A Father's Heartbreak

As we prepare for Christopher's celebration on Sunday, my husband and I both took time to write to the officiant to give her our thoughts about all that has happened. He sent his today and while I share so many of his feelings, I was struck by the things he said that I couldn't find words for and his heartbreak as a father. With his permission, I'm sharing some of his thoughts here to be included as part of our story.

As compared to many of my friends, I started the marriage and kids route later in life.  I don’t know if that affected my perception of parenthood – but I know that I approached it with a different sense of maturity and responsibility.  When Charlie was born in 2010, I was 40 years old and truly had no idea what to expect.  Sure, I had friends with kids and I got along great with them, but at the end of the day I could always go home to my quiet “kid-free” space.  So, when Charlie arrived it brought home the reality of the commitment that all children require and deserve.  I immediately fell in love with his puffy little face and squishy arms, and embraced parenthood fully.  I had a friend put it to me one day that parenthood was the best thing he never knew he wanted – I couldn’t agree more.  I love being a dad.  It is something you just don’t “get” until you are actually there – and once you get there you can’t imagine your life without it.  I have told Jennifer many times that I wished we had started having kids earlier.
 
When we found out that we were pregnant again, it was wonderful because now I knew what to expect and relished in the thoughts of having a new baby in the house.  It was more than just something for us, it was something for Charlie.  I was an only child to my parents, who divorced when I was three.  Both of my parents remarried, and at various times growing up, I lived with stepsisters who were the children of my respective step parents.  So while I was not entirely foreign to having a sibling, I certainly never experienced it on an everyday basis.  When we found out that it was going to be a boy, I think my anticipation and excitement went through the roof.  I began “planning” all of the things we were going to do with our “boys.”  Little league, Giant’s games, camping, Disneyland . . . everything that I never experienced with a male sibling.  I think that Jenn became equally excited as she was going to be “mom” to her little men – toting them around and watching them make her laugh.  I thought back to all of my friends growing up who had brothers, and how they were sometimes inseparable.  I beamed at the thought of Charlie loving his brother, showing him the ropes of being in our family and watching my two boys become friends.
 
In many ways, I have felt that I took everything for granted during Jennifer’s pregnancy.  Because she was not a high risk pregnancy, I never even considered “problems” during delivery – let alone our tragic turn of events.  I made plans and dreamed dreams of what life would be like with my boys, before I had my boys.  In many ways it was the cruelest of ironies that we were forced to come from such a high to such a low, all without warning.  And while much of this sounds like feeling sorry for myself, my deepest pain lies in what Christopher will never experience.  He was undeserving of any of this, and I’m so devastated by his loss of everything that life has to offer.  The mere thought that he will never nurse from his Mommy, fall asleep on my chest, or look into our eyes with wonderment at this strange new world simply breaks me and my spirit.
 
I’ve never been a religious man and have no strong ties to the concepts of heaven and hell.  As such, Christopher’s passing has been particularly painful to me, in that I cannot say with faithful conviction that he is “in a better place” or rests in heaven looking down on us.  I so want to believe that death is not just an ending of darkness and emptiness, and is rather a transition to light, love and beauty -- but I simply do not know how to take that step.  And because I have never experienced such personal tragedy, it has never felt so important to me that there actually be something there.  On the other hand, by finding faith I would struggle with the “why” of our situation and want to know for what reason was this perfect little boy never given the chance to live – what spiritual justification outweighs Christopher being with his parents.
 
When Jennifer and I planned the celebration ceremony there was a sense of confusion of what to do and how to do it.  How do you celebrate a life of three days?  How do you share stories and reminisce over good memories that do not exist?  How do you draw anything happy out of this?  I’ve struggled mightily with these questions, and can only come to one conclusion – that I take this time to thank my son Christopher for what he has given to us.  I thank Christopher for the three days that he gave us to meet him, hold his hand and tell him that he was loved.  I thank Christopher for opening his eyes in hospital and looking at us, showing us that he had beautiful blue eyes like Mommy, Daddy and his big brother Charlie.  I thank Christopher for the nine hours that he bravely fought and breathed on his own – showing us that he was a fighter.  I thank Christopher for the gift of time that he gave Jennifer and I to be alone with him, as a family.  I love my son with all of my heart, but there will always be a hole for him – never to be filled.

One last thought that I would like to share with you.  Over the weekend of the 11th, Jennifer and I came to Squaw Valley to celebrate her birthday.  On Sunday night we ate dinner at Westshore Café and sat out on the deck overlooking the lake.  Although that weekend had been filled with hot, cloudless days, Sunday proved to be a little cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms.  As we sat there eating our food, the music on the restaurant’s sound system played a series of songs that made us think of Christopher.  I made the comment to Jennifer that perhaps it was Christopher saying “hello” to us and letting us know that he was there.  She got tears in her eyes and gave me a look like “don’t you dare make me burst out into tears right here,” so I said no more.  However, as we sat in our quiet moment, we looked out over the lake to see that in the middle there was a cloud burst of rain with the sun concurrently setting over the hill.  Well, the rainbow that developed was quite beautiful – quickly drawing the attention of everyone on the deck and pier.  And while we shared that rainbow with those strangers, both Jennifer and I quietly smiled thinking that Christopher was in fact saying hello to us. 

Thank you to my husband for letting me share this and for being my strength during this time. You put me back together when I'm shattered into pieces...every time. Thank you to our officiant, Christa, who married us in Squaw Valley back in March of 2007--she was pregnant with her son at the time she married us and it's fitting that she play a significant role in this celebration and stage of our life too. I could write a novel of gratitude to all those who have surrounded us with love during this time. I continue to be in awe of the outpouring of support.