Pain Scale Unknown: The Grief of a Stillborn Father

Grief is a strange, enigmatic companion to have. 

"And each day I dreamed and planned for your future.
Your kindergarten class
Graduation
College
Your wedding day.
Even your own children. But I never planned for your death."
-Joanne Cacciatore, "The Traumatic Contradiction: When Birth and Death Collide", They Were Still Born 

Do you remember my story and thoughts about Riley's birth? How the pregnancy and childbirth books "invaded like the Huns"? After Kyla died, Chelsea went on a stillbirth reading rampage. She devoured story after story of other people's grief. At first, I thought that what she was doing was a bad idea, that she was making it worse. I mean, what could be worse when you're sad than to keep being sad, right? However, during that process, among many, many other great stories, she uncovered a beautiful, pull-no-punches book titled They Were Still Born. It's a collection of firsthand accounts of stillbirth loss and grief and (dare I say) recovery. Chelsea initially came across the description of the book during online searches and decided to borrow it from the library. Our library did not have it, but they were able to get a copy via the Interlibrary Loan system. It took her about 2 sentences to realize she had found the perfect book - she was already in tears. She walked over to me, pointed to the first paragraph of the introduction, and said, "This is perfect." And it was - since Kyla's death, we have written those words over and over again in our minds, basically word for word. After she was done reading it, I decided to try it out, too. What I found in those pages amazed me.

"Childbirth should be a time of joy, of excitement, of meeting a long-awaited infant and introducing him or her to the world."
-Janel C. Atlas, "Introduction", They Were Still Born

Reading other people's stories pierces the occasional shroud and confusion and dreamlike quality of my life, and I relive my experiences. I read their words but I see my voice, hear my thoughts. They tell me about their baby and all I see is our Kyla. Every story is the same yet different. Every grief is identical and yet completely new and unique. With each story that I read, something new connects with me. Of course, there is some level of deeper connection with stories that are more similar, more in tune with our own, but just when I think that there is nothing in this or that person's story with which I can relate, they drop a nuke on me with a few simple words, and now I know that person to their core. I know them, and they know me. They are my closest, dearest strangers. How else can I describe the connection we share? If any of them were to walk up to me and introduce themselves, I'd straight up hug them without hesitation. And that's quite a big deal for me.

Sometimes it seems so surreal that I find myself desperately trying to remember Kyla, willing myself to feel the raw emotion again - to convince myself that it actually did happen. 

"I could picture it all. It took time to build that picture but it didn't take long for it all to get ripped away."
-Chelsea Gehman, "Happy 2nd Birthday Riley and Other Stuff", Going Plural 

The stiff-upper-lip type of man: that's not me. I cried at the hospital (and since), shoulder-shaking, chest-throbbing, face-distorting sobs destroying me. And each time I read a story from one of my closest strangers, something - a phrase, an image, a feeling they convey - rocks me to the core, and I lose it all over again. Every time I cry, Riley must think I'm laughing because she lets out an amused fake laugh, probably to feel like she's a part of whatever's happening with me. Or maybe she's just trying to cheer me up - who knows? How can I tell her that all I want to do is pull her close and hold her? All she wants to do is play and laugh and run around. As she grows older, we'll introduce her to the sister she'll never know, but she won't understand the fullness of her loss. She'll probably never understand it. And I would give everything I have to keep her from understanding, because you never truly understand it until you've lived it, and I don't want her to ever have this pain.

"Allotted the 'appropriate' grieving time, you then have to get on with it, move on - live, goddamn it, live. And begrudgingly, most of us do. But it takes so much work."
-Kelley Krahling, "Living with (and without) Caleb", They Were Still Born 

The escape-into-work type of man: that's not me, either. If I had a real choice, I'd never go back to work again - I'd sit at home and hold Chelsea and Riley forever. I have worked for a small local company (around 20 full- and part-time employees, including the owners) for the last 8 years. I have grown close to my two bosses, an amazing couple who have practically become a second family for me. They have poured themselves into their business and into their employees. At one point in time or another during the last 8 years, I've worked side-by-side with each of their 3 kids, who are all around my age or a bit older. So, for the obvious reasons and then some, when we got back from the clinic, one of the first phone calls I made was to them. Looking back on it, the pain I heard in their voices on the phone was crushing - of course, at the time I was too in shock to really process it. They told me to "take as much time as you need." What exactly does that mean? I know what they wanted it to mean, and I truly, deeply appreciate the sincerity and passion behind it, but seriously - take a look at the actual words: "as much time as you need." This strikes me as an impractical approach - how am I supposed to know when I no longer need time off from work? Do I count the number of times per day I think of Kyla and when it's less than X amount, then I'm ready to go back? Because I think of her a lot. Leave me alone with my thoughts for about 5 minutes and it's pretty much a guarantee, not to mention all the times she pops into my head while I'm busy with other things. Can I just take as much time as I want instead? Can I just curl up in a corner and hold my dead daughter in my arms? Because that's what I feel like I need.

