To my husband

I was deep in labor when we found out.  I was 8 centimeters, quickly progressing to 10, when we heard the news.  You were by my side, all settled from bringing in the load from the car.  We were ready to stay a while.  You brought some comforts from home to have at the hospital while we welcomed our baby into the world during her first days.  I was screaming from contraction pain and you were holding my left hand.  We were both surrounded by sheer chaos but you stood by me, like a calm mountain of strength.  Then we heard the words.  We were both stabbed by disbelief. 

“Doctor, how serious is this?” you asked.  I was in total denial and didn’t have the courage to ask the question.

“Very.  She’s gone,” the doctor said.

It hit you instantly.  Your tears.  Your sobs.  You nearly fell to the ground, but my hospital bed caught you.  You collapsed on its railing.  I saw the strength inside you snap and your body crumble.  At that moment I saw how much you loved her.  A piece of you died then.  I saw it go.  I saw it slip out of you like a ghost and float away.  I’m not sure what it was that left you, but I knew that you would be forever changed and that your heart would always ache for her. 

But then you were strong again.  You stood by me and gave me the strength to birth our daughter.  Your voice hit my ear, your face so close, almost touching it.  “We need to get the baby out,” you said slowly and powerfully.  “Push,” you said deeply. 

I’ll never forget that night.  Your call to your dad saying, “This is the call,” with a smile on your face, totally ignorant to the fact that your next call would be saying the words, “We lost her,” in between gasps. 

I’ll never forget looking at you as you held our daughter and saw your love pour over her.  I don’t know if you know this, but you were swaying when you held her.  Even in her death you wanted to comfort her.  Your calm embrace quieted the room and your warm tears met her cool skin.  I’ll never forget you calling the funeral homes hours after her arrival sobbing, “I just want to bring her home as soon as possible.”

We left the hospital holding her in our hearts instead of in our hands and I’m sorry you became a father of two this way.  You are so strong, loving, and deeply caring - as much to our deceased child as to our living.  Your love is a gift and I’m honored to walk with you on this journey of life, even though it is a path we had never wished to walk.