For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness, Support Resources
Last year, my husband told me that he didn’t feel the need to be celebrated on Father’s Day since he didn’t have a living child. His announcement didn’t come from a place of anger or even apathy–he was simply stating a fact. He truly did not see any reason to be recognized and was okay with that. While I knew he was satisfied with this arrangement, I couldn’t help but think of just how worthy he was to be recognized for the incredible dad he is–despite how different his day-to-day life may appear when compared with other parents. Bereaved dads are top-notch fathers, often giving their all with little to no recognition from the outside world.
But we see you, dads. As partners, we see you and we celebrate you even when the world forgets.
We saw the way your heart overflowed with love and pride the first time you heard your baby’s heartbeat. We saw the way you supported us through morning sickness, discomforts, and a wide spectrum of emotions. We saw the way you faithfully stood by our side, as friends, family, doctors, nurses, and even strangers showered endless attention on the mom-to-be.
We saw the way your heart broke when that precious heartbeat stopped. We saw the way you asked the doctors questions and selfishly advocated for our needs, as our world stopped spinning and we crumbled beneath the weight of grief. We saw the way you strongly held us up when we felt so weak–and we know you were hurting just as deeply.
As friends, family, doctors and nurses continued to shower us with endless support and attention, it was you who remained our biggest cheerleader. For months, you selflessly responded as buddies and coworkers continued to ask “How’s your wife?” Though you were equally affected, even if in different ways, you never made it about you.
We see the way you protect and provide for us each day. We see the way you move through your day, often unrecognized as the incredible partner and father that you are. There are few men more admirable nor more selfless than you. While you may not crave the recognition, we cannot imagine anyone else more deserving than you. To all of the bereaved dads parenting babies they can no longer hold, we celebrate you not just today but every day. Happy Father’s Day–we appreciate you more than words can say.
Forever Footprints invites you to attend the annual OC Golf to Remember Tournament, July 12, 2018 at 11am at Oak Creek Golf Course in Irvine. To register or receive more information visit https://foreverfootprints.org/remembrance/events/oc-golf-to-remember/.
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
*Header photo by Benedicto de Jesus on Unsplash
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness
Mother’s Day changes when you’ve lost a baby. A day that was once filled with so much celebration and hope has been shadowed with grief, pain, and perhaps feelings of isolation. It’s not that you dislike the holiday or all that it signifies–it’s simply that someone very special is missing and motherhood has suddenly taken on a whole new meaning.
Brave mama, please hear me when I say this. Though it may not always seem true, this is your day too. Whether the sentimental greeting cards and commercials featuring smiling women and cooing babies fill your heart with hope, despair, or a combination of both, this day is for you.
To the mamas who have said goodbye to a baby of any age or gestation: You are an incredible mother. You have been handed the sacred and immensely extraordinary task of mothering a child you can no longer hold. You are among the those who have been chosen to experience a love stronger than death. You have the privilege of having known someone so small, yet so important. You keep moving forward day by day, all the while keeping your baby’s memory and legacy alive. Even when no one says your baby’s name, this is your day too.
To the mamas whose arms feel empty: you matter. While the world may not see your motherhood, I do. I see the way motherhood has seeped into every corner of your heart and mind. While your home or the backseat of your vehicle may not show any evidence of children, I see the ways your baby has changed every part of your daily life and has made you into a beautiful mother. You matter and this is your day too.
To the mamas who hold children in their arms, all while feeling the absence of the baby they lost: you are doing an amazing job. While you may feel inadequate, you are a shining example of love and strength to your living children. Your love for them does not diminish the love for the baby you lost, nor does your grief for the baby you lost diminish the joy you have over those in your arms. You are brave and this is your day too.
Rather than seeing Mother’s Day merely as a day of despair, I hope you and I will be able to celebrate our title of bereaved mothers (even if there are plenty of tears–crying is still brave). This year, let’s link arms and take time to honor the women who have had a positive, nurturing influence–our own amazing mothers, grandmothers, sisters, and mentors. And may we stand in amazement when we recognize that we, too, stand among that influential bunch.
This is your day too.
Brave Mamas–as we approach Mother’s Day, Forever Footprints would like to honor you at the annual Nurture to Remember event, Tuesday, May 8. Come join other loss moms for a day of connection and healing. For more information or to register, visit https://foreverfootprints.org/remembrance/events/oc-nurture-to-remember/.
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
Top photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash,
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness, Support Resources
It was difficult for me to ask for help after our newborn son died. The struggle partially stemmed from my pride and my desire to continue to be the friend who provided support to others, not the other way around. Even more so, I barely had the ability to articulate or even identify what I needed in the first place. At times, it seemed easier to go it alone. Surely I could do this.
