Home > ASAP, Grief, Infant loss, Stillbirth, Stillbirth Awareness > You’re Going To Be A Daddy!

You’re Going To Be A Daddy!

We are honored to bring you this blog post by Sean Hanish.  Sean is a stillbirth dad first but also the author, director and producer of the movie, Return To Zero.  Please visit their website to learn how you can help make sure that a movie distributor will pick up this film and help Break The Silence about stillbirth.  Your help as a local leader or your pledge to see the movie will convince movie distributors that there truly is an audience for this movie!  Together we can bring stillbirth out of the shadows!  Pledge to see the movie here. Be sure to list Star Legacy Foundation as your Local Leader!  Click here for A message from Sean about the movie  A tremendous opportunity such as this only rarely comes around!

Father’s Day is Sunday, June 16th.  We know that most men grieve very, very differently from women.  This only adds to the confusion that both men and their partners experience in these situations.  “Why doesn’t he cry all the time like I do?”  “It seems it doesn’t matter as much to him”.  The truth is that most men have the ability that most women don’t – to put their grief in a ‘box’ and deal with it only when they choose.  For women it sometimes seems as though our men aren’t sensitive to the issues – but they are – in their own way.  To add to the challenges, many times men aren’t even given or do not allow themselves the chance to grieve because they are expected to “be strong” and to take care of everyone else.  It can be frustrating when there is nothing you can do to “fix” the sadness or to make yourself or anyone else feel better.  On this Father’s Day we want you to know that you are a father, and we share in your sorrow.    Star Legacy Foundation

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You’re Going To Be a Daddy, by Sean Hanish

“Next time I see you, you’re going to be a daddy.”

Those were the last words I heard before my phone rang late on a sun-filled morning in Malibu on July 11, 2005.

For some reason those words on that day, “you’re going to be a daddy”, landed in a way they never had before. Perhaps it is because I had space in my brain to take it in having just finished the biggest project of my commercial directing career minutes earlier. Perhaps it is because those words were said to me by Cindy Crawford in the driveway of her picturesque Malibu estate. When she said those words I realized that we had crossed the threshold from colleagues to friends.

Most likely though, it was because my wife had gone to the doctor that morning and, late in the third trimester of our first pregnancy, I could very well become a daddy at any moment. I would come to find out days and years later that when I heard those words for the first time that Cindy was wrong, I was already a daddy.

We’ve all had those moments when we’ve received a call, the call. And even before a syllable reaches your ear the silence, the stillness, the fear reaches you first. The feeling starts deep inside—you know something has already gone terribly wrong.

Filled with a serene sense of accomplishment, I pulled onto the Pacific Coast Highway. The phone rang. I answered. A wall of silence hit me and nearly knocked me off the road. Then, through gasps and tears, my wife struggled to tell me: “He’s gone.”

The next few minutes are a mosaic of memories. Images and emotions I have tried to piece into a coherent narrative but it’s gone. You can’t glue the broken glass back together as it’s breaking.

I hope that I stayed calm long enough to let my wife know I would be there right away. I know that before I hung up a flood of tears had begun. I know that after we hung up through the disorientation of disbelief and white hot anger I screamed, alone, thrashing at the wheel, trying to put the broken glass back together piece by piece.

It felt like traffic conspired against me, a full two hours of torture on the LA freeways until I walked into the kitchen and saw my wife seated next to her mother and our doula. Another realization hit like a jab… our son was still inside her.

To be asked how you want to deliver your dead son… to be asked if you have thought about having a burial or cremation for your son who is still in utero, these are questions so macabre as to make Edgar Allen Poe blush, but they are so very real. The shock helps. A simple but effective protection mechanism, tens of thousands of years of development, leaves you detached, dizzy but able to go through the motions of breathing, walking, surviving. Shock is your friend at first. And that’s what it is in those minutes, hours, days, weeks afterward—shock. The goal is simple: survival.

There is nothing you can do, nothing you can say to make it better. It is torture. I wanted to fix things… to do something, anything. And yet there I was at the kitchen table helpless, at the delivery of our son hopeless, then holding him in my arms lifeless.

As a husband, a partner, a man you are a passenger on the pregnancy express. You can look out the window and watch the scenery go by, her belly grow, her skin glow, and if you’re lucky, catch your baby’s elbow as it presses against her belly like the dorsal fin of some alien sea creature making it more real for you. But you’re not the engineer.

When the crash comes you are struggling with your own emotions, grief and loss, desolation and depression, and watching as your wife, your partner, your life jumps the tracks. Twisting metal tumbling out of control in slow motion. Prepare for impact.

The crash came, our son born into silence. Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Holy. And then gone, forever.

The two of us entered our home, prepared for a family of three now stripped bare in a few hours of all infant accoutrement by my wife’s family who swept in like a SEAL team. Our stark baby’s room remained a visual metaphor for the gaping hole in our hearts.

The need to do something, anything became overwhelming. We were gifted a rose bush. I decided to build a patio for that plant, a memorial to our son. The only thing I’ve built in my life up to this point was with Legos. To call me a novice in the construction arts is to insult novices.

I enlisted the help of my handy father-in-law who helped lay the foundation and steer me clear of disaster. After that it was me, a ton of bricks, buckets of cement and a case of beer. It was like some kind of zen trance. Brick after brick. Line after line. I kept at it.

