By Monica Novak –
When I was a child, I prided myself on making the best homemade cards to show my parents how important they were to me. Father’s Day was probably the Big Kahuna of card-making for me because in the eyes of this little girl, Daddy was king. He was the one whose side I sat by for all those workbench projects, eagerly waiting to hand over a tool. And he was the one whose shoulder I cried on during the disappointments and heartbreaks of life. Somehow, Dad was always able to make it feel better and bring a smile to my face.
But 1995 would demand something different from all the fathers in my life. Just one day after a large family Father’s Day celebration which included my husband, Al–the father of our 2-year-old and another baby due that same week-my father, Terry, and my grandfather, “Papa,” our daughter Miranda was delivered stillborn. How would these men respond to something so tragic and so completely out of their control?
In the hours surrounding the news of our baby’s in-utero death and her delivery, Al and I clung to each other sobbing and saying goodbye to Miranda. I had never seen him cry before and have never seen him cry since her memorial service held four days later. Although I carried her for nine months, I knew he loved her just as deeply as I did, writing this poem for Alex, our 2-year-old daughter, (something I had never known him to do) as one of the ways he struggled to come to terms with what was happening.
Usually when I walk into a room, everyone calls my name and wants to play.
Not today.
Everyone is sad.
Why is everyone so sad?
Did everyone get an “owie”?
Or maybe they have to go to bed early.
Now, that is sad.
Mommy is in a funny bed and will not hold me.
She’s not talking very loud.
She’s sad.
Why is everyone so sad?
I woke up today at Grandma & Grandpa’s house.
That was nice, but why am I here?
They’re sad.
Why is everyone so sad?
Daddy holds me extra tight and kisses me a lot.
His tears fall into my hair.
He is sad.
Why is everyone so sad?
Mommy’s tummy is not big anymore.
Where’s the baby she said was in there?
Now I’m sad.
I guess it’s okay to be sad.
My father and mother were there with me in the hospital at a critical moment as I made the difficult decision to ask for Miranda’s body to be brought to me again. “I really miss her. I didn’t get to spend enough time with her,” I cried. “Why don’t you call Candy to bring her up?” Dad said. “This might be your last chance. We’ll be here with you.”
A few minutes later, nurse Candy came in pushing a bassinet. Trembling, I watched the small round figure move towards me, wrapped in a receiving blanket and wearing a tiny white hat with a pink ball on top, just like the one Alex wore the day she was born. She warned me that Miranda was still cold, but would warm up a bit. She carefully picked her up, laid her in my arms and then slipped out of the room.
“Oh, my poor baby. Why couldn’t you have held on a little longer?” I asked her, rocking back and forth. My mom and dad sat on each side of my bed, wrapping their arms around me and Miranda. “It hurts so much,” I cried out loud. My dad hugged me tighter. “I wish I could take the hurt away, but I can’t, so I’ll just cry with you,” he said in my ear.
My grandpa, almost always uplifting and joyful, was there for me at the memorial service with a smile on his face, one of his special hugs, and a twinkle in his blue eyes. After the service, as we walked down the stairs and headed for our cars, I was unaware that my 89-year-old grandfather had walked out behind me, crying uncontrollably. I had never seen Papa cry and I suppose he wanted to keep it that way.
Papa was a veteran of this thing called death. His mother died when he was six, he lived through the Great Depression, countless wars, and at his age, had buried enough family and friends to fill a cemetery; attending a funeral was a weekly event for him, yet here he was sobbing for a little baby girl he’d never laid eyes on.
Miranda would be turning fourteen this June 20th, one day before Father’s Day. Through the years, these three fathers haven’t talked about her as much as I, my daughters, and the women in my life have, but I know they hold her in their hearts.
Every year, when we would sing Happy Birthday to Miranda with our three daughters, I never really knew what Al was thinking or feeling as his face intently watched the girls, but suspected he was silently communing with his fourth daughter who never got to call him Daddy or make him a Father’s Day card.
Then, a few years ago I came across a copy of a letter Al had written to a group of men he had just befriended on a Christian men’s retreat. He talked about losing his daughter Miranda, and how he never doubted that God was with him during that time, and that somehow he kept his faith. He felt that he was being called to be a strong-willed man who could offer comfort to others in need. I think he was, in his own way, acknowledging that Miranda had helped her dad to grow and realize what he was capable of.
Sometime shortly after Miranda’s death, my dad put together a framed copy of a quote he had read in When Hello Means Goodbye, the booklet I was given in the hospital. Amidst the photos on his desk of all his grandkids sits a black 8×10 framed print that reads:
Miranda Blair Novak
June 20th 1995
Hold Close These Moments For We Shall Always Live By Remembering
He later told me that he realized early on he could not let this little girl get out of his mind and has looked at her name every day for fourteen years. Just this weekend it occurred to him to ask me for her picture so his collection of the grandkid photos would be complete.
Two years after Miranda died, my Papa made his transition from this life. Since then, several spiritual teachers have told me and my mother on separate occasions that they see a man fitting the description of my Papa holding hands with a young brown-haired girl wearing a dress. My mother has had the same dream about Papa and Miranda. And in both the visions and the dreams, the two are smiling and dancing joyfully.
Though Miranda’s physical presence was here for but a moment, the spirit of our daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter lives on in the hearts of the dads who love her, and through them makes this world a better place.
Portions of this article were excerpted from The Good Grief Club: A True Story About the Power of Friendship and French Toast.
Monica Novak is the author of The Good Grief Club, a memoir about her friendships with six other women that carried them through the ups and downs of grief following the loss of their babies in miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death. She also serves as editor of Open to Hope’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss page. For more information about her book, and for pregnancy loss and infant death resources, please visit her website at www.thegoodgriefclub.com or e-mail her at monica@thegoodgriefclub.com.
Tags: grief, hope
