I Didn’t Understood My Father’s Grief Until I Lost My Child

Life can be the ultimate teacher.

When I was young, my dad took my sister and me to a swimming hole in Glen Ellen, CA while my mom stayed home with our toddler sister. Once we’d had our fill, my sister and I stayed in just our swimming suits as we traveled the windy road back home in my dad’s 1950 GMC pickup, the kind with a slippery bench seat and no seat belts. As my dad drove, we sat next to him and played a game that involved tickling. But when my sister went to tickle me, I jerked away, hitting the passenger door hard enough that it sprang open.

I was aware of everything — the feeling of weightlessness before I landed, watching my dad drive away, believing he’d never know I was gone and I’d be lost forever.

Watch any movie about an accident, and good cinematography will play the scene in slow motion. This is what it felt like as I sailed through air. I was aware of everything — the feeling of weightlessness before I landed, watching my dad drive away, believing he’d never know I was gone and I’d be lost forever. The whole event probably took place over a few seconds. But to me, minutes passed between the time I was launched from the truck to the moment I lay scraped up in the gravel as my dad continued down the road.

My dad rushed me home. I’d never ever seen him as emotional as he was, crying to my mom about the suddenness of it all. I was also amazed at how much I was shaking without even trying. “You’re in shock,” my mom explained.

Then it was off to the hospital where they picked tiny rocks out of my skin, one by one. They had been embedded in my face, my knees, my hands. I don’t remember that part. I do remember sitting in the room, naked and shivering, and that was what I was most concerned about. My front tooth was half gone, and my face remained scabbed for weeks. I was embarrassed to go anywhere, for anyone to see me. My dad still made me go to church, even though I wanted to hide until I healed.

He also never drove the truck again. It sat in our yard for years, a shiny white trophy that symbolized that fateful day. Eventually he sold it to two guys who came to our door and asked about it.

Fast forward a few decades.

I was pregnant with my third child, an unplanned pregnancy while my youngest was still in diapers and my oldest only in preschool. I was juggling work and caring for the kids, most of the parenting left to me since their dad worked longer hours. And I was burnt out. When I found out I was pregnant, I cried. He celebrated.

It took a few months, and I came around. We set up the baby’s room, thought up names, and wondered what he or she would be like. We found out he was a boy, and it all became even more real.

At 32 weeks, I went to a concert in San Francisco. I was amazed at how easy it was for me to move around, almost like I wasn’t 7 months pregnant. That night, I rested on the couch, my hand on my belly, and I realized I hadn’t felt the baby move all day. I drank some juice, which is what they tell you to do to stimulate movement in the baby, but it didn’t work.

The Friday before, I’d been working at my daughter’s preschool, and there was a moment when I felt a rapid succession of kicks, and then nothing. I’d been concerned in the moment, but dismissed it as being an overly nervous expectant mom.

Hours later, I held his lifeless body in my arms.

In the hospital, as the nurse told me my baby had died, I realized those rapid kicks were the last time I’d felt him move. Hours later, I held his lifeless body in my arms. I was 24 years old, the same age my oldest daughter is now, and my life was forever changed in the matter of a weekend.

Deepening my grief was the guilt over not wanting another child in the first place. Did I wish him away? Was it my fault he was gone?

I now know that’s not true. But back then, my grief and guilt sent me into a really dark place that stayed with me as I navigated the quick demise of our marriage, our eventual divorce, debilitating depression, and eventually, healing.

And over time, it made me realize what my dad was going through when I was 8 years old, lying on our kitchen floor full of scrapes and rocks.

As a mom, I’ve been in and out of emergency rooms more times than I’d have liked, thanks to two adventurous, accident-prone kids. But the fullest way I understand my dad’s anguish is through my own loss and the guilt that followed.

The day I fell out of the truck was an accident I got to walk away from. But now I know, my dad could only think about how close he came to losing me.

A few years ago, I wrote a poem about these two moments in time, tying my dad’s grief with my own in two different examples of helplessness as a parent. To close, I’d love to share it with you.

Wolf Howl

His wolf howl startled me as I lay on the tangerine floor covered in scrapes and stones while my mother dabbed my wounds.

He swore he’d sell that damn truck, the one with the gelatin seats and shoestring locks, and the lack of seat belts that allowed a little girl to soar through the air, then watch from the gravel as her dad drove away.

I didn’t understand his tears as my little body quivered on the sterile hospital table, shaking from the Popsicle metal and the drumbeat of my skin as they picked rocks from my face and knees and offered ocean wave whispers among my jellyfish cries.

I was confused by his promise that he’d never drive that truck again, and figured it was hard to give the buyer the keys, saying goodbye to the classic white trophy he’d cherished forever, or at least since before I was born.

But the day my womb emptied, my aching arms never filled, a wolf cry in my lungs, and my glass heart shattered, I knew he’d give away the moon if it meant his little girl would be safe

forever.

I don’t just write articles for Medium, I also write novels. My latest novel is For the Birds, a small town second chance romance.

Find me on Facebook or Instagram, website at crissilangwell.com.