This is a difficult post for Chelsea and I to make. I'm not really sure how to start it, and I'm not really sure how to end it. I guess it'll just have to be what it is. I think you'll understand.
How Many Children Do You Have?
-Valerie Larson Minihan
"How many children do you have?" they ask.
Oh, that dreaded question.
"How much time do you have," I wonder silently to myself.
Do you really want to know? And do you really care?
Am I up to going through the entire crazy, confusing tale?
If you have the time, my friend, here's the answer I will give ...
I have children that dance and children that sing,
children that cuddle all kinds of live things,
children with freckles and dimples and bows,
children that run through the sprinkler and hose,
children that color (on paper and walls),
ones that love stomping and jumping in puddles,
children that ask, "What is that for?"
and spill glasses and glasses of milk on the floor,
children that laugh and children that cry,
and constantly ask Mommy and Daddy, "Why?"
But I have one that is different, set apart from the rest,
one I've never known the joy of nursing at my breast.
One we cannot cuddle, one we cannot hold,
though we will in our hearts as we grow old.
She I cannot rock when stormy is the night,
or tuck snugly in bed with the fading of day's light.
Though here with my now, four is all that you see,
"I have five children," I'd say, with a glance towards the sky,
"Four that can run and one that can fly."
As some of you already know, on January 15th, Chelsea went in for her normal, scheduled 30 week pregnancy checkup. During the routine heartbeat check, they were unable to find a pulse, so they did an ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed that our baby had died. We induced labor that afternoon and at 12:21am on Thursday, January 16th, Kyla Gehman was delivered stillborn.
A photographer from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep came and took some free photos for us, which was greatly appreciated. Here are some of those photos that capture a few of the brief, precious moments we had with our daughter.
her little hands and feet are perfect
To Kyla
There's something bewildering about all of this. This simply was not how it was supposed to go. This wasn't even on my radar.
Yes, Mommy and I both understood that a pregnancy wasn't a guarantee. Yes, the secrecy during your first trimester was because of the higher chance of losing you before we even met you. Yes, we waited, none too patiently, to tell anybody the wonderful news. But then came the first ultrasound and there was the undeniable proof. Your tiny, active body evaded detection as the ultrasound tech tried to pin you down and get a good look at you. And the 28th week passed by, and we were confident in you - in your life, your viability. So you will have to forgive us for thinking you were a sure thing, for looking past the final few months and planning our new life together - wondering how much you would be similar to (and different from) your older sister, imagining the two of you playing together, already feeling the joy of watching you grow. Our imaginations and our dreams and our hopes came up with all sorts of scenarios for what it would be like to meet you and get to know you. But not this. Never this.
When Riley was born, I felt the strangest mixture of awe and pride and respect and love for Mommy. It was a new mix of feelings, and I loved every bit of it. Mommy went through a lot of pain, but the reward, your sister, is worth it all infinity-fold. I was excited and nervous while Mommy expressed her pain. And I cried a bit out of sheer exhaustion and happiness when I saw Riley for the first time. But this time was different. This time I cried for Mommy as she felt the most unrewarding pain in the world. And when your lungs just couldn't cry out like they were supposed to, I cried for you. When your tiny, limp fingers wouldn't hold on to mine, I cried for you. When your unprepared eyes never opened to see this beautiful world and the amazing life you would have known, I cried for you. I'm still crying for you. And even if the tears ever dry up, my heart will always cry for the one inside you that will never beat again.
"It's impossible to say goodbye," Mommy said as we desperately held each other next to your lifeless body. And in a way she was completely wrong, because of course it's possible to cry the tears and say the words and walk away, and of course it's possible to move on with life. But mostly she was right. Because despite all the tears, despite the spoken words that echo in your silence, despite the effort to turn towards our future without you, we will never forget you, and we will never finish saying goodbye.
-Daddy
