I found myself asking my husband what he thought I should write about next. If there was something about grief or baby loss that he felt should be spoken about to better help and inform the world of.
His response was quick, “Talk about what it means for dads.”
And he’s absolutely right.
So many times, the focus and emphasis is put on the mother. After all, she is the one who carries the baby. She is the one who feels the tiniest of kicks, and the smallest of hiccups. She is the one who births the baby, who literally feels life inside of her. Surely, one would think she hurts most.
Nevertheless, it’s far from true. And believe me, it’s only because I’m living it that I have a clearer picture of what grief means for dads. Because after losing Julian, I was so wrapped up in my own sorrows, that there were times I forgot my husband was also hurting.
But dads grieve too. Boy, do they grieve. Maybe not in the same way, maybe not at the exact same moments, but they sure as hell do. My husband is no exception.
If anyone has the pleasure of knowing Dan, then you’re well aware of his gentle and loving heart, his passiveness, his incredible ability to care and give to others (and the list can literally go on and on). We’ve been together for almost 14 years, married for almost 9 and I can whole heartedly say that my love for him is beyond measure and grows with each passing day. His choice of a social work career path is enough to speak volumes to the type of man he is. But to truly know him, means so much more. There isn’t anyone else who I can think of that has a heart as big as his and loves as deep as he does.
And as we learned the hard way, the greater the love, the more profound the grief.
Aside from myself, my husband is literally the only other person on this planet who feels what I feel, saw what I saw, held what I held, in Julian’s final moments. That’s more than enough reason to recognize a father’s grief.
But we certainly do grieve differently.
I’m more open, wear my emotions on my sleeve and much more vocal about Julian’s loss.
My husband isn’t.
It makes sense in a way, seeing as our personalities are also different. I’m more of the outgoing, talkative type, and my husband is quieter and more laid back.
But it doesn’t mean he isn’t grieving just because he doesn’t let the world know as I have chosen to do.
And I’ve had to remind myself this in the very beginning when we first lost Julian.
Being the more vocal type, I kept talking about it, sharing my feelings and his story with others. Dan didn’t.
I kept breaking down and crying, in front of our sons, alone in Julian’s room. Dan didn’t.
I kept talking about triggers and how certain things were so difficult for me to get through. Dan didn’t.
Finally, one day I couldn’t take it and just screamed, “Talk to me! What are your feelings?”
Only then did he break down. That’s when he told me how he keeps it all inside. That there are so many times he’s on the verge of losing it but then he looks at me, and knows he has to be the stronger one. That if he breaks down too, who will be there to comfort me? If he talked about certain things, would that stress me out more? Would it make me cry harder?
Wow. No. No. No.
That is not how I want him to feel. I want him to be free of his feelings and emotions. I want him to tell me his thoughts. So we talked, and cried, and held each other for a long time in the midst of our sorrows.
The thing is, the world is so quick to ask the mother how she’s doing, how she is coping, and the father gets left on the sidelines. It’s the way society is. It depicts that men should be the stronger ones, the ones who take care of the mother, the one who doesn’t crack or show they’re hurting. He himself thought this was how he should be.
But he lost a child too.
The poem you see as my image, was the exact poem given to him at our very first “Hope After Loss” meeting we attended just three weeks after Julian’s passing.
I was frantically longing for someone to connect with. Fortunately, no one around me ever lost a baby; they couldn’t understand what I was feeling. And while their comfort was much needed, I longed to unite with someone who just understood the emptiness and brokenness I was feeling. That’s when “Hope After Loss” was recommended.
I asked my husband to come with me. He didn’t want to at first but told me he would certainly come to the first one. I told him maybe it could be good for him and he told me he didn’t need to go, that it just wasn’t for him.
Upon walking in, I quickly noticed he was the only guy.
Great, this will really validate what he said and surely, he’ll never want to come back.
As we made our way to our seats, Dan was handed the poem. By the end of the meeting, he looked at me and said, “I want to come back.”
I was overjoyed. I asked him what changed his mind and he told me it was nice to be around people who just get it. He liked listening to other stories and knowing we’re not alone.
Then he asked if I read the poem, which I hadn’t yet. He looked at me with tears and said, “It’s so true.”
After reading it myself a light went off and my heart shattered at the same time. My husband, who felt, heard, saw all the same things as I, didn’t nearly get checked on, asked about, or talked to as much as I did. This poem rang so true for him, and as happy as I was that he was able to make a connection, I couldn’t help but feel sad that this man has felt the need to take on so much of my weight on top of his. And part of society expects him to.
But we can change that.
So, if I ever cross your mind enough to utter the words to ask how I am, or enough to send me a message, do me a favor and think of him too. I can guarantee you that the odds of him hurting inside are pretty high. He may not say much, he may not say anything at all, but I can tell you to be thought of and to acknowledge his grief, will sure mean a hell of a lot.
Because when all is said and done, he lost his child, just as much as I lost mine.
