Do I tell them or not? C’mon Adam, think quickly. Is it worth getting into this now? Are they someone who needs to know? Are they just making small talk, or do you think they genuinely care about you and your life?
These are the questions that go through my mind when I get into a conversation with someone when I’m out with Caleb (my 14 month old son), and they eventually ask, “Is this your first?”
You see, Caleb is not our first child. He’s our third son. But he’s the only one that’s living.
And if someone is innocently asking a question about your child, the real answer can be a bit of a downer…
And yet, that is our life. That is our reality. That is our grief and our joy.
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When Sarah and I had our first appointment with her doctor, and we were told that we were pregnant with twins…well, let me just say that we probably shared more expletives with each other over the next couple hours than we had in the previous history of our relationship.
We couldn’t believe it. I went home and immediately claimed the domain DazedDad.com because I had no idea how to handle the idea that I was going to be the dad of twins.
After the initial shock, it began to be exciting. And then we got nervous as hell…and then we’d get excited about our journey of life with twins. It wasn’t an easy pregnancy by any means, and we had a couple scares early on. But eventually things started to plateau, and on a Friday afternoon of the 19th week, we had an ultrasound appointment where we got to see Baby A and Baby B in detail. After that appointment, I wrote a post called “Two More Penises in the Walker Cleaveland Home.” Twin baby boys!
Three days later, October 25, 2010, just shy of 20 weeks into our pregnancy, our boys would be born. And would die. And our lives would never be the same.
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We still don’t really know what happened. It was, unfortunately, one of those situations where the doctors scratch their heads and just say it’s horrible luck. The worst kind of luck. The one thing that everyone fears but doesn’t talk about: losing your children during the pregnancy. I still remember sitting with Sarah in the triage area of Labor & Delivery at the hospital, and the doctor saying the words for the first time:
“…in which case, we would need to terminate the pregnancy.”
At that point, we crossed a threshold into a world we never thought we would have to deal with. We would soon join the club of those parents who have dealt with infant loss. The worst club that one can ever join.
Once we got settled into the hospital room, I drove the 40 miles home to Livermore, California, to pick up a few essentials for us, since it was clear we’d be at the hospital for awhile. It may not have been the best idea for me to make that drive alone, because I don’t remember any of it. I remember listening to Linkin Park in the car, but nothing else. I got home, quickly gathered some clothes, toothbrushes, brush for Sarah, chargers for our phones and a few other random supplies.
Somehow, I made it back to the hospital. I walked through the hospital door (which now had a fake rose taped to the door – the universal symbol that meant “something horrible is happening beyond this door – prepare yourself”), sat down and Sarah said, “We have to name them.”
Just days before, we had decided on names, but as soon as we heard we were going to lose the pregnancy, our first instinct was to “save” the names. We loved the names we’d chosen and we wanted to be able to keep using them for future kids. But Sarah had read one of those cheesy pamphlets the social worker gives you in the hospital, entitled something like: “So You Just Found Out Your Babies Are Going To Die – Hopefully This Cheesy Pamphlet With Graphics From the 80s Will Help You,” and the pamphlet said we needed to name them.
And we talked about it. And the stupid pamphlet was right. These were our boys. We had named them already. And we would honor them by giving them their names.
Micah Walker Cleaveland.
Judah Walker Cleaveland.
Strong names, for our sons who would have to fight for every breath when they were born.
Somehow we got some sleep during the night…and as quickly as Sarah went into labor, it was over almost as quickly. Micah came first, at 6:49am, weighing 10 ounces. Judah followed at 6:54am, weighing just 8 ounces.
And they were breathing. They were alive. Our boys were alive, and we held them, and loved them, and kissed them, and cried, and smiled, and weeped and were amazed. I still remember noticing their fingers. Their toes. They were perfect. Tiny, but perfect. There eyes weren’t developed enough yet, so they remained shut, but as we held them in the palms of our hands, we could feel the vibrations of their bodies fighting for air, fighting for life.
