Dreams that will go unfulfilled, recognised on father’s day.

Otherwise known as, “A letter too my son”.

For anyone walking in on this post, a short background.

After years of struggling with and fighting with health and life conditions that rendered the idea of getting pregnant irresponsible, or impossible, my amazing wife fell pregnant. It was, perhaps, one of the very happiest moments of her life to discover she was pregnant. I can’t think of a time I have seen her happier.
The pregnancy was, to put it mildly, hellish torture. And yet, she endured with what was, I have little doubt, far better grace than I would have mustered.

That brings us (too gloss over a LOT of details) too April 16th, 2015. A regular obgyn visit. The OB discussed with us, the recommendation for induction at 38 weeks (we were at the cusp of 34/35 weeks now) to avoid the risk of unexplained stillbirth.
Listened to bub’s heartbeat (we did not know gender yet, our choice), and went home, routine non-stress test the next day.
The 17th, in for N.S.T. And like usual, bub seems to be dodging the sensors. new nurse, nada, OB on call summoned with ultrasound equipment…. No heartbeat, no bloodflow, no movement. It’s dead.

The short-short version is, our son died April 17th, and was born April 20th.

We named him Hoban Dax James.

The grief counsellor I am seeing suggested writing s letter to him for father’s day. Making it publically accessible, that was my idea.

FYI folks. While I normally welcome all responses on my posts and screen only to weed out spam and be sure I don’t miss any. I am going to moderate the hell out of this one. Anyone who has an issue with that can kiss my furry arse.

So, without further ado.

Son. We don’t stand on ceremony here. As my son, you have permission, more, expectation, to talk straight with your family. Respect is not a bunch of rituals, nor special words or manners. Honesty is respect. I am Australian, and as such, you are half Aussie yourself. That carries with it certain cultural quirks, such that I will endeavour to teach you.

The first is, that fucking political bloody correctness is complete and utter bullshit. All it does is give bigotry camouflage. Always speak your intent clearly, choose your words carefully, and be ready to both back-up and/or revise your opinion. Never, but NEVER be afraid of a word. And never let others’ fear of language keep you from being clear.

That said, people who are prudish about language, usually have little to know idea how to use it. They will toss ‘bad words’ like hand grenades and hope that solves their problem. Don’t let these people off the hook.

So, fathers’ day. I’m really not good at this idea, my father was not someone worth celebrating, for many reasons. And your mother has a similar, if slightly different in details list about her male gene source. So, this whole father’s day thing, it’s alien to us. That said, I don’t ask or insist hat you slavishly follow any ritual. If you choose to mark or celebrate the day in some way, then I am gratified to know I am doing ok. If not, I will have to assume you have already shown me the respect of telling me why, so it must be something I either cannot fix, or something I choose to do that way, (in which case, I appologise for any hurt I cause you, but know I make decisions with reasons, even if sometimes that reason is, “I’m a jerk”).
Perhaps most importantly, celebrate or recognise it in whatever way you choose, don’t be bound by other’s expectations.

Now, if I’m honest, and with you I will always try to be, I will admit, that had you not died, you’d likely be about a month old now, give or take. And at this point, you wouldn’t yet be in the wheelhouse of times. I was looking forward too. I am eager for the time when you start answering back. The time when you start talking to the outside world, exchanging ideas, dabbling in philosophy, presenting and arguing ideas and opinions of your own.
Son, it’s time you knew, your father is a sapiophile. I love intelligence and the expression of it. I regret never being able to engage in discussions of the works of Kant, Russell, Harris and the like. The ability ro explore the world through new eyes, to teach you HOW to think then watch as you do just that.

I regret not getting to see your imagination grow and develop. Not being able to help nurture it in all the ways mine was not.

And in the meantime, I regret missing out on watching you grow into our family. All the unknowns you would teach us.

I regret not being able to share my favorite corners of this existence with you, my favorite hobbies, the hobbies you grow to love. Playing with lego, not much would have me crawling on the ground, but, as my son, you get special privileges. Role Playing Games, I looked forward to seeing what your imagination would make of it, my love of books and stories. Science, art, painting, table-top gaming, board games.

Awww hell, I’m sure you’d have got me outside playing sports even. And undoubtedly, you would have shown the old man up in pretty much every way….

A year ago, I was lackluster on the idea, you showed me a desire to teach some little human about the world. Thankyou.

I have other thoughts rolling around n this empty space I call a brain-pan. But they are pretty ephemeral still, maybe next year….


~ by scawalrus on June 10, 2015.

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