A letter to my daughter on the occasion of her birth.

Hello Helen,

I was wondering how it would feel to write to you. Would it be morbid? Or creepy? Or vain? I don’t really have an answer. I’m just rattling off words here. You were supposed to be born this week. And up until yesterday I thought I was holding it together reasonably well. Then your aunt Jennifer called to tell us she was pregnant, which is great news…but her timing could probably have been a little better.

To tell you the truth, I think most people have forgotten about what happened. Or that’s how it feels anyway. I guess it’s just one of those things that I think people can see as plain as day, because I carry it around with me all the time.

Do you know I can’t eat flavoured pretzels anymore? They were a part of a condolence basket that some people in your mother’s office sent to the house. I was eating some and all of a sudden I knew that if I ever had flavoured pretzels again I would only think of losing you.

I hate that story. But it sticks to me and I can’t forget it.

You have a song. (I have a song for everyone. It’s not something I do intentionally; it’s just a thing that seems to happen.)

Your mother’s song is So Sober by The Trews. Yours is Words & Fire by Sam Roberts. I’m keeping it Canadian I guess. I heard it when I started jogging after you passed away. I started crying in the middle of some unpaved road in the middle of Haliburton and I knew then that it would be your song. It pops up on my iPod from time to time and I’ll stare morosely at the wall for a bit, or if I’m alone I might tear up some.

For some reason I take a small modicum of comfort from the fact that a song reminds me of you, but absolutely none when I have the same recollection to a piece of food.

I’ll be happy to see the backside of 2012.

To first lose your great-grandfather and then you, it’s been more than I can take at times. I tend to react to bad news by barricading myself in a room and just being alone. (Its glorious) Unfortunately I don’t get to that anymore so I’ve had to find other outlets for my grief. I’ve been trying to pick up writing again. I was laying down a page or so every couple of days before we got the news and I’m trying to get back in the swing of things again. I’ve been exercising more. Being physically exhausted means I don’t have to feel so goddamn much.

And for a while there I thought I’d throw myself into work. I applied for my boss’ job and for a couple months I thought the position was mine for the taking. Getting the job was a really handy escape; I had lots of idea of what we could do differently. Unfortunately the position was filled by someone else and once again I felt like I had the rug pulled out from under me.

I put a lot of myself into trying to land that job, and without it I feel devoid of purpose. I badly need something to work towards, a reason for going through all this. Something just for me. Will it be writing? I sure hope so.

Because I think having a purpose would go a long way to filling up the emptiness that’s inside me. (I rewrote the previous sentences half a dozen times trying to come up with a way of expressing that sentiment without sounding so goddamn emo.) I just want something to strive towards, something to work for. And to be honest I don’t know what that is. I know the answer won’t just appear to me out of thin air, but I don’t even know the first step towards figuring it all out.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you right now.

Love,

Dad

Portishead - Roads

Amanda Palmer - The Killing Type

Words and Fire

Getting out bed for the past three weeks has been a challenge. I wake up and in those first brief moments, when my brain is flopping around trying to find its bearings, everything is okay. But of course reality slides in pretty quickly and the ache in my chest always reappears.


Miserable doesn’t begin to cover it.

I spent two days in the hospital with my wife delivering a child we knew was going to be dead at its birth. It was the worst experience I have ever gone through. It was like some kind of awful mirror universe parody of the birth of our first child. There was none of the giddiness or excitement, none of the anticipation and joy. It was just a hideous mockery of that first event. Every aspect of those two days was steeped in dread and misery, every milestone clouded by the awful truth of what awaited us.

I’d seen pictures of babies born as early as ours was and I thought that I was as emotionally prepared as I could be for something like this. But when you hold something that small and tiny in your hands I don’t think it’s really possible to be prepared for the emotions and thoughts that flood through you.

Worst of all, the hits just kept on coming. Every time I thought I’d gotten control of my emotions, locked down what I was feeling, something else would happen and I’d be reduced to a mess all over again. The body grew cold, we took pictures, they took her away. Every step was just more salt poured in the wounds.

It was a girl. We named her, Helen Christina. A name from each of our own. A way of giving her a piece of ourselves.

I cried like a baby. Uncontrollably. Which was incredibly uncomfortable experience, almost shameful, for me because I don’t like outward displays of emotion. Reserved and controlled is pretty much my bailiwick.

I’d never come from an overly macho household. My parents were fairly open and accepting of any emotional response. But I’ve never seen my father cry. Not once. Despite the knocks and bumps that all of us take in life I’ve seen my father keep it together each and every time.

Maybe behind closed doors he lets it all out, just like the rest of us, but if anyone else was present he was always tough and in control. I envy his strength.

When we got home we were done. Emotionally, physically, mentally. By any measurement of the human condition you care to examine, we were just gone.