They lived for one hour. One precious hour. Trying to remember it not, it feels like a minute. Like an hour. Like a snapshot. Like a full-length feature film. It’s a hazy moment for me. Yet it’s also crystal clear. The time spent rocking them in my arms – while they lived, and after they stopped breathing. Kissing their foreheads…touching their skin, which continued to get colder and colder.
After three hours, we decided it was time to say our goodbye. But not before they were baptized by one of the other pastors I worked with at the church. She was there, and helped us recognize God’s blessing and love and care for Micah and Judah, and we committed their spirits to the Living Spirit’s care.
That day our lives were changed, in a way that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. That day, I became a father. Prior to that morning, I was a dazed dad, wondering if I was really ready to take on the responsibility of raising a child. But as I held Micah and Judah in my arms, I believe I felt the closest thing to unconditional love I’d ever experienced in my life up until that point. I was changed.
Today, I am the father of Micah and Judah, and of a beautiful 14 month old boy, Caleb Elijah. Caleb has blessed our lives in so many ways. And while it completely messes with my mind to think about this fact, Caleb would not be with us if we had given birth to two healthy, full-term twin baby boys.
As anyone who has gone through infant loss, stillbirth or any other form of pregnancy-related loss can tell you, you are never the same afterward. This is part of my story. In fact, it’s one of the deepest stories I have.
I am a father of 3, 1 living.
This point, where He brings us to truth-telling and to choose courage to trust in the pouring out of it, is where we are stepping off the cliff we’ve so safely glued to . . . and where we finally leap into His arms. Because, it’s faith living to do this, to boldly declare what is really true. It’s remarkable, beautiful worship. Rich blessings in your courage to tell, Adam.
Thank you so much for your honesty, Adam. My husband and I also face the ubiquitous ‘how many children do you have?’ question with all of the challenges it comes with. I am the mother of two healthy daughters, aged 12 and 9, and the mother of a son, Jeremiah Edward, who we will meet again in heaven. He would be 10 1/2 right now if he had lived. But we kissed him goodbye when he was just three weeks old.
Sometimes I will say ‘I have two girls’ and leave it at that, but for better or worse, I am ruthlessly honest on the subject, because all too often when I share, people who have never mentioned to anyone in their social group come clean with the fact that they, too, lost a baby or baby’s … to miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss. This deep, deep story that we have had writ large over our lives has the potential to shape us and mould us in so many ways. It has changed my faith life, my family life and my ministry life forever. From a fellow traveller, peace to you in the midst of the on-going process it is to walk this deep, deep road.
Heather, thanks for your thoughts. I too tend to be pretty raw and transparent about our loss. I was serving a church in California when we lost Micah and Judah, and when I started blogging so openly on DazedDad.com about the grief journey. I had so many women in the 60s, 70s and 80s coming up to me, crying, saying that they’d been reading my posts, and it opened up old wounds of theirs from losing children when they were young. They also said that they were never really given space to grieve properly or even talk about those losses back then, so they were grateful that I could be so open and share online.
Thank you for sharing this deeply moving story from your heart.
FlowerLady
Thank you for sharing your beautiful story. I have a similar situation: three in Heaven (including a set of identical twins) and one living son. I lost my first baby very early on, and I lost the twins toward the end of the first trimester, still too soon to see and hold them. We adopted our son 6 weeks before my twins would have been born, so I know the dilemma of how I wouldn’t have my son if they had been born alive. I also know the dilemma of whether or not to save cherished names for living children. And how to answer questions about how many children in our family. When women share pregnancy stories, I want to chime right in with my own, but I usually don’t because I know that I’ll then have to explain that my babies didn’t make it, and that definitely leads to awkward moments.
Adam, oh my heart. I have never seen you write this all out like this before and I’m wrecked. No words suffice. But thank you for giving this.
wrecked…
thank you for the gift of this deepest story… for the vulnerability and courage in your words, in your life.
