Trigger Warning: Pregnancy Loss
What would the experience be like? How would I feel? Would I feel anything at all? These questions swirled in my mind when my partner, Sarah, announced her pregnancy in December 2017, marking the start of my journey as a first-time father, anticipated for August 2018.
I wish I could say the news filled me with unbridled joy, and while there was some excitement, the overwhelming nature of it often left me feeling anxious. I’ve never been particularly adept at opening up or being vulnerable; my emotions sometimes felt as inaccessible as the tangled cords behind our entertainment center. In fact, it took me five and a half years to propose to Sarah, and an embarrassingly long time before I uttered the words “I love you.”
Now, I was tasked with loving this unborn child—this little one I had yet to meet—like I had never loved anyone before. The weight of this expectation was daunting, leaving me uncertain about my abilities as a father.
Then, tragedy struck. We lost Sarah’s pregnancy, and I was left wondering if I would ever truly understand what it meant to be a dad.
In matters of pregnancy, it’s clear that the woman faces the brunt of the emotional burden—but there’s one aspect where the male perspective differs. For me, the concept of parenthood felt abstract. I recognized that something was developing inside Sarah and understood our shared responsibility, yet the full impact of that realization was elusive. Conversely, from the moment of conception, Sarah embraced her role as a mother. She too had her fears; she grappled with how her heart could expand to accommodate this immense love without shattering.
As our due date approached, I clung to the hope that my anxieties would dissipate. Perhaps feeling the baby kick or moving beyond fruit-sized comparisons would bring clarity. Unfortunately, I never had that opportunity.
On April 13, 2018, we attended the 20-week anatomy scan. My concerns were palpable—not just because it was Friday the 13th. Over the past year and a half, Sarah had endured two miscarriages—one at 11 weeks and another just shy of seven—attributable to a chromosomal condition known as a balanced translocation. We thought we had mitigated that risk through IVF and PGS testing, believing we had implanted a healthy embryo. But fate had other plans.
I can hardly recall the doctor’s words after the four that no expectant parent wants to hear: “We have a problem.” The diagnosis was grim—our baby was affected by a lethal genetic abnormality, unrelated to the balanced translocation. It was simply bad luck, a mutation too rare for standard testing, occurring in just 1 in 35,000 pregnancies. And we were the unfortunate ones.
This loss was not just the death of a child; it felt like losing multiple dreams—the joy of parenthood, our hopes for the future, and the very essence of what could have been. Yet, strangely, it didn’t initially feel like losing a person. My emotional defenses, which often shielded me from vulnerability, held strong. But eventually, I could no longer hide from the pain.
On July 13, 2018, three months after the diagnosis, Sarah and I planted two flowers at our doorstep to honor our losses. Each plant contained two bulbs, representing our four lost children, and one bulb for hope. We had intended to wait until the birth to learn the baby’s gender, but with that day forever out of reach, we asked our IVF doctor to write it down and place it in an envelope alongside our ultrasound images.
As we planted the flowers, we shared brief eulogies before opening the envelope together—a somber gender reveal. We learned we would have had a girl.
It’s all too easy to dwell on what might have been—the hair I never got to braid, the piano recitals I missed, and the father-daughter dances that will never happen. I often find myself lost in thoughts of the future we were denied. Yet, as time passes, my perspective shifts. Our daughter was with us for 20 weeks; she accompanied Sarah in Barre class and watched March Madness with me. She brought us hope, love, and joy—traits inherent to all children.
Although we will never meet, she is and always will be my daughter. I will forever cherish my role as her father.
If you’re navigating a similar journey, consider exploring resources like this article for insights on pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, those interested in fertility may find these supplements helpful, as they are recognized for their authority on the subject. You can also check out this blog post for guidance on your fertility journey.
In summary, the experience of losing an unborn child is profoundly difficult, filled with complex emotions and reflections on what could have been. Despite the grief, there is also a recognition of the love and impact that child had during their brief time with us.
Keyphrase: coping with pregnancy loss
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