Guest Post from Ezra and Micah's Daddy: A Tribute to Fathers and Children Forever Separated

June was always a big month in my family. My father's birthday, my birthday, Father's day and my parents' anniversary all jammed into a period of a few weeks.

Last year’s Father’s Day was a bittersweet one for me, and I imagine that from now on, Father’s Day for me will always evoke a bit of happiness mixed with pangs of grief. Last year at around this time, I was mourning the loss of my son Ezra, who had died only months earlier. Ezra’s placenta tore from the uterus a few weeks before his due date, cutting of his oxygen supply in utero. My wife had to go into labor to give birth to our son who had already died. I held him, and laughed and cried at the same time. I laughed because I was happy to see my son’s adorable, silly face for the first time, and I cried because I would never hold him again, never get to see him grow up and reach all of life’s milestones. And we buried him several days later, but not before reading him a bedtime story. And I never thought I’d have to bury my own child, ever. As I literally buried him in the ground with a shovel, at the cemetery, I felt as if I was burying part of myself as well.

For those who have lost a child, you know what I mean. For those who haven’t, I hope you never know such pain and emptiness. There is no loss greater than the loss of your child. It is the hopeless nightmare that does not subside. Eventually, you learn to live with your loss and incorporate the memory of your child into daily life. You must do so if you are to regain any sense of a normal existence, whatever normal means. You learn to live as a new person with a new sense of normal. But the pain never goes away entirely, nor should it.

So on that Father’s Day weekend of 2009, I was a father deprived of my son in physical form, though he remained buried in my heart. And at the same time, there was joy. My father was recovering from major surgery, and I had made countless trips back and forth from Philadelphia to New York City to visit him in the hospital. Though he was frail, immobile and only a hint of his formerly robust, colorful, loquacious and trash-talking self, he was still Dad. I said goodbye to him that day, wishing him a happy Father’s Day and all that. He gave me a mile-long stare unlike any he had given me before. He had a peaceful look on his face, as if somehow he was alright no matter what.

The next week my father died.

We were so different, yet so much alike, my father and I. He was a veteran and a union guy, while I have dual Ivy League degrees. While his tour of duty in the Army took him to Japan and Korea, years later I lived in Japan as an exchange student, studied Japanese in college, and worked in Tokyo for an ad agency and a bank. Both of us were blessed with a strong sense of community service. My father was active in his church and his V.F.W. post, while I became an activist, writer and advocate armed with a law degree. Both of us experienced racial discrimination, which is par for the course for black men in America. And I’ve had experiences and opportunities my father couldn’t have imagined, and yet he was partly responsible for them happening, and for my access to them.

This year, I observe my first Father’s Day without my father, who lived a full life, and a second Father’s Day without my son, who never had a chance to live life. And Dad is now looking after his grandson in that far away spirit world, which gives me some comfort.

In that year since my father left us, my son Micah was born. And what a joy he is! He seems to smile all the time, more than his father or grandfather ever could. Micah, it seems, was made to order for parents who needed smiles in their lives, and once believed they’d never laugh again. But why couldn’t I have both of my sons with me on Father’s Day?

Often I think about the fathers who lost their children, and the children who lost their fathers, whether through disease, famine, war or terrorism— or handgun violence in the streets of America, or corporate malfeasance— you know, crimes committed on offshore oil rigs or in coal mines. Fathers are separated from their children by prison bars miles away upstate, in this land of the incarcerated, or senseless permanent wars half a world away in Eurasia or Eastasia or another designated enemy.

Men who cannot be with their children, and people who are separated from their fathers might not be in the mood to celebrate Father’s Day, and that is ok. What is important is that we learn to honor and remember those we love when they are not or cannot be with us now or ever. And you don’t need a special day for that.

Guest Post from Ezra and Micah's Daddy: Burying Your Child

On Friday, Rachel Maddow had a man on her show.  His daughter had been killed in 1995 in the Oklahoma City bombing.  He said the pain is still there.  When your parents die, you bury them on the mountaintop, he said.  But when your child dies, you bury them in your heart, and keep them there.  So simple, yet so profound!

On Laughter

Micah put himself to sleep laughing the other night. Ok, he doesn't exactly laugh yet, but as I watched on the video monitor, he cooed, gurgled, and smiled himself to sleep in his crib. Melted my heart entirely.