Sometimes I can be quite matter-of-fact about it all: "yes, our baby died, yes, that's sad." That can be somewhat unnerving, too, like I've lost all touch with my humanity. 

"We have lost a child, so any [parental] duty we get to perform is a privilege, not a burden; we know what the alternative could be."
-Marion T. Flores, "He Changed Our World", They Were Still Born

Kyla was not the prettiest baby to ever be born. Her body was very thin, weighing under 3 pounds. Some of her skin was peeling off. She still had lanugo, the full covering of fetal hair on her body - it was light, probably blond (go figure), but it was there. Her mouth had amniotic fluid and blood in it, which dried and darkened and looked more and more disturbing as the hours went on. Her skull hadn't finished fusing together - no baby, that i'm aware of, is ever born with a fully fused skull (thus the "soft spot" on top), but there was a clear separation between the major parts of Kyla's skull, and it was a little uncomfortable to look at. I was the one to stop the Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep photography session because, at the time, it was weirding me out, sitting there holding a dead baby in my hands. Were it not for those few pictures we do have of her, my mind would most likely be trying to push the details of her incomplete beauty out of memory. And to be honest, if she were somebody else's child, I would consciously want to forget what she looked like. I really don't blame you if you do the same. I'm ashamed to admit that I used to view physically deformed or handicapped or Down Syndrome children, etc, as a burden, as something not quite right. But it's different for me now, so I can't help but step back and ask: how can we not see that life is so precious, so elusive, so fragile, that each and every manifestation of it is the single most beautiful thing we'll ever witness? I would trade every second I'll ever live, every penny I'll ever own, and every shred of my body to have kept Kyla alive. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, that can convince me otherwise - no physical deformation, no lifetime disease, no mental disability, no heartbreaking teenage antics - nothing is worse than having her yet never having her.

"I crossed over from my naive, oblivious, the-world-is-mostly-a-just-place land into a new horrible alternate dimension where my baby dies."
-Angie M. Yingst, "Mothering Grief", They Were Still Born

In my experience, love is a developing thing, something that starts slowly and builds and strengthens and all of a sudden you wake up one day and realize that you love a person and you're not entirely sure exactly when that happened. But to be a parent, to love a child, is to instantly love her with 100% of yourself. And in some ways, each 100% of yourself that you fill with love for somebody else is a different person, a different you. Part of our loss as parents isn't just the loss of our child - that much is obviously acknowledged - it's also losing the part of ourselves that would have protected Kyla from harm. It's losing the part of ourselves that would have laughed with her, changed her diapers, nursed her, and held her close. It's losing the part of ourselves that would have poured our love into her all day long, every single day. And that part of ourselves is all of ourselves. To lose her is to lose 100% of ourselves. It's not that we don't still love her with every fiber of our beings. It's not that we don't exist anymore. It's not that we don't still love each other completely, and it's definitely not that we don't still love Riley completely. But the loss is multiple layers - my love for Kyla, Chelsea's love for Kyla, my loss of Chelsea's love for Kyla, Chelsea's loss of my love for Kyla, Riley's love for Kyla, our loss of Riley's love for Kyla ... the width and breadth and depth of our loss is swelling, overlapping, staggering, overwhelming, and complete.

"I knew two things. He was perfect. And he was dead."
-Kelley Krahling, "Living with (and without) Caleb", They Were Still Born

I sometimes wonder how unique stillbirth grief is. I mean, how different can it really be from the loss of a child at any age? Stillbirth is often grouped with miscarriage and infant death. And to push that further - how different is it from any loss of any loved one? Can I now relate to those who have lost a father, a mother, a brother, or a sister? Exactly how big is this scarred community that I've joined? And if it is indeed bigger than stillbirth or even childloss, is it okay if I just stick to my little corner? Because I'm not sure I'm ready to hear my other worst nightmares through other people's words and other people's feelings. Yes, I suppose it's natural for me to fear, above all, losing Chelsea and Riley. And I suppose it's natural for that fear to seem even greater now, but it feels like worrying. It feels like hovering. It feels like weakness.

Sometimes I barely have to blink and I'm lost in tears. 

"I simply could not escape the dreadful silence the moment she was born, or the undeniable stillness of her body when she was handed to me wrapped in a little white blanket."
-Tim Nelson, "Invincible No More: What My Daughter's Stillbirth Taught Me about Life", They Were Still Born

Now we know another part of what is possible. Now we understand another layer of the complexity of having children, and now the blinders are off our eyes and we can see how blind our society is (or chooses to be) to this part of reality. We were watching Dexter, a Showtime series, and the main character (obviously Dexter) impregnates his girlfriend. The way the show handled this circumstance was to present it as: "Dexter will be a father - there's nothing he can do about it, it's inevitable." Chelsea and I just sat there, looked at each other, shook our heads, and quietly said, "Nothing's guaranteed." Yes, that's a harsh viewpoint. It's harsh, it's cynical, and it's agonizingly true.

