’t expect that kind of wound to fully heal back to what it once was. If carrying the pain of losing you is the only way of knowing just how deeply I love you, I will gladly carry that pain; it is worth the price.

One year ago, it felt like my world was crumbling around me. In the year since you died, you’ve helped me find the most heartfelt, loving, amazing people among the rubble. People who know the same pain that your mom and I feel, or at least have the empathy to imagine what it must be like to lose your firstborn child. Because of these people, sharing your name and your story doesn’t bring me sadness anymore, but unbridled joy. It also now brings me a strange comfort, knowing that I’m ultimately headed to where you are now; you simply got there before me. Some people can’t fathom being at peace with that idea, but that’s how this type of loss can change you. I’m simply unafraid of the end, because I know that you’re already there waiting for me somewhere. Your mom and I owe it to you to make the most out of the time that we do have on this side of life, knowing that we now live for you too. I promise that I will do everything in my power to make you proud by being grateful for every breath I have here on this side. Happy first Heavenly birthday, my Sunshine.

Love,

Dad

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 (Avery’s dad)

Baby girl,

I just want to make you proud. Losing you was hard. But what was even harder was living after your loss. Days seem unreal. Looking at your pictures and not having you is a reality that i can’t just get used to. It’s like trying to wear shoes that don’t fit. Too big, and you look funny. Too small, and your feet hurt. But holding you was just right. Bringing you home would’ve been the perfect fit I was looking for. While I know somethings just don’t go your way, I never would’ve thought that you wouldn’t come home with me. With us. You were what we had always wanted. A beautiful baby girl. Cute just like her mother. Witty like her father. Smart enough to have us both wrapped around your little finger. And even though you’re not here, somehow you still do. Living in gratitude can be hard, but it helps us to remember you fondly. The joy we had in preparing for your arrival is now placed in the constant reminders of you. We see you in everything we do. We feel you everyday. While I miss so much and hate that you’re not here, I keep living. No longer living to simply satisfy my desires. But living instead, to make you proud. Living to be the man my little girl deserves. You made me a daddy, so now I will make you proud. I will honor you with how I live. Strong like you. I promise to make you proud. I will love you forever.

Love,
Daddy
#AveryStrong

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 Matt (Lily’s dad)

6 months ago, my daughter Lily was born and died. She is my baby girl. From the moment she left us every breath has been painful. Missing her over the last six months, not being able to hold her or feel her soft skin or comfort her when she cries, has been unbearable. To think about a lifetime without her is impossible, and so we’ve lived each day from breath to breath. Our daughter Lehvi will have to continuously learn what it means to live without her baby sister as she grows up, and this alone is enough to break our hearts.

We don’t know exactly when Lily died, but Liza carried her with us for 39 weeks, two days before her delivery was scheduled. Lily died before she was born. The fact that she died before she could take her first breath does not detract from our pain, it increases it immeasurably. There is nothing still about the experience of stillbirth. The violence carried within the moments in a silent delivery room is beyond description. The strength and love that Liza has shown for Lily, Lehvi, and for me by surviving these moments and rebuilding our life with Lily at the center our hearts has astounded me, and I am forever grateful to her for lighting the path for our family.

We have received tremendous support from family and friends. We have also met the most incredible group of loss parents, moms and dads who inspire us with their love for their children and their compassion for us. They have shown me that there will be a day when joy and sadness can coexist in our life, and that Lily will always be here with us. To everyone who has reached out, written, sent cards or food, or asked how we are doing, your love and support have helped us through some of the most difficult days. Thank you for remembering Lily, for saying her name. Lily is and always will be our child, my baby girl, Lehvi’s little sister.

Lily, my baby girl, we love you so so much

Submitted by Brenton (Jeremiah’s dad)

As always when you find out you’re expecting you’re filled with joy, excitement, and anticipation. You start praying for the little life growing inside, praying for health, protection, safety, and a smooth pregnancy without any hiccups. For some reason that’s everything we didn’t get, Jeremiah’s and our story is very different. The first part of the pregnancy was fairly uneventful, much the same as Miriam’s. We worked on getting Miriam used to sleeping in the toddler bed instead of the cot. We practiced having her walk instead of use the pram. We read books to her about babies, although we knew it was going over her head. We were so excited to watch them grow up together. That all changed after Alana’s 20 week scan.

Alana was referred to the Maternal Fetal Medicine unit at Flinders. During her appointment she was told his prognosis was extremely poor and it was suggested to end the pregnancy. Brenton was working in Clare, 155km away. Most of you know his diagnosis, a little blockage in the urethra stopping urine flow, damaging kidneys and stopping the amniotic fluid which helps with lung development. Barring a miracle, our dear little boy had no chance. The medical team told us he wouldn’t survive, unfortunately they weren’t wrong.

We decided to continue, in hope that we would meet him for just a few minutes and hear him cry.

We transferred our care to the Woman’s and Children’s Hospital and had check-ups every three weeks. We had regular scans and every time we’d be told things like “his heart is strong” or “his brain is developing correctly.” But we could see the massive black blob in the middle of his body which we knew was his very full bladder. Our hearts broke repeatedly. After the scans we’d see a specialist obstetrician only to be told more of what we already knew. It was exhausting. We just wanted it to be over. The anticipation was killing us. We knew one day we’d feel better, we’d never stop grieving or missing him, but someday we’d have a new normal and we’d be ok. We needed to get though labour and delivery first. And his death.

At our last appointment we were given an induction date, we were dreading it, and terrified. The next day Alana went into labour. He came on his own terms. We heard him cry and he passed safely in Alana’s arms. He was at peace. We love him and always will.

A poem by an unknown author:- 

They say memories are golden

Well maybe that is true.

We never wanted memories,

We only wanted you.

A million times we needed you,

A million times we have cried.

If love alone could have saved you,

You would have never died.

In life we loved you dearly,

In death we love you still.

In our heart you hold a special place,

That none will ever fill.

It broke our heart to lose you,

But you did not go alone.

For all our love went with you

The day God called you home.