Wow! This went right to the solar plexus – and the heart. I thank you for your courage and I offer you and your wife my deepest sympathies in this loss. You have given form and shape and beauty to a terrible experience and through these words, have brought comfort and community to all those who have had this kind of wrenching loss. Many blessings as you raise your beautiful boy, the one who lives here and now.
Adam,
Thank you for sharing this deep story. I remember the week of your loss so well. I read your facebook post late Sunday night and went to bed with such a heavy heart for you and Sarah. I remember reading on Monday morning that you had indeed lost the boys and then moments later getting a call about the PCLI plane crash that killed our friend Rod. Deep has many meanings. That week was full of deep pain, shock and grief. But the deep love of Jesus carried all of us out of that deep pit and brought us out again. Through it all, WE are deeper people. Suffering changes you, refines you. I’m reminded what the Apostle Paul said about deep suffering and what it produces – perseverance, character and finally – hope. Thank you for sharing your story of pain, grief, healing and ultimately hope.
Vicki….it was a horrible week.
A good friend of mine from seminary, her father was killed in a tragic car accident the day after we lost the boys. Another good friend of ours had a young 20-something friend of theirs die tragically also on October 25th. There was something about October 25, 2010 that was a horrible day for so many people…
Bless you for gifting us with your story. Thank you!
Thank you all for your comments. I know this was a big one to drop for my first essay here at A Deeper Story, but as I mentioned in the post, this is the deepest story that I have. This is the story that has changed me to the core, and so in many ways, it felt the most natural to be the first one that I share with you.
I think that losing children is one of those things that forever changes who you are, how you interact with people, how you deal with anger and grief and joy…really, everything. So I appreciate your comments and interaction with this post.
Thank you! I am the grandmother of 4, 2 this side of eternity and 2 the other side. All of these children are real people to me that I value and thank God for…yet there is the pain.
Thank you, again.
No words except this was beautifully written and that I’m so sorry for your heartbreak. Thank you for sharing it.
We’ve been walking this road of losing a child here as well. I am so sorry that you all went through this, and yet also thankful I found your essay here today. I needed to read this.
This was so moving. Thanks for enabling me to walk in your shoes for that part of your journey.
What a beautiful, yet heartbreaking story.
As a mother of a son myself, I can’t imagine. Extra snuggles for him today. Thank you for sharing your heart here.
I never knew the “How many children do you have?” question could be so loaded until we lost one of ours.
“Do I tell them or not?” Exactly. It is such a deep thing to share and such a heavy load to place on someone else in the midst of chit chat. But our sweet babies are too important to not ever talk about. So yes, do we tell them or not? I had no idea how often I would ask myself that and how often I would come up with different answers.
This is a story that I relate to more than I wish that I did. I also am the father of three children, one of whom is living. My wife and I lost our first two children, one in December of 2010 (Nicholas) and the other in June of 2012 (Anna). They are and always will be a part of our family. Death is a separation, but it doesn’t take away the reality of life.
I share the same struggle — what to say when asked, “How many children do you have?” Different people react differently. My wife will sometimes say “Just this one” (she’s currently expecting our third and is entering the third trimester) and will sometimes take the time to explain about the other two. Personally, I always answer “Three, but just one living.” Sometimes it’s awkward and uncomfortable to do so, but if I don’t, I feel like I’m lying. Miscarriage and stillbirth are tragedies and continual, life-long heartaches, but I really don’t think pretending it didn’t happen, or acting like we forget is the solution.
Thank you so much for sharing this! May God continue to watch over and keep you, your wife, and all of your children in His care.
This is my sisters story… well, they did not have twins, but one little girl. Named after her grandmothers: Jo and Elizabeth.
She was Joeli…. for both.
She was loved and I still remember her tiny frame, and her fingers… her toes…
your story is scared, thank you for trusting us with it here.
