Forgotten Fathers
January 21st. Another "supposed to be" day. Instead of laboring to deliver our girl on her predicted due date, we went to Angel Land where she is buried. David worked like a boss to clear the snow off of each little grave site there, as we made a list of Margot's neighbors. Every name written was a bittersweet blow, both an honor and a burden we now understand deeply as infant loss parents. David grieved over the generic "cemetery placed" markers, made unreadable with time, nameless angels and forgotten dreams. He's adopted these children as his own and is endeavoring to get them new, readable tribute plaques. Giving renewed voice to Margot's neglected friends.
That evening my brain was a blank page, erased to numbness by the emotional exhaustion of the day. Sleep came quickly. But as quickly as I tumbled into twilight, I -just as swiftly- awoke with a sense of the bed being shaken from under me. Then I heard the wrenching sobs, my David's intense weeping, the sound of a soul's innermost sorrow. All solace, at that point, shattered.
After learning about Margot's death, my sister-in-law, Hannah, sent us a beautiful message with these powerful words: "Emotions are difficult for me to process, but that doesn't mean I feel them any less." I've spoken about how I am a very extroverted griever, my process matching my personality. However, I think many infant loss fathers understand and share Hannah's sentiment. They are internal processors, quietly moving through life while sharp, unexpressed emotions cut their insides to shreds. In many ways, this is the manly image our society champions. The strong, silent type. And when situations like ours occur, this mindset places mamas fully in the spotlight and shunts grieving dads off to the sidelines.
David is the most wonderful father. His care for Margot and myself during pregnancy was unsurpassed. Seriously. I was NOT an easy person to live with, but he went above and beyond to maintain the household and his crazy sick wife. I often joked that he would be a much better pregnant person than I was. He wholeheartedly agreed, LOL. He wished for a girl so badly, even journaling these thoughts on the day of our 20 week ultrasound. He and Elijah loved complaining about how the Gross gender tables were turning with two girls on the way. E especially mourned the influx of pink after my baby shower. Most mornings before work David would whisper secrets to Margot through my belly button; they enjoyed conspiring against me. And when we found out her heart had stopped beating, I've never witnessed a person more broken. The mask of sorrow-filled horror he wore that day will haunt my life forever. His love for his daughter was, still is, complete. How could his sadness over missing her be any less?
Even as supported as we've been, David doesn't receive the constant encouragement I've been given. Thank goodness for our dearest friends who make a point to reach out to him specifically, allowing dude opportunities to decompress and drink beer. But that's the exception rather than the rule. I remain surrounded by allies, delivering me coffee, cards, and personal sympathy. (And I can't begin to express how grateful I am. Please don't stop showing up.) Maybe this is because I am more forthcoming about my sadness. Maybe it's because I'm a mama missing her daughter. Maybe females do a better job of consoling other females. Or maybe this is just expected, that moms NEED the comfort more. That dads are the stoic, unfeeling ones. The ones who offer the comfort, rather than needing it themselves. It's 2019, people. About time we call bull on this sort of stereotypical nonsense.
I realize that our amazing hospital experience, the nurses that became sisters, isn't everyone's story. During their daughter's passing, a friend spoke of her partner being treated as a non-entity, a second class citizen. Resources and caring were actively directed towards her and her infant daughter, while the grieving daddy was silently regarded like an unwelcome guest. Recently David said to me, "Meghan tagged me in something on Facebook about grieving fathers. It was nice to be remembered." The restrained emotions of mourning fathers may be complex, but their needs are simple. Acknowledge them and their feelings, recognize their loss, regularly offer them space to vent. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
Margot's death unleashed the compassion floodgates on our family. This has been a range of things- From meals to massages, get-aways and greeting cards, flowers and new friends. But mostly words. A barrage of them, all well-meaning. An interesting set came from an acquaintance, who I know mostly from her professional capacity, but have connected with nonetheless. She relayed a belief that unborn babies, the littlest, most innocent souls, can observe the universe of longing parents and make a choice to come to a particular set of persons. With full knowledge of whether their experience will be a long or short one, these spirits let love lead them to their parents. While I don't particularly hold to this concept as truth, I embrace its sentiment regardless. Because I KNOW, without a shadow of a doubt, that -given the opportunity- Margot would choose her Daddy every.single.time. Would choose mere weeks of treasured life, to ensure a destiny of being cherished forever by THIS amazing Father.