Micah sleeping on his own is brand new, he's only been doing it for 2 to 3 weeks. See, my second son was the newborn who would not sleep in his own. Even those first few nights in the hospital after he was born, he refused to sleep in the hospital bassinet -- I spent those nights sitting up in the hospital bed, staring in amazement at this new little being as he slept. We came home and tried to get him to sleep in the co-sleeper bassinet next to my side of the bed - if he fell asleep he'd be up 20 minutes later, searching for a snuggle. Every night would begin with an attempt to get Micah to sleep in the co-sleeper; every night would end with a baby snuggled against me in bed. All of his naps were taken in a sling or wrap on me or his daddy. Delerious from sleep deprivation, we had a conversation with our pediatrician about safe co-sleeping practices, and for the first couple months were co-sleeping out of necessity, as opposed to choice. Not that I judge those who choose to co-sleep, but as a babylost mama who works professionally in child welfare, I was terrified at first -- I had visions of dead babies floating in my head, all the co-sleeping nightmares of which I have learned through my work. But night by night I got more comfortable, and began to love all the snuggles and ease of breastfeeding that comes with co-sleeping. It seems Micah was sent to make up for all the snuggles I missed out on with his older brother.

But we knew eventually Micah would need to learn to sleep on his own -- I won't be on maternity leave forever, and certainly it's a good skill to have. We set about doing some limited sleep training with Micah, and in the end, some combination of our hard work and the cognitive development that comes with hitting the 3 month mark, resulted in Micah's new found skill of crib sleeping. For the most part, he seems to sleep longer and better on his own. So I now have new found freedom...and already miss his night time snuggles terribly.

All that aside, watching Micah coo and smile to sleep got me thinking...about laughter.

My father told me that the first thought that flashed through his mind after he learned that Ezra had died, was that I would never smile again. And yet I remember distinctly the first time I laughed after Ezra had died. It was the day after he was born, and involved an episode of incontinence resulting in a large puddle beneath my hospital bed. So absurd, I couldn't stop laughing; at the time, it felt like there was nothing left to laugh about in the world, but at myself.

Over these last 19 1/2 months, we have of course learned to laugh again. We've laughed with each other. We learned to find joy in the simplest things. In fact, I think that's one of the many lessons Ezra taught us - to appreciate the tiny joys the life offers, to laugh when we can. But our laughter has always been tinged with sadness, or perhaps more precisely, guilt. It's the guilt that only babylost parents can feel for actually enjoying themselves, when their babes are not here.

Listening and watching Micah laugh himself to sleep made me realize that true laughter, unconditional laughter, re-entered our lives on the day Micah was born. We laugh despite ourselves. We laugh because our son is just so cute, just so snuggly, just so full of smiles...and just so alive. It's only when I stop to think about how much we laugh, that the guilt creeps back in. We should have had all these moments of unconditional joy with Ezra too. And yet Micah keeps me laughing...each and every day.

Big Brother

We took Micah to see his big brother on Saturday. Of course he fell asleep on the car ride there and we let him stay sleeping in the car.

Both D and I felt it was time...we needed to go see Ezra. We haven't been back since the unveiling of his gravestone on his 1st birthday. Although neither of us feel Ezra most present at the cemetery, we've both wanted to go...but between a problem pregnancy and the ice and snow, we just haven't made it. Now that we've gained our footing as parents to a living child, we knew it was time.

We were both so surprised to see how many of the stones and shells that many of you sent or brought for the unveiling were still present on the stone. We brought 3 stones (1 for each of us) that we had collected in our journeys and left them for our boy. I was struck by the calm that came over me as we arrived. On past visits to the cemetery, I've revisited the pure shock of having buried a child each time we arrived. This time felt different. It's not that I accept that Ezra is dead in the sense of having reconciled with the Universe. But the fact that he's gone has integrated into my being, it has become part of my identity. I felt peace in seeing Ezra's name on that stone, since it is one of the few places his name will always be remembered. I guess this is what they call in thera-speak, "the new normal".

Afterwards over lunch at a nearby diner, D and I just stared at each other in wonder - how did we get here? 10 years ago, we knew each other but neither of us had noticed a romantic spark. Now. here we sit, married and parents to one little boy who lives only in our hearts, and one who lives in our hearts and our arms. I may have found acceptance, but I'll never understand.

Spring has Sprung...

Last year, around the same time I was planting my Sunflowers, I planted something else...a hydrangea bush for Ezra. Our garden is small, and I can't say I'm the most of skilled of gardeners, but I truly delight in planting things and watching them grow. Gardening is one of the things I dreamed about doing with Ezra when he was old enough to help, just as I had 'helped' my Dad in his gardens as a kid. Now gardening is just one of the many things in life he never got to do.