In a sense our two year old has been a blessing and a curse. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. Oh, she can tell something is different, but she still wants to go to the park, or play in her wading pool. And, she still needs to eat, have her teeth brushed and take a bath every night. Which means we still need to behave like fully functioning adults and provide all those things for her. Her very presence forces us to keep on keeping on.

But it also means there’s no time, to grieve, to cope, to process.

We’re putting everything we have into our daughter and nothing into ourselves. We just carry our hurt around with us like luggage and every so often something will poke at it, a reference on a TV show or a song, and pop, the clasp springs open and all our emotions come rushing out.

Sam Roberts-Words & Fire

Coping.

A Letter.

A week ago today the bottom fell out of my world. We were called into our doctor’s office to talk about the results of some of the blood work your mother had done a couple weeks previous. We were told that there was an abnormal reading, that the test showed a positive result for spina bifidia and that we would have to go and get an emergency ultrasound in order to determine if everything was all right.

Everything was not all right.

Doctor Dave assured us that everything was going to be fine. “False positives happen all the time,” he said, “with a reading this high it has to be a mistake.” We had an hour or so to kill before our ultrasound appointment so we went and got some lunch. It was a pretty somber affair. Going to lunch just gave us something to stop our minds from constructing nightmare scenarios. Your mother and I talked to each other, tried to buoy each other’s spirits, tried to take the edge off the black cloud that had crept over us both.

I hate the place where we went to get the ultrasound. I’ve sat in on a couple ultrasounds now and this place always makes me wait outside like a naughty child while they do the imaging. They call me in after the whole thing is over and run me through the highlights. Of course, that’s great if everything is routine but it gnaws away at your chest when you’re waiting the outcome of what could be terrible news. I much prefer the other ultrasound place on College Street that lets me see what’s happening every step of the way.

They kept your mother in the examination room for an hour and a half, about three times longer than they expected to. At the end they didn’t bother to ask me to come in, they just sent your mother out and said to call our doctor in an hour or so for the results.

I knew then that the news was going to be bad.

I went back to the office to try and distract myself with work but I wasn’t very successful. I met up with your mother again shortly after to check on the results and all I could do was listen to her half of the conversation over the telephone and slowly watch her fall apart. It was our very worst fear come to life.

No one should have to listen to the anguish of a parent getting such terrible news. No one should have to listen to well-meaning doctors try and put the best possible spin on the situation. No one should be a prisoner of their own mind as it turns over endless scenarios in your skull, relentlessly prosecutes you for a million unrelated sins and refuses to let yourself just shut down and ignore the whole thing altogether.

I am sad that I will never get to know you the way I know your big sister. All the milestones and achievements and happiness that she has brought into our life will be denied to you and me and that breaks my heart. And as bad as things are now I know that there are still darker times ahead. I have to keep reminding myself that as unhappy as I am at this moment it’s important that I be there for your mother. She is the one who is bearing the brunt of all this. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain she is feeling.

I don’t want you to think that just because there is so much sadness attached to what is happening now that I love you any less. There is a place for you in my heart and even though I’ll only know you for a very short time I promise to treasure every second of it.

You will never be forgotten. You will always be loved.

Dad.

Writer

I’ve decided to start writing again.

I pop my head up periodically to make that statement and then slink away quietly after a couple weeks of spinning my wheels.

I have the best of intentions but my follow through sucks. There’s an extensive laundry list of why my plan never sticks. I usually blame it on life getting busy and time being short, but really those are just handy excuses to explain my fear of failure.

I let myself put writing aside because after four years of studying all day and working all night I wanted to have a little fun. Then not writing because the status quo and I found other things to fill the time I used to devote to writing. Later on, when I tried to go back I started to second guess myself and fretted that I didn’t have the chops to be a writer. I was so rusty that when I compared my work to that of my colleagues and my friends I was painfully aware of its short comings.

I was held back by doubt.

I told myself that writing would always be there for me when I had the time to devote to it. Nearly ten years later I realize just how effectively I’ve been lying to myself, convincing my vanity that the fault for my lack of output lay in circumstances beyond my control, when really I should have been taking a closer look at myself.

After co-opting a fellow lapsed writer and printing off a copy of HEINLEIN’S RULES FOR WRITING, by way of Robert Sawyer, I’ve made a promise to myself write again.

But I’m going to let myself be a terrible writer first.

I’m going to clear the cobwebs out of my brain and let out a couple of the ideas that are rattling around inside of my thinking meats. And I’m going to finish them. Then, I’m going to forgive myself for writing them so badly.

After which I’m going to pick up my pen (laptop) and try again. I may find that I’m a poor writer, although I’m hoping to at least be able to achieve the dubious status of mediocre.

But the point is I’m going to follow through. And if I suck and fail, well, at least I’ll be able to say I tried. I’m not quite sure how that’s better than deluding myself into thinking I’m a great writer with poor time management skills but it is.

This is something I really want, and I finally realized that fact in time to put the work into it.