Member Stories
From the depths of sorrow, to finding peace and hope, our members have so much they want to share about this unexpected journey we are on...
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It’s been a couple of years since my son was stillborn, and I can still vividly remember the fog of grief and uncertainty about the future that I felt in the following weeks and months. My wife’s pregnancy was abruptly and unexpectedly over, and our hopes and dreams for our future with Calvin died along with him. Life felt both overwhelming and pointless. It was hard to focus. It was hard to look forward to anything. I was so angry that this terrible thing had happened to us. Why us?
More than anything else, I remember the isolation. While he was so real to me, Calvin was an abstract concept to nearly everyone else. Few people other than a handful of family members and friends came close to understanding what we had lost. Some gave unhelpful platitudes, or would ask how my wife was doing and ignore how I was doing. Most either avoided the subject or avoided me completely because they didn’t know what to say. On my first day back at work, only three people in my office of forty talked to me at all. I felt the expectation to grieve quickly and then move on. Either be okay, or pretend to be okay. The world didn’t stop just because mine did. Support group was a place of refuge. For one night a month, I could talk about my son with people who acknowledged that he existed. I was allowed to be sad, angry, proud, jealous, or whatever else I wanted to feel. I could share pictures of him. I could talk about my experiences with people who actually understood because they had similar experiences. By going to support group, I realized that even though I felt isolated in my regular life, I wasn’t alone. Gradually, the fog lifted and I was able to move forward. Life didn’t get back to normal, but a new normal emerged. I came to understand that nothing in life was guaranteed, which helped me better appreciate each moment and each day, and to live life on life’s terms. I learned that by focusing on the things in life I had influence over, I was better able to avoid stressing about the things out of my control. I recognized the vital importance of having a community of people supporting each other during life’s difficult moments. In the years since, my wife and I have continued to keep Calvin’s memory alive by remaining engaged with the loss community. We attended a retreat with other grieving families at Faith’s Lodge. We have participated in numerous BPoM events and found new friends. I have especially enjoyed the camping and bonfire events where I could specifically connect with other dads. My wife found meaning by being a community volunteer for the HUGS program. In fall 2019, I was proud to testify along with dozens of my peers at the State Capitol in support of a bill that would create an income tax credit for parents of stillbirths. I didn’t know it at the time, but the crushing weight of grief that I felt in the beginning would eventually give way to pride, meaning, and purpose. If you are early in your journey of grief, please know that you have a community of people ready to walk that journey with you. You are not alone. Life will get better again. Brian C., Calvin’s Dad
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Coming down is hard
The further you’ve built it up Knowing what you’ve got left There is no way to know You’ve poured everything you had Into a little distilment of you A fulfillment of all you dreamed Nobody should have to go Through what we do Bleak times they fade so slow How are we to know What it means to be so high The lowest you will go You never can define Never remaining Pulling us on down The moments you’ve got left There is no way to know You’ve poured everything you had Into a little distilment of you A fulfillment of all you dreamed Nobody should have to go Through what we do Bleak times they fade so slow You’ve poured everything you had Into a little distilment of you A fulfillment of all you dreamed Nobody should have to go Through what we do Bleak times they fade so slow ~ Song written by Zach, father of Theodore and Holden [On] October 1, 1991 — our son, Stefan James Teigland Narum, died. He lived for 12 days.
To say Stefan lived 12 days is not quite right. He was with his mother for nine months, and his relationship with her was both loving and intimate. And everything was fine for those nine months…until the moment it wasn’t. And then the world as we knew it fell apart. There’s not enough time or pages to contain the thoughts of those twelve days Betsy and I had with our second child, and the journey of grief following. Five years later I would complete a masters thesis on perinatal bereavement for my marriage and family therapy degree. Looking back, I suppose I was trying to help others, but maybe with all that writing and talking I was really just trying to get my head around what happened to our son and to us his parents. Grief includes seeking to understand, but we don’t move forward because we finally receive some answers, but because we’re finally able to live with the questions. The death of a child is every parent’s greatest fear. I recently turned 60, and I would’ve gladly stopped at 31 and given my remaining years to Stefan. I wasn’t offered that option, as many bereaved parents know…as you may well know if you’ve had a similar experience. We grieved Stefan while we also cared for Ingrid. For parents whose first child dies, they wonder what it means to be a parent when their hello also means goodbye. For us, our little 2-1/2 year-old daughter gave us solace and hope. But we were sad for her, too. What is unique about perinatal death is that we parents don’t have a story to tell, we have no joyful pictures to share. With Stefan are no happy memories, and his only home was an isolette in the NICU at UM Hospital in Minneapolis. When a baby dies it’s the loss of what could have been, what might have been and, yes, what we feel should have been. Nevertheless, those 12 days were the most honest and real days I have ever lived. Life, and what’s most dear, was never clearer. And those 12 days are 12 more than some parents get. We were grateful for every moment we had with Stefan, for the time his grandparents and aunts and uncles had to meet him. Grieving parents say there’s a hole in their heart with their child’s name on it. This is a sacred space, a holy emptiness, not to be filled in this lifetime. To all you parents who have experienced the death of a child, I am profoundly sorry. I do not know what you went through, because that experience and relationship is uniquely yours. Though Stefan’s life was not filled with joyful moments, it was filled with love. We are grateful to have met him, held him, and in the goodbye let him know there’s a love that will bring us together again. May that promise and the hope sustain us all. —Peter Narum, Stefan’s dad (and also Ingrid’s & Soren’s dad!) This piece has been edited from its original format with the author’s permission. Written initially as a devotional, we would be happy to share the unedited version with you. Please email [email protected]. |
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We are taking submissions for articles to share in our monthly e-newsletter. We believe it is healing for parents to share their experiences and valuable for the both community to relate and professionals to gather a better understanding. AuthorEach of these stories was featured in an e-newsletter and distributed to parents and professionals in our community. We hope that parents reading these stories will feel less alone and that the caregivers and professionals that we trust can learn from our experiences. Archives
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