During my pregnancy with Micah, I didn't allow myself to dream of the things I'd do with him, not much anyway. I didn't fully believe he'd make it here alive, not until I heard his cry. But those dreams for what I would have done with Ezra are of course dreams for Micah too.

Now that the weather is getting warmer, Micah and I have been spending as much time as possible outside. Today I took him out back to see how his brother's bush has sprouted. I can't wait until he can help me take care of it too.

A Homecoming...of sorts

Yesterday was my 6 week postpartum appointment. Never mind that Micah is now 8 1/2 weeks old -- the blizzards of 2010 have postponed my last two scheduled appointments. In fact a blizzard was predicted yesterday too - luckily all we got was flurries.


Given that I practically lived at my OB's office the last five weeks of my pregnancy, what with the thrice-weekly NSTs and doctors' appointments, its not surprising people were excited to see Micah. Everyone, from the receptionist, to the nurses and medical assistants, and of course the wonderful Dr. J, oohed and ahhed as Micah slept in his stroller, utterly oblivious to all the attention. It felt good to have the miracle that is his healthy live existence acknowledged, by people who know first hand just how tenuous the journey was that hearkened his arrival.


Such a contrast to my 6 week postpartum appointment after giving birth to Ezra. Purposely arriving first thing in the morning so as to avoid sitting in a room full of pregnant women, I was greeted by a receptionist:
So you're here to followup on your procedure?
Um no...this is my 6 week appointment. I gave birth to a son. He died.
I call that a procedure.


Needless to say, said receptionist no longer works at that office. Stunned, I returned to my seat next to David. Another woman arrived for her appointment, a three year old son in tow. He was very active, having brought two small toy trucks with him, which he delighted in 'driving' all over the floor and chairs. I remember sitting watching him, alternatively smiling at his adorable antics, and tears welling up in my eyes at the thoughts that Ezra would never reach this age, never play with trucks, never make someone else smile at his pure adorable being. It never occurred to me to ask to be taken back to a room on my own...I just smiled and cried in silence until my name was called.

***


There was a certain sense of...dare I say it...closure, in seeing Dr. J with my nearly 2 month old son. Not closure in the sense of my grief journey of course...that I know will last a lifetime. But closure in the sense that I somehow have brought a living breathing child into this world, as Dr. J promised me I would one day quite some time ago.


Dr. J is very special to my husband and I. Dr. J was not my OB during my pregnancy with Ezra. I went to the same practice, but saw a different doctor, one who was perfectly competent, but not someone with whom I developed any sort of connection. Toward the end of pregnancy, the practice likes you to rotate through other doctors, so you can meet everyone in advance of your delivery. So my 32 week appointment when I was pregnant with Ezra was with Dr. J. The appointment where my protein levels were slightly elevated....which led to Dr. J ordering me to do a 24 hour catch...which led to Dr. J sending me to the hospital for monitoring...monitoring which revealed a perfectly healthy baby despite slightly elevated blood pressure and protein. Which led Dr. J to make the decision to send me home. And most likely Ezra died on the way home.


One might think I'd hate Dr. J.


But I don't. Medically he made the right decision to send me home -- there was just nothing to indicate that Ezra was in distress or was about to be in distress. And even if I had been in the hospital when the abruption happened, it was so acute and complete, that it's unlikely as could be that Ezra would have survived. Modern medicine has its limits - we learned that the hard way.


But here's the thing about Dr. J. After we had returned to the hospital, after we were informed our baby passed away, after the hysterical screaming and tears, after the epidural, and after the process of induction had begun...Dr. J came back to the hospital. He wasn't on call anymore, he hadn't been my treating OB, he could have been home with his own precious children. And instead, he came back. To sit with us, to grieve with us, to make sure that we knew that he was devastated too.


Most doctors would have run away, fearful of unintentionally acknowledging any regret or fault, in light of possible malpractice litigation. He didn't have to come back. But he did.


And ever since then, David and I knew he was our doctor. That if we ever journeyed this path of bringing a child into the world again, it would be Dr. J that would provide the care. That he would fight to ensure a healthy arrival.


And fight he did.

Still Here

I haven't had much to say in this space since our Sunflower, Micah, arrived. For the last five and a half weeks, my grief has pretty much been put on the shelf. This time has been about snuggles and breastfeeding, sleep and lack thereof. Being a mama, both to Ezra and to Micah, is most definitely the hardest job I've ever had...and these weeks have been some of the most amazing and challenging I've ever lived. Micah continues to bring us more joy than we knew was possible in our lives after losing Ezra. The grief does still appear from time to time as I know it always will. And so while there may be silence here for a bit, I'm still blog reading and nodding right along with you.

Here's some updated pics.