Deep down I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t do any of this on my own. My heart, mind, and body were weary from months of high risk doctor appointments, processing bad news on bad news, saying goodbye to our firstborn child, and trying to recover from the physical and emotional impacts of childbirth mixed with grief. My husband and I needed community. Sure, we did our very best to support one another–yet it was difficult to fully support the other when each of us felt so weak. As daunting as it sounded, we both knew we needed support.
We took the initially terrifying step of tearing down our walls and saying yes to others–yes to support in the form of warm meals, yard work, funeral assistance, and company. Day by day, we began to see that we were never meant to do life alone. We were never meant to have it all together. We were meant to enter into each other’s messes and support one another. This beautifully messy community is one of the greatest gifts we’ve been given.
We found support within the pregnancy and infant loss community. I immediately found myself connected with a support group, where I met women who have now become some of my closest friends. That first October, just two months after our son died, my husband and I were invited to attend Forever Footprint’s Annual Walk to Remember. As we stood beside hundreds of parents who had walked similar journeys as us, we felt surrounded by love and support. We didn’t have to explain. We didn’t have to pretend. Within the pregnancy and infant loss community I found my people–ones that simply knew what I needed, always remembered important milestone dates, and I could always count on to talk me through the multiple baby aisle meltdowns I had at Target.
We also found support outside of the pregnancy and infant loss community. At first, it was difficult for me to tear down the walls around my heart to people that I assumed wouldn’t understand. With time, I realized that I was missing out by shutting others out. Within our families, our friend groups, our jobs, and our church were many people who simply wanted to support us. They didn’t fully understand (and we would never want them to), yet they were willing to step into the mess of deep grief and simply be there for us. Within this community I found gentle-hearted people who did their best to understand and meet me wherever I was at, while offering a fresh perspective.
In my experience, the hardest thing about finding and accepting support after baby loss was the initial step. It can be scary to bare your heart to someone, knowing they may not understand or unintentionally say the wrong thing. Vulnerability may have felt terrifying at first, but once I took that first step I quickly realized that it was the road that led to community and true support. I am incredibly grateful to the people who have loved me at my weakest and have encouraged me when I felt so alone. I am thankful for the deeper friendships, comfort, and family that have come from two-way support and community. Needing one another doesn’t make us weak–it’s a natural part of who we are as people. We were never meant to do this life alone. We were always meant to lift one another up in our times of need. If we must walk down this difficult road, let’s do it together.
If you are feeling alone right now, please accept this virtual hug and know that we are in this together. I encourage you to find and connect with someone who “gets it”. I encourage you to speak your child’s name to a friend. I encourage you to join one of Forever Footprints’ support groups and/or attend a Forever Footprints event, such as the Walk to Remember. It’s okay to not be okay, and it’s okay reach out. You are not alone.
*Photo by Lexi Behrndt
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories
For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.
As I spoke those words back in 2011, I truly meant them from the bottom of my heart. Sure, I knew marriage wouldn’t always be easy and I knew there would be hard days, but this wide-eyed, innocent 20-something had no idea of the depth of what those words would truly mean until years later when stood beside a tiny cemetery plot and buried our infant son.
For worse, for poorer, and in the wake of devastating sickness, our innocence was stripped away and things were suddenly so much harder.
On the evening our son died, a kind nurse took my hand and warned us that things were about to get hard. She encouraged us to dig our heels down deep, to remember the vows we had meant so fervently those years before, and to fight for one another when things would become difficult–and difficult they did.
Loss has a way of changing you. In some ways it made me better, and it other ways it brought all of my imperfections to the surface. It challenged my thinking, shifted my perspectives, and altered pieces of my identity. I grieved the person I was before losing our son and I struggled to figure out who I was. I quickly learned that when two people are simultaneously being shaped through the pain of suffering and loss, things become even more complicated. We were both grieving, changing and growing. I was still trying to get to know this whole new me, all while trying to get to know my husband as we grieved and grew in different ways.
So how can we fight for our marriages and our relationships when we’ve changed so much? How do we pick up the pieces and fight for one another, rather than with one another?
Communicate
In those first few months when my grief was especially intense, I craved closeness. I just wanted someone to sit with me and let me cry on their shoulder. My husband, however, craved space. On the days when he was in the most pain, he needed time to process–alone. This was especially difficult in the beginning and it was so important to communicate our needs with one another–not only that, but to try to understand where the other person was coming from. Neither of us was grieving better or worse than the other. Our needs were simply different. It was helpful to understand what the other needed and to create a safe space to share our needs without fear of judgement.
