Speechless

i am not quite sure how to start this, but i figure that i should start somewhere and let it flow from there.

a week ago, on march 29, my son, Soren Emery, was born. his birth was the most frightening and saddest moment of my life.

the morning of the 29th i drove my wife to the birth center full of excitement and hope that i would soon meet my son. the night of the 29th was spent in hell, in the intensive care unit with my wife J seriously ill and my son gone forever.

just before Soren was born, J had a seizure and does not remember his birth or what happened immediately afterwards. i was in the room for the end of the seizure and his birth. i already knew that my son had been lost. in that moment i thought that i might lose J as well. the hospital staff were able to stabilize J and she came through okay. the memory of that half hour is still far too fresh and traumatic.

the first night was spent in the ICU with J. the nursing staff at the hospital were tremendously kind. they dressed Soren in some of the clothes J had brought to bring him home and brought him to us, so we could spend the night with him in our room. a photographer from NILMDTS came and took pictures of us with Soren. i looked at the pictures for the first time an hour or two ago. it was tremendously difficult but brought such joy to my heart to see my beautiful son again.

we don't have any real answers yet as to what happened. we may never get conclusive, hard truth about the chain of events that led to this. that would be difficult to accept, but that challenge is down the road a bit.

right now my agenda is about taking care of J and myself the best i can. i am pretty task oriented and doing things like starting this blog, making arrangements for Soren's service, and even doing yard work for her mom feel like progress. but there is a whole emotional side that i am just scratching the surface of. numbness for a good part of the time. sadness, yes - more like a overwhelming heaviness of the heart that casts my shoulders low and my eyes downward. anger at our care providers. guilt. fear about the future and whether i will ever become a parent to a surviving child. stress and upset at dealing with our families, mine and J's, for different reasons.

what i told someone in the first couple of days afterwards was that there were two ways of looking at it. the first was that this had stolen my chance at becoming a father, of watching my son grow strong and tall and teaching him many things. the second is that i was a father and will always be a father to Soren Emery, that i will always carry him in my heart and he will teach me how to be a parent. the first way is how i feel, the second way is what i try to tell myself.