Adam, I’m so sorry for your losses. Thank you for being willing to share such a fragile part of your heart with us.
I would never compare my losses to your own, since I lost two babies at 8 weeks. In one case, I lost a twin, which made the remainder of the pregnancy extremely bittersweet, emotionally. The second happened in such a way, that had I carried that baby to term, I would not have my adorable, sunshiny, 3 year old son. And yes, the realization that I couldn’t have both messes with my head. A lot.
It’s remarkable how such tiny beings leave tremendous voids in our hearts, isn’t it?
I hate that question–’how many kids do you have?’ We lost our first little girl Adyson Celeste at almost 22 weeks pregnant. When I got pregnant with our next child I hated answering’is this your first?’ “well no actually…’but it was too akward and painful so I learned to say “yes” but in my mind (and sometimes out load) I always added “my first I get to keep”. We’ve added 3 to the mix since Ady, so now I get “are they ALL yours?!” or “you have your hands full!” so I don’t have to tell them but Ady IS my firstborn and it still hurts 5 years later.
I had two miscarriages between my first and second boys, the second just the month before my Noah was actually conceived. As much as I wish to meet them it’s still hard to wrap my brain around the fact that he would not be here if either of them were.
And now I have twin girls as well, a surprise!
Thank you for sharing your story. As I get older I realize that this is much more common than I ever thought. I think the more that we are able to share our real stories the more that we will find we have in common with others and the more that we will be free to truly be our real selves.
“Do I tell them or not?…Is it worth getting into this now? Are they someone who needs to know? Are they just making small talk, or do you think they genuinely care about you and your life?” Oh, how I can relate. Not because I have lost children, but because I lost my fiance. You don’t always know who can handle it and who can’t. You don’t always know when it’s appropriate or even OK to bring it up, and when it’s not.
And I can also so relate to “the real answer can be a bit of a downer.” Only for me the question, of course, is: “Why aren’t you married?” A question they may think is innocent, but it cuts. (Having said that, the question’s potential for causing pain, even when the answer isn’t “tragedy,” actually seems pretty clear to me….)
Adam, I applaud your courage in telling your deepest story. My heart is with you.
God bless. You have been an amazing father to all three. I’m sorry for your pain but glad for your joy and for the hope that is ours in Jesus Christ Our Lord.
Thank you for sharing your boys and your story. It’s been almost 14 years since I joined this very-worst-club of all. Then again 5 years later. And I STILL go through the same debate in my head when they ask “how many kids do you have?” More often I say 4, but my heart whispers 6. I remember the cheesy pamphlet and the “should we save this name we’d chosen” debate. I’m so glad we listened too. There’s not much we could do for and with Noah or Simon, but in this small way we parented our boys.
I cried my way through your story. How wonderful that you got that precious hour. But a day or a year or 20 would never be quite enough. Thanks for sharing.
Adam,
I read your reflection about this on DazedDad a while ago. I’m glad you are continuing to share it as an important story. This dilemma is one my my deepest stories also as the father of 3 living and 3 unborn children. Two of our miscarriages were during the Easter season (in 2004 and 2010). My grief is cyclical, and the 2013 Easter season has been a more intense cycle. So I especially appreciate reading it during the approach to Easter.
I’ve experimented with all sorts of ways to tap dance around this question – 3 at home, 3 living children, etc. I figure if someone is astute enough to notice the tap dance, and caring enough to probe further, then they are trustworthy enough to know more of the story. Interestingly, we have been grappling with another dimension of this as our living children become old enough to process the miscarriages. My 7 yr old daughter was recently mentioning at school that she had 3 brothers and sisters in heaven. It caught several students and teachers off guard. Through the resulting discussion, the school helped us create a space for my daughter to tell her story, and hopefully for others who experience loss like this to tell their stories as well.
It is not easy. But I think telling your story offers hope for others who have been shamed into silence, and perhaps takes a step on the path of weaving this strand into the broader narrative of your life.