Seek Support
There is an unnecessary stigma associated with counseling and I believe that needs to change. Before I experienced it for myself, it seemed intimidating and almost like a last resort. I haven’t heard many people speak openly about their experiences with counseling, but I will because I think it’s important. My husband and I attended counseling both together and alone after the death of our son and it played a significant role in our ability to communicate and in own growth, both as individuals and as a couple. Forever Footprints is another great resource and offers three monthly support groups. We’ve also found support by joining hundreds of other parents at Forever Footprints annual IE Walk to Remember.
Make time for one another
In the midst of the struggle, don’t forget to take some time to unwind. Go on a date. Watch your favorite TV show together. Don’t be afraid to laugh, even when it feels foreign.
Hold on tight
After our son died, my husband and I looked each other in the eye and reaffirmed our commitment to one another. We decided right then and there that we wouldn’t allow our son’s death to drive us apart. We resolved to fight for our marriage no matter what it took. The journey hasn’t been easy, but I am thankful for all of the tears, the late night conversations, the frustrations, and the growth that has taken place between now and then. I am thankful for the ways conflict and pain have ultimately drawn us closer as a couple. I am thankful to be able to walk alongside the only person who truly understands everything we’ve been through. I am thankful to be able to look upon the face that so closely resembles that of our little boy each day.
I am thankful for someone who has seen me at my best and worst, in seasons that felt rich and seasons that felt poor, and in seasons of sickness and in health.
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories
I’ll admit there are days when I want nothing more than to go back to the person I was on September 8, 2012. They day before everything changed for me forever.
On that day, I still didn’t know too much.
Everything changed on September 9. I woke up that morning with a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew something was wrong with Luke when I woke up. I did everything I could to get him to get moving…and nothing.
These are not the things you expect on your 39th week of a completely uneventful, healthy pregnancy.
When we walked into the hospital that day, I remember being told by everyone that they were just SURE everything was fine. I told myself over and over that they were probably right. But I just couldn’t fight that feeling that something WAS wrong.
I just didn’t know how wrong. I don’t think I ever could have guessed that when I felt something was wrong, that he was actually already gone. Nothing to save. Nothing we could do. Just gone.
No one thinks about these things when they’re pregnant. Not until that moment when everything turns upside down on you and you’re forced to face a reality that you never could have imagined.
Sitting there in that delivery room, hearing that we wouldn’t be bringing Luke home with us–ever–that was the minute my life changed. The minute panic set in. Hopes and dreams were dashed. Grief entered, never to leave again. And I had no idea what I was in for.
That day. That week. That year. I still don’t always know what to expect, three years out.
During that 39 weeks Luke and I spent together, I can say for certain that never once did I entertain the thought that I could lose him to a cord accident. That he could possibly just slip away silently after being there so strong for me the entire pregnancy. Or that I wouldn’t even be able to say for sure when he died. Thoughts like that are unimaginable when you don’t know too much. They would never cross your mind because you never lived in a universe where tragedies like that happened.
But on September 9, it was like I moved residence to Planet-My-Baby-Died. And there was no turning back.
I switched to survival mode. The day is still a blur to me. I was induced, with no idea what to expect. I’d never birthed a child, let alone a baby without a heartbeat. I had no idea how I’d survive.
I did, somehow. Luke’s delivery was complicated. He was 9 pounds, 12 ounces. Shoulder dystocia is a nightmare as it is, but in my case? This was the worst nightmare. I remember blacking out, thinking that maybe I wouldn’t survive either. Maybe that would be OK?
But I’m still standing, three years later. Those first minutes, hours, and days were near impossible. Every step I took was the most difficult step I’d taken in my life. I had no idea how to go on living the life that I was living before I knew I was pregnant with Luke. Everything was supposed to change when he arrived, and yet, there we were. We were changed, but by something we never even imagined could happen. The emptiness and despair of that first week home without him were (hopefully) the darkest days of my life. Somehow, with the support and love of the most amazing family and friends in the world, I’m still standing.
It’s hard to admit that the life I have now wouldn’t be mine had Luke not died. But having him made me a better person. I’m someone people reach out to when they hear of tragedies like ours. I’m willing to be an ear to hear those who have walked these same steps as I have. I know how it feels to experience the unthinkable firsthand.
When you know too much, you know how to be there for people. You know that there’s a dark side to the light that shines on so many others. I understand that not everything is sunshine and daisies. It’s not that I’m jealous (though sometimes, I am). I just know how it feels to be stuck in the dark and come back through all of that to find happiness, and sometimes, I think that might make the joy that I experience even sweeter.
When you know too much, it’s hard to go back and be person you were before. But Luke is part of being who I am now, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything.
Jennifer Watanabe works in consulting and is a mama of two–Luke, who she carries in her heart, and her rainbow baby, Lena. She blogs about life and loss on her blog http://dearbabyluke.blogspot.com in hopes to keep her son’s memory alive and spread stillbirth awareness.
