Told by: Phillip

My daughter Zoe Elizabeth was born still–you can read more about her story from my wife’s perspective here.

There are just so many different dimensions to the pain and grief I felt when she died.

First of all, just that she died. My daughter.

Secondly, that I never got to see her alive before she left.

Hope, my wife, had to begin to deal with the idea that somehow she was defective as a mother; that her body could not do what it was intended to do, namely bring a new life safely into this world. A dispassionate, objective third party would point out that bad things happen and it’s not always our fault. But tell that to a mother who has just lost her baby. The sadness and pain and guilt from the loss of your own baby goes so much deeper than any reason or logic can ever touch. Because it’s an instinct, isn’t it? Women know, deep inside their guts and hearts, that their job is to nurture this little life to fruition, to protect this little person with their own bodies. Not to do so is a failure of the deepest and largest kind.

Men have a similar instinct. There is something so primal about conceiving, bearing, and raising a child. We just know, in our innermost being, that we have a sacred responsibility to protect our wives and our children, to keep them from harm, to keep evil and darkness and death away from our homes. And so when my daughter Zoe died, I got hit with a double whammy of instinctive failure and weakness. I was powerless to protect and defend my tiny little girl, and I was equally powerless to protect my wife from the pain and grief of losing our child. All the logic, reason, and fact in the world cannot take away those feelings of weakness and inadequacy. Feelings that directly attack the very core of how we identify ourselves as men.

The logically reasoned facts state that neither I nor Hope could have changed Zoe’s fate. And even if we had known about Hope’s blood clotting disorders, and she had been taking the right medications, any number of things could have happened. We were truly powerless and without guilt in the face of our daughter’s death. But facts don’t work against instinct and primal emotion. Not for a long time, at least.

Walter Bradford Cannon spoke of the “fight or flight” response to threats. As a man, husband, and father, I felt powerless, inadequate, unable to fight. So it’s not surprising to note that I chose flight as my response in the aftermath of Zoe’s death.

We men choose to flee so much more often than we choose to fight for the right things, don’t we? I chose flight; I fled to the realm of denial and fantasy. There are so many different places we can flee to these days, some harmless in and of themselves, and some less harmless. Anything that offers the illusion of control and power is an option, from books and video games to alcohol, drugs, pornography, et cetera. I fled because I felt powerless to save my wife from the grief, because I was a bad father to my daughter Zoe. Because I felt like I had to, somehow, maintain some illusion of normalcy and strength for my family, when inside myself there was anything but strength and normalcy.

It has taken me a long time to stop fleeing. In some ways, I am still tempted to flee from what I feel inadequate to fix, solve, or control. But I am finally learning that I can face the senseless chaos of a fallen world, and fight, even though I am truly weak and without power to make things right. Now that is truly an illogical response: to fight even though I have no power. But “the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God’s sight.” (1 Corinthians 3:19)

I can stand and fight because, in the wisdom of God, which makes no sense by the standards of a godless world, when I am weak, Christ’s strength is made to shine; it becomes larger than life!

The apostle Paul: [The Lord] said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.(2 Corinthians 12:9-10)

The weakness that is part of our fallen human condition becomes the path God bids us follow; it leads straight to Him. When I acknowledge my weakness, and I humbly ask my God to help me act like He is God, He pours His strength all over my and my situation, and I finally understand what true strength is. I was never meant to be an island. I was never made to have strength and power on my own. Instead, I was made to serve as a way and a means for God to pour His strength, power, love, wisdom, and every other quality, into this world. That is true reality. As I learn to let God use me in the way I was made to serve, He is showing me that I am not broken anymore. He has fixed me, and is fixing me. In my weakness, He is strong, and His strength makes me strong in the way I was meant to be. That’s what it means to be a man.

[You can click here to view a photo of Zoe Elizabeth]

[Site Creator’s Note: this story was borrowed in its entirety from this online location (Addie’s Gift Foundation), where Dr. Gatto owns and operates his own online bereavement support, including support for fathers, where you are invited to visit for additional support]

Told by: Dr. Robert J. Gatto, Jr.

On April 8, 2008 my wife, kids and I lost a full term baby girl named “Adalyn Kathryn”.  I have
lost loved ones before.  Some were lost tragically and some were not.  With the older ones I always said, “well, he lived a good life” or “boy, we’ll miss her…but at least she isn’t suffering any more.”
With the younger ones I often said, “how tragic” or “that’s too bad”. 

As is customary with human nature, I often thought I hope my own children, relatives or friends take care of
themselves and make good decisions.

Losing a child is a completely unique experience, which is so abstract that most can’t comprehend the gravity of it.  To those without children, it may be even harder to grasp.  It is easy to think that a baby who never blinks their eyes would be easier to grieve, or even forget, than one which reciprocates with human movement or emotion.  I say that is simply not the case.

You prepare for months for the coming arrival.  You spend a few nights swearing over the Chinese-made crib assembly.  You fold the towels and onesies.  You pick up newborn diapers every time you go for groceries thinking that you are being fiscally shrewd.  Then the news comes and the bottom falls out from the comfy-cozy nest you have constructed.

Feelings of stupidity abound.  Why in the heck did I buy those diapers?  I wonder who could use them? 

My wife was sent home to regroup after the news of the baby’s death. I came home from work and we made some quick arrangements.  Then we were off to the hospital for the induction.  We never thought about the decisions to come.  Would we hold the baby?  Should we use the name we picked out or save it?  What about baptism?  Then you start to make yourself feel guilty.  What kind of selfish jerk am I actually considering the use of the name for another baby?

There was an air of denial in the birthing chamber.  At times we had discussions about things unrelated to the issue at hand.  My wife prayed that the tests were wrong.  I suppose that must be a defense mechanism of some kind.  Selye’s stress adaptation response was in full effect.  Fight or flight carried us through the birth.  When the baby came there was a surge of emotion both because of tiredness and the sadness associated with seeing a dead baby.

I cried and did not want to let go of Addie.  I continued to tell her I loved her as if some invisible part of her soul was lingering around the room to hear me.  She was warm and soft at first because moments before she was snuggled in my wife’s womb.  It was almost as if she would wake up.  Her chin and jaw were supple and when you moved her it looked like she was suckling.
She looked like my other kids when they were born. 

Within the hour she was changing.  Still beautiful, but the rosy glow of her flesh had disappeared.  We had her
baptized by our priest who made a special trip from the next town prior to his 9:00 AM mass.

Men and women grieve differently.  My wife kept asking “Why did this happen?”  I was sad and then I got
mad.  I cursed God, asking what our family did to deserve such a crap storm.
I would rant and rave and then feel guilty.  What did I do?  I had better apologize and ask for forgiveness or I might spend eternity in damnation!  This went on for several weeks.  After a while, I realized that my beef with
God was some kind of transference of anger, which really had no other target. 

Turning to God became helpful.  At first, however, asking God for help felt like giving into the enemy!
Like he had stolen something from me.

Now we visit the cemetery every few days.  We water the flowers there.  Our four and two year old children actually
run around and play.  My wife cries in public, I do so in private.  Speaking of the events to literally thousands of patients over the last few months has helped me come to terms with my feelings.

As a father, the loss of a baby can bring on feelings of efficacy.  You are supposed to protect your children, but in this case I was stripped of that God given duty.  You are truly humbled by the way that life can turn on a dime.

I believe that I will always mourn our loss.  I will wonder what Addie would have been like.  At times I can still get a little angry but I still have faith.  I have to remember not to take it out on my family, as I do sometimes when I have been thinking.  I realize how precious each life actually is and hope that such a thing never has to happen to anyone I know again.