That evening my brain was a blank page, erased to numbness by the emotional exhaustion of the day. Sleep came quickly. But as quickly as I tumbled into twilight, I -just as swiftly- awoke with a sense of the bed being shaken from under me. Then I heard the wrenching sobs, my David's intense weeping, the sound of a soul's innermost sorrow. All solace, at that point, shattered.
After learning about Margot's death, my sister-in-law, Hannah, sent us a beautiful message with these powerful words: "Emotions are difficult for me to process, but that doesn't mean I feel them any less." I've spoken about how I am a very extroverted griever, my process matching my personality. However, I think many infant loss fathers understand and share Hannah's sentiment. They are internal processors, quietly moving through life while sharp, unexpressed emotions cut their insides to shreds. In many ways, this is the manly image our society champions. The strong, silent type. And when situations like ours occur, this mindset places mamas fully in the spotlight and shunts grieving dads off to the sidelines.
David is the most wonderful father. His care for Margot and myself during pregnancy was unsurpassed. Seriously. I was NOT an easy person to live with, but he went above and beyond to maintain the household and his crazy sick wife. I often joked that he would be a much better pregnant person than I was. He wholeheartedly agreed, LOL. He wished for a girl so badly, even journaling these thoughts on the day of our 20 week ultrasound. He and Elijah loved complaining about how the Gross gender tables were turning with two girls on the way. E especially mourned the influx of pink after my baby shower. Most mornings before work David would whisper secrets to Margot through my belly button; they enjoyed conspiring against me. And when we found out her heart had stopped beating, I've never witnessed a person more broken. The mask of sorrow-filled horror he wore that day will haunt my life forever. His love for his daughter was, still is, complete. How could his sadness over missing her be any less?
Even as supported as we've been, David doesn't receive the constant encouragement I've been given. Thank goodness for our dearest friends who make a point to reach out to him specifically, allowing dude opportunities to decompress and drink beer. But that's the exception rather than the rule. I remain surrounded by allies, delivering me coffee, cards, and personal sympathy. (And I can't begin to express how grateful I am. Please don't stop showing up.) Maybe this is because I am more forthcoming about my sadness. Maybe it's because I'm a mama missing her daughter. Maybe females do a better job of consoling other females. Or maybe this is just expected, that moms NEED the comfort more. That dads are the stoic, unfeeling ones. The ones who offer the comfort, rather than needing it themselves. It's 2019, people. About time we call bull on this sort of stereotypical nonsense.
I realize that our amazing hospital experience, the nurses that became sisters, isn't everyone's story. During their daughter's passing, a friend spoke of her partner being treated as a non-entity, a second class citizen. Resources and caring were actively directed towards her and her infant daughter, while the grieving daddy was silently regarded like an unwelcome guest. Recently David said to me, "Meghan tagged me in something on Facebook about grieving fathers. It was nice to be remembered." The restrained emotions of mourning fathers may be complex, but their needs are simple. Acknowledge them and their feelings, recognize their loss, regularly offer them space to vent. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
Margot's death unleashed the compassion floodgates on our family. This has been a range of things- From meals to massages, get-aways and greeting cards, flowers and new friends. But mostly words. A barrage of them, all well-meaning. An interesting set came from an acquaintance, who I know mostly from her professional capacity, but have connected with nonetheless. She relayed a belief that unborn babies, the littlest, most innocent souls, can observe the universe of longing parents and make a choice to come to a particular set of persons. With full knowledge of whether their experience will be a long or short one, these spirits let love lead them to their parents. While I don't particularly hold to this concept as truth, I embrace its sentiment regardless. Because I KNOW, without a shadow of a doubt, that -given the opportunity- Margot would choose her Daddy every.single.time. Would choose mere weeks of treasured life, to ensure a destiny of being cherished forever by THIS amazing Father.
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