The days were punctuated by visits to my wife’s bedside to check on her dutifully though looking at her brought back everything that hurt… everything that I wanted so desperately to change and forget. Not only have you lost a child, but you’ve lost your wife. For some it’s temporary, others permanent, and most of us somewhere in between. Your relationship never recovers from this, it can only grow together or apart. Neither is wrong.

Brick after brick. Sweat. Wipe. Following a steady rhythm of sadness. I finished the patio—by far my greatest (and only) construction achievement of all time—the day before the memorial service. Goal reached, yet no reward.

The balloons disappear into the sky–my wife and I strain through tears to see them. Surrounded by family and friends, nearly everyone invited made the trip from miles and states away. All of that love helped. The support was incredible. But eventually, their sorrow fades as it must. The neighbors stop the parade of dinners from the oddest pot luck ever. And there we are, left with each other—I never thought that looking into my loved one’s eyes would be like staring into the void.

We all grieve differently, especially in this instance. The engineer blames herself for not seeing the signals. The passenger who survives the wreckage blames everyone, everything and nothing. What does it matter when everything you thought up to that instant, everything you believed in is lost?

The change lasts forever. You’re never the same. Your relationship is never the same. Yet, here we are, my wife and I nearly eight years later still together. Three children in our heart, two in our home. We love each other, but so very differently than before. I’m not sure there is a tomorrow but each day builds on the next like bricks in that patio, but this memorial will never be finished. It is work now, this marriage, like all marriages but unique in its difference.

Two years ago I quit my commercial life and dedicated myself to building a different kind of memorial—this one with images, shots and scenes—one which I’m (hopefully) better at building. It’s a miracle that this film was made—a testament to leading with your heart. We built it and they came, the actors, the crew, and the parents of lost children like wind at our back when we needed it the most.

I’m just one dad. This is one story. One life. And no matter what is gained with this film it will never fill the void that was created the day I lost my son.

What I have learned is that I was a daddy on that day in July 2005. And I am a daddy now–a daddy who never met his first son until after he was gone. Yet, that son has left me a precious gift–I lost one life and found a new one, one which I cherish with all of my heart and will for the rest of my life.

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  1. June 5, 2013 at 9:36 pm

    It is nice to hear a story like this from a dad’s point of view. Thanks for sharing it. I’m glad to hear you went on to have 2 more children and that you and your wife survived this together. It gives me hope.

  2. Angela
    June 15, 2013 at 1:09 pm

    Thank you for sharing this. I will be honest I lost my son 11 years ago this October and what still hurts is most people didn’t even think f me as a mom until this Mother’s Day because my daughter was born last September.
    It touches me to know that I am not alone in what in feeling. My heart goes out to you.

  3. LESLIE
    June 15, 2013 at 2:20 pm

    THERE’S A SPANISH SAYING’ THAT GOES SOMETHING LIKE THIS; “WE DON’T KNOW THE PAIN, UNTIL WE LIVE IT”… WHAT I’M SAYING IS, WE MAY FEEL SAD TO LEARN OF SOMEONE’S INFANT LOSS, BUT WE DON’T REALLY KNOW WHAT THE PARENTS ARE LIVING. MY LIL’ SISTER JUST LOST HER BABY ON 04/25/13 HE ONLY LIVED 25 HOURS. I REALLY DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE & MY BROTHER IN LAW, ARE LIVING THROUGH… SINCE THE DAY MY NEPHEW WENT TO HEAVEN, I’VE REALIZED THAT EVERY TIME I READ ABOUT THE LOSS OF A CHILD, IT BREAKS ME DOWN, I HAVE A BIG HEART FOR HUMANITY, SOMETIMES MY HUSBAND TELLS ME I CRY FOR ANYTHING, I DON’T THINK IT’S ANYTHING IT’S SOMEONE’S SUFFERING & IF I CAN DO SOMETHING TO HELP I’LL DO IT, SADLY I CAN’T HELP BRING OUR LOVED ONES BACK… OTHERS SAY, ITS NOT THE SAME TO LOOSE A NEWBORN, STILLBORN, AS TO LOSING A CHILD THAT HAS BEEN THERE A FEW YEARS, I THINK THAT”SAYING” COMES IN EFFECT FOR THOSE WHO THINK THAT WAY… I KNOW THAT AS A PARENT THE LOSS OF ANY OF OUR CHILDREN OR BABIES WILL HURT US PROFOUNDLY…
    MY HEART IS WITH YOU!!!

  4. Dennis Bronkowski
    February 17, 2014 at 9:51 pm

    The wife and I suffered the loss of our only son dec.30 2003 the hospital took good care of the wife but I felt more like a number holding his body was the most hurtful thing I have ever faced I still cry when I see a father having quality time with his son
    We went on to have twin daughters 3 years later and 1 more little girl a year and a half after that and while I love them very much nothing can heal my pain as a Dad I feel so alone the loss of Nathan did make me more aware of how fragile life really is and made me a very protective father for my girls
    We donated his body to the University of Michigan in hopes that the students that learn from our loss will go on and same many lives at least in some way he did not die in vain and maybe 1 family will not know my pain because of a gift they know nothing about.
    I know I am not alone and I am sorry for anyone who has ever laid there child to rest.

  1. July 7, 2013 at 6:28 pm

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