When my partner, Sarah, discovered she was pregnant in December 2017, I was filled with a whirlwind of emotions. Would I feel joy? Fear? Would I be able to embrace this new role as a father? The anticipation of becoming a parent in August 2018 brought about a mix of excitement and overwhelming anxiety.
Being open with my emotions has never been my strong suit. I often find it challenging to express vulnerability, which made the idea of fatherhood all the more daunting. It took me years to propose to Sarah, and even longer to openly express my love for her. Now, I was expected to love a child I had yet to meet—a child who would demand my time, energy, and resources like never before. I questioned whether I was ready for this significant change.
Tragically, our journey took a heartbreaking turn when we lost the pregnancy. I found myself grappling with the reality of what could have been. In the realm of pregnancy, the physical and emotional burdens often fall more heavily on the woman. For me, the concept of parenthood felt abstract. I understood that something was growing inside Sarah, but I struggled to fully comprehend its implications.
Sarah, on the other hand, felt like a mother from the moment of conception, grappling with her own fears about love and attachment. When I asked her if she shared any of my anxieties, she expressed her concerns about the overwhelming love that awaited us. This only amplified my own fears.
As the due date approached, I hoped that with time, my feelings would solidify. Perhaps feeling the baby’s kicks or seeing its development would ease my worries. Unfortunately, that opportunity was taken from us.
On April 13, 2018, during a routine 20-week anatomy scan, our world changed. Amidst my apprehension, I never could have anticipated the doctor’s words: “We have a problem.” The heartbreaking news revealed that our baby had a lethal genetic abnormality, unrelated to the balanced translocation that had previously caused us heartache. It was pure misfortune—a mutation occurring in 1 in 35,000 pregnancies, and we were the unfortunate ones.
The loss felt profound, encompassing not just the child we would never meet, but also the dreams and future we had envisioned. At first, I didn’t feel the loss of a child, likely due to my emotional defenses. But as time passed, I began to confront the depth of my grief.
On July 13, 2018, three months after receiving the devastating diagnosis, Sarah and I planted two flowers at our front door—a tribute to our lost children. Each plant contained two bulbs, symbolizing our four lost hopes and dreams, along with one bulb for our enduring hope.
Though we intended to wait until birth to learn the baby’s gender, we instead asked our IVF doctor to write it down for us. As we honored our losses with the flowers, we opened the envelope to discover we would have had a daughter.
Reflecting on what could have been is a heavy burden. Thoughts of missed milestones—braiding her hair, attending recitals, and sharing father-daughter dances—often flood my mind. It’s easy to be consumed by the reality of our loss, and at times, I do succumb to that despair. However, as time has progressed, my perspective has shifted. Our daughter was a part of our lives for 20 precious weeks. She experienced moments with us, from Sarah’s Barre classes to my March Madness basketball games. She brought us hope, love, and joy.
Though we will never meet in this life, she remains my daughter, and I will always cherish that bond. For those navigating similar experiences, resources such as this article offer valuable information on pregnancy and insemination. Additionally, if you’re interested in exploring more about the journey of home insemination, check out articles like this one for further insights.
In conclusion, while grief may never fully fade, the love we have for our daughter endures, defining our journey as parents.