"I knew the joyful sounds and bustle of a healthy birth. My first daughter had been born naturally at full term less than two years ago. With that experience to look back on, I simply had never considered stillbirth."
-Janel C. Atlas, "Standing in the Shadows of Grief", They Were Still Born

I'm used to money having some sort of meaning. I'm used to getting something in return for the money I spend. When we bought our house, we paid about $3,000 to have some updates done to our electrical. Clear results - the line was buried, the box was updated from fuses to breakers, and some difficult-to-reach lights were connected to a switch. Cut and dried. When our dog, Dante, tore his cranial cruciate ligament (doggy version of the ACL), we paid about $3,000 for him to have a surgery. Clear results - Dante has regained his strength and can walk and run on all four legs again. But after Kyla died, we got a $2,000+ bill in the mail from the hospital, and I just want to know why. What for? We didn't get anything in return. Of course, they took great care of Chelsea, and the last thing I want to do is diminish the wonderful people who attended to her, but since we knew what we were there for, that's not what I expected in return. After Riley, I expected that the next time Chelsea was in labor, we would have another living baby to bring home with us.

"Last night, as I do every year on Laura's birthday, I lit a candle to burn through the night. By the morning, however, it had gone out. I was glad, because the hardest thing about remembrance candles is having to blow them out."
-Rachel Graham, "In a Wild Place", They Were Still Born

While we were at the hospital, some of the staff sat down with us and told us that we needed to brace ourselves for the times when strangers, acquaintances, and even possibly family and friends would say things that would hurt. They told us that we needed to realize that these people are just trying to help, but they don't know what to say and/or how to say it. And they were right - it didn't happen very much, but it did happen. For me, the most aggravating thing that anybody has said to me is to ask how my wife is doing. Seems weird, right? After all, I care a lot about how Chelsea is doing, and it means a lot to me when other people care about her, too. But what bothered me about this question is that, by only being concerned with Chelsea's well-being, it stripped away my status as Kyla's father. It stole her away from me and put her solely in Chelsea's arms and Chelsea's heart. This question assumed that, as a father, my grief is somehow less important or less burdensome or just plain less than Chelsea's mothering grief. It assumed that I'm the strong one who's holding our family together and my wife is at home falling apart. That's heartbreaking, and it's frustrating, and it's just plain wrong. Chelsea is at least as strong as me - stronger, in my opinion. She held me that night in the hospital when we tried to go to sleep and I burst into sobs after about 15 seconds in the quiet dark, even though she couldn't keep her own eyes open due to the pain meds they had given her. She's holding her own at home as she raises Riley and encounters reminder after reminder of Kyla and yet still wants to know how my day was and how I'm doing. My grief is no less than hers - it's different in a lot of ways, but it's just as deep and just as dark and just as terrifying. And it sucks to feel like I have to validate my place in Kyla's short life.

"Standing in a hot shower I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry
I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry
I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry I'msorry
IamsosorryIamsosorryIamsosorryIamsosorryIamsosorryIamsosorry until the words
and tears and water feel as cold as the ache that sobs my body to sleep"
-Suzanne Pullen, "The Year of Angels", They Were Still Born

Chelsea occasionally feels an uncontrollable guilt about Kyla's death. She feels responsible, as if it were her fault - which isn't true - and it breaks my heart a little more every time she tells me she feels that way. Sometimes I feel a little guilty myself when I express my own grief because I feel like I'm somehow blaming her. We both know I'm not, and we both know it's not her fault at all, but these are the types of point-blank impulses that we can't immediately control. So how can I be a loving, supportive husband and a grieving father at the same time? Maybe those go hand-in-hand. Maybe I can be one simply by being the other. Maybe my love for Chelsea is another way to grieve for our daughter, and maybe mourning Kyla's death demonstrates my devotion to my wife. Either way, I sometimes feel like I fall short in both categories.

Yes, grief is a grating, temperamental, comforting companion to have. 

"It is not the life we wanted, it is not the life story we planned, but still, it is our life."
-Kelley Krahling, "Living with (and without) Caleb", They Were Still Born

There's no pain scale for this. There's no handy-dandy little chart that tells us how to answer the inevitable how-are-you-holding-up questions. There's no 1-to-10 rating that we can use as a reference for today's grief. If there were, the answers would be all over the place, all the time: "It's a 2 right now, it was an 8 about an hour ago and it's going to be a 17.5 in a couple of minutes" ... it can't be categorized like that and it shouldn't be categorized like that. It changes too often and it's too different for each of us. We just have to recognize those moments in each other and we have to be there, good and bad, every time.