What You Can: A Father’s Perspective on Grief & Stillbirth

My husband Nicholas offered to do a guest post on my blog. This is his perspective on how he processed and continues to process his grief of our third daughter.

I knew before she even said anything. I picked up the phone and she said “Nic, we lost the baby.” But I knew that already. I just knew.

I immediately called my parents and asked them to drive out to us. Then I just sat on the kitchen floor crying. Once our friend arrived to babysit until my parents came, I drove to the hospital. I got to the door and they turned me away because I didn’t have a mask. Headed home, got a mask, and went right back. Everyone seemed upset about that, but I wasn’t. Security guard desk had run out of masks. The young guard called the ER and they said no. Just doing his job. I had other things to work out.

I digress. Things got underway and you just go through the process. Random questions that don’t mean anything—Are we going to use the name we chose for her? Yep, Blair Elise. That’s her name. In trying to make sense of things, nothing really makes sense. You just ask yourself random questions.

I didn’t really need to know why she died, though. I accepted it as a risk of pregnancy, because unfortunately, it is. I just kept myself moving through the emotions and tried to help Maria process hers. That’s about all you can do. That and drink a lot of coffee — a stupid amount of coffee.

Trying to coach yourself while processing your emotions and supporting someone else and make decisions and notify people, it’s as exhausting — if not more so — than this sentence. These are some techniques that helped me:

• Draft one standard statement with the news and send it out. Pick a point of contact and direct everyone there because at this moment, it’s all about you and your partner. It’s your time to grieve, so use it.

• Let the emotions come, but make no decisions during that time. Just feel.

• Time yourself. If you have had the same emotion and ruminating thoughts for ten minutes, you’re stuck. It’s time to name the emotion and state “I appreciate this feeling, but now I am going to breathe.” And yes, say it out loud. Identifying the emotion gives it a name. Once something is identified it is a lot easier to process, appreciate, and let go. Then, just focus on breathing, nothing else. Let all thoughts pass.

• Do this for each other as well because sometimes we all just need a little help.

• When the other person is speaking, stay silent. Don’t blurt out responses and don’t answer questions. If it’s a question you get, just nod or explain that you don’t have the answer right now. Mostly, just let them talk.

• Determine what you need to say goodbye. Preferably before the birth, but if it comes too soon, take a moment and a breath and think about what it means to say goodbye. Then do it.

I am no counselor, but that’s how I am managing my grief. It helps. A lot.

After I held her and said goodbye, things got lighter. Not better, just lighter—like when you’re in a tug of war match you can’t win, so you just let go of the rope. You don’t win, but you aren’t hurting yourself in a futile match.

But as with many things, goodbye is just the beginning. The hits keep coming, whether it’s the morning nurse asking us if we wanted to see her one last time, the questions from others about what went wrong, the truly on point expressions of sympathy, the surprise remembrance gifts, or the sight of the teddy bear in a casket placed with her cremated remains, the hits keep coming. But they are easier because I got to say goodbye, my way.

The hardest sights are watching Maria grieve. That will never be easy. Maria holding Blair in a yellow swaddle, singing to her. Maria kneeling at the casket and crying uncontrollably. At the cemetery in front of the casket placed on the table, Maria kneeling with our daughters and crying while trying to explain to them that their sister was there and it was time to say goodbye. I don’t think those will ever get easier to think about and yet I am grateful to experience them. They are a part of my family story and something that gives me a deeper understanding of my own humanity.

In supporting each other, we saw how all grief is not the same. In grief, you are alone—although we both experience it, we process it differently. It’s okay to have feelings. It’s ok to have lapses. Sometimes, there are things you can’t do. When you let the moment pass, talking it over closes the gap. It helps us understand where our limits are and what we can do. Early on, there were times when I needed someone else to watch our girls or I had to let Maria grieve alone. I just couldn’t be there. I was too angry or too sad or too lost in thought. But we communicated and we listened. It’s all that we can do.

Since the burial, I’ve been back to her grave a few times. I went once on my own. I just needed to. My mom had the kids. I dropped off Maria at an appointment and just went. It helped. A lot.

I also treat everyday as practice. I am practicing to get back my stamina and my focus. I let others know at work — hey, right now I am just practicing. I will get there, but not yet. This attitude, along with letting others know, alleviates a lot of pressure to perform like I used to perform. And you know what, because of that, I seem to be functioning well. I’m getting there.

You know what else helps? Writing thank you notes to people who supported us. I haven’t gotten to everybody yet but the process has been helpful. So, I do it when I can.

Which is to say, you do just that — what you can.

I wish you that you never experience stillbirth, but if you do, I hope this helps and I wish you the best. Good luck.

- Nicholas Strohmayer