[A guest post written by D.]
To my daughter, Mila….
Today would have been your 10th birthday.
I used to think about what you’d be like at 5. Or 10. Or 18. But with the passage of time, I no longer think about who you would have been. I think about who you were and what you mean to me today and forever.
You are our first child. As much as your sister likes to argue the merits of her being the “oldest”, you were our first. When Mama was pregnant with you, we were so excited. We waited for you for 9 whole months, building to a crescendo of new-parent anticipation, love, and yes, preparation. And then, in an instant, we lost you.
And even though we held you for only a few hours before we had to say goodbye, you will forever be our first child. We love you always.
You are the foundation on which our family is built. Your death was like an earthquake. It was so disorienting. The life path we were on wasn’t altered…it didn’t come to an abrupt dead end… It completely disappeared.
Suddenly we were in the middle of a dense jungle with no path or purpose in sight. We had no choice but to start over and carve our way out. But which direction should we go? Any direction we could pick was as good (or as bad) as the next. What more did we have to lose?
So we took some risks. We moved abroad. The entire trajectory of our family was changed by you.
And even more importantly, you changed who we are as parents. How I am as a dad. How Mama is as a mom. When I see your brother and sister and how close they are, I’d like to think you had something to do with that too. Who would they be without you? Would they even be?
You are not just part of our family; we grew out of you.
You changed me fundamentally for the better. For me, there is a before you and an after you. You were born lifeless, but the ways you have affected my life are profound and permanent. My whole world changed on December 23, 2013. Losing you stripped me emotionally to the bone.
Before you, I spent way too much time in my own head regretting the past or worrying about the future. So much so that I missed out on years of living in the present. Unfortunately, nothing could have brought me more violently into the “now” than losing you.
So I have spent the better part of a decade “after you” trying to rebuild myself into a better person. That would not have happened if it weren’t for you. You forced a self-reckoning.
There are so many ways that I can continue to grow personally, but today feels like a good day to acknowledge how far I’ve come. I hate that losing you had to be the reason for who I’ve become, but I am so grateful for it.
To Mila’s mama….
You are the love of my life and the most amazing mother in the world. I’ll never forget how you were with Mila that day. In the deepest throes of emotional and physical agony a woman can endure, you were above all else, Mila’s mama. I don’t know how you did it. And 10 years later, I am still marveling at you. You are the strongest person I have ever met.
Losing Mila could have easily broken us in ways that were impossible to repair. Instead, it deepened our love for each other. For a while there, it was just the two of us, wandering in the world lost and alone. But we had each other. And somehow we managed to put one foot in front of the other until we found joy in life again. Now I wake up everyday knowing that no matter what life throws at us, we will persevere together.
I also want to thank you for this blog. You have left our family and the world such a beautiful tribute to Mila and a vivid testimony of grief, anger, fear, hope, and rebirth. It is truly a gift.
I feel so much warmth reading your posts now–even through the sadness. My favorites: Mila’s Life, Mila’s Birth Story, your travelogs of our escaping the world in Japan, finding hope and happiness again at the end of the world in Chile and Argentina (and parts 2, 3, 4), physically and emotionally moving on from the west coast; and more recently, your eulogy for my Dad.
I hope that one day when they are older, our children will read this blog and learn from it.
To the World….
Having a stillborn baby is excruciatingly isolating. People don’t know what to say. Let’s face it, no one likes talking about dead babies. So they say nothing. Or they ignore you. Or even worse, they say something like “don’t worry, you’ll have another”.
Mila’s mom has documented that isolation in this blog. It’s a tough read. But as rare as it is to hear a mother talk so honestly about having a stillborn child, it’s even rarer to hear a father do the same. Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to talk about what that’s like in more detail.
Every 16 seconds, a baby is stillborn. Today I think about the many parents around the world who will have to endure that isolation with little or no support network. Or even worse, be actively stigmatized by their community.
Which is why I am so grateful for our family and friends and the doctors, nurses, and support groups who helped us through those early years. Many friends were there for us 10 years ago and continue to be by our side today. Some of you didn’t know us then but have become the closest of friends.
Two of the first people to rush to our side in San Francisco after we lost Mila are gone now too.
I miss them.
And so life goes on.
