Father's Day

by Kellie Soper 

The most memorable part of my wedding day was the moment I walked up the aisle towards my soon-to-be husband. I had been anxious all morning, but seconds before I walked down the aisle I was filled to the brim with peace. I took my dad's arm and he kissed my cheek. We walked down the aisle to one of my favorite songs. As we got closer to Jason, I noticed he had a huge smile and tears streaming down his face. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.

We planned and planned for months, but nothing prepared me for that moment. Nothing prepared me to see the emotion of that day on his face. In that moment, and so many that have followed, I continue to learn how sensitive and sweet he truly is. And almost four and a half years later, one child here and two in Heaven, it was very telling of the journey we were about to embark upon.

I saw that smile with tears streaming down his cheeks again when our son was born. And just over two years later I saw him cry again.Only this time there was no smile. This time, with a sick and somber face he asked the question I was too scared to, "Is there something wrong with our baby?" Then the answer, and suddenly seeing him bury his face in his hands and weep for our unborn daughter. 

Every dream and hope we had for her stolen from us in that moment. He will never get to take her to daddy/daughter dances. Never coach her in softball or watch her twirl. She will never ride on his shoulders or squeeze his face with her hands. He will never walk her down the aisle to meet her husband.

I grieve and ache for my daughter, but when I think about what my husband has lost too, it's almost too much to bear.

Shortly after Lily's diagnosis, we met with our pastor. He offered his prayers, the support of our church, and two pieces of wisdom I will never forget. 

The first: He told us that we need to remember that we will each grieve differently and that is okay. He said the most important thing is to be aware that we will go through this differently. 

The second: He looked directly at my husband and told him, "You need to talk about this."

We don't talk about child loss nearly as much as we should and we certainly don't talk about the dads much. So often the attention and focus is on the moms, after all we are the ones who carry our babies and for the most part, we may be the ones who visually show our grief.

The dads generally go back to work sooner. They may need to shut off their emotions in order to get through the day. They may put up a strong front to be able to take care of their wife. I'm even guessing people rarely ask them how they are really doing. More often than not, they hear people asking about the moms. I imagine they don't feel like they even have permission to grieve for their child.

The grief of missing Lily didn't really hit me until several months after she died. When the pain meds were gone the fogged finally lifted, and the shock wore off. The waves were washing over me and I could hardly catch my breath. 

And I was mad at my husband. 

  

Because he wasn't going through it like I was. He seemed fine. He could function. He could go to work. He had normal conversations. I was lying in bed one night while Jason was reading and I just started crying and I couldn't stop. Jason leaned over and held me and these four words he whispered was all I needed to hear, " I miss her too." 

We grieve differently.

I am a writer. I write my pain. I write it down and share it with the world in hopes that it reaches the right people for the right reasons. I get it out of me. Sometimes it pretty and sometimes it's not. I close myself off from the world who doesn't understand me or even tries to. I cry. A lot. 

For Jason, the grief builds and builds. It starts out slow and steady and he can handle it for awhile. And when it gets to be too much, he breaks. He cries. And then he talks. Sometimes to me and sometimes to one of the few people he lets in.

We are getting better at it...if that's possible to "get better" at grief. I can see now when it's getting to be too much for him and a wave is about to hit. Sometimes I know it means we need some "just us" time and sometimes I know he needs to talk to a dude. 

But this is just my husband's story, how he is living this life without his daughter. There are many, many other dads out there who are missing one of their children, or several of their children, or ALL of their children. 

And they are hurting. Whether they tell you or not. Whether they show it or not. They are hurting. Underneath that strong and brave exterior is a man who just wants to hold his baby again. And play catch with his son. Or give his daughter butterfly kisses.   

But instead, his arms are empty. His eyes may be dry, but his heart is weeping.

Remember him and remember all the dads who we cannot see grieving.

This Father's Day, all of us at All That Love Can Do wish peace and healing to all the brave daddies who did all they could for their children. You are our heroes!

Please come to our Facebook Page to share the name of the father you're honoring today, and, if you'd like, a photo of him with his special baby in heaven <3. 

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have three beautiful children, one on earth and two sweet, perfect souls in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. Their youngest daughter is Clare Therese. She met her big sister in heaven after a few precious months on earth with her family. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Nathanael's Story, by His Daddy

by Steve Wickham

We Knew it Wasn't Up to Us to Terminate.

As we paused to silently share some photographs we innocuously took that fateful morning—now nine months on, the tragedy done; our son, passed—there was a sense of the surreal, yes even now. We expect that we will never really know why this happened to us, and yet we are often told we were ‘chosen’. That doesn't sit very comfortably, I can tell you. Yet, people are only trying to help.

My wife, Sarah, and I took our then 15-month-old son with us to the Ultrasound rooms. It was July 1, 2014. A day none of us will forget. Another thing we will never forget is Ethan’s concern for his Mum and Dad as we cried on our way home. It was another eighteen days before we would find out our baby’s plight—amniocentesis confirming Pallister-Killian Syndrome (PKS), an incredibly rare condition affecting the 12th chromosome.

We were told at that early stage that our baby deserved “comfort and respect.” The looks on our geneticists’ faces when we said it wasn't our place to terminate spoke loudly, yet, respectfully they didn't say a word. They honoured what was the only thing we could do. We were praying for a miracle. So many people joined us praying that God might contort the formation of our little one’s internal organs, just so the lungs had room to develop. We had faith that anything could happen, and our role was to simply be faithful to our little life inside Sarah.

During the four months between diagnosis and Nathanael’s eventual stillbirth, we took many opportunities to take him out, to enjoy his movements inside the womb, to get to know our little boy. We treasured every memory we our imaginations could create. Our obstetrician nicknamed him a “cheeky little fellow” as he would often move suddenly during the eight amnioreduction procedures Sarah had—two litres of amniotic fluid were drained each week. Nathanael had lots of character!

When the time finally came for Nathanael to be born, our one and only hope was to meet him alive. Our expectation was that he would pass away quickly in Sarah’s arms. We were devastated when he passed away due to cord prolapse because of shoulder presentation during induction. We had grieved our loss well up until this point. The day after Nathanael was born, Heartfelt came in and took precious photographs for us. That night we sobbed and sobbed with Nathanael in our arms. But we had 179 hours with our little man until we said goodbye, finally, on November 7th.

We knew it wasn’t up to us to terminate. We felt an instant confirmation of this. We never doubted our decision. We received much peace, a peace that we cannot understand, I think, because we were resolute in the first instant. We stepped into our reality afresh each day and we were given the moment’s joy, procured by a very simple bravery to do what only we could do. Does any parent do anything less for their child?

Now we know that the experience we suffered is not just for us, but also for others, just as others’ experience sometimes give us encouragement. We have such a warmth in our hearts now for those who have lost a baby. We are connected through pain, and yet we are connected as sister and brother.

Nathanael will live on in our memory, forever!