Dusting off an old hat

Today, my dear Anya, you would be 12 years old. This is the eleventh time I sit down on the morning of December 19th, under the gloomy grey skies and quiet beauty of a new winter arriving, and that I make the time to write to you, to think of you, and to put on this hat that I've rarely been able to wear over the years: Being your dad.

The year 2025 was a very special one for our family. We took months off of work, in part to go adventure together as a family and to see the beauty of everything that's out there in the world. But one of the other important things I wanted to use this time for was to fulfill a dream I've had for years. The dream of putting on that hat to properly document this journey we've been on together within a book, in order to make our story more accessible and maybe offer a bit of hope for those who are at the start of their own journeys. 

I set out to write this book in three distinct parts aiming to answer the following questions:

1. Who was I before you were born, and in the lead up to your birth? 
2. How did I and your mom navigate the immediate aftermath of losing you?
3. What were the lasting legacies of your existence?

 Here is the structure of what those reflections yielded:

I was grateful to be able to rely on more than 12 years of reflections in this blog to help me speak to the evolution of my grief. But there was one post in particular that made me realize the extent to which I still didn't get answers to all of my questions: The Coroner's Report, posted on November 14, 2015. I ended that post by saying "The ball's in my court". In truth, that was always somewhat in the back of my mind as something to revisit - but with an 8 month-old William to raise, it didn't feel like a priority at the time, and it was easy to kick down the road after that.

The hardest chapter to write, by far, was Loose ends, where I finally circled back to the Coroner's report.  In re-reading the report, I realized that there were a few things I probably should have focused more on than my initial questions:

• The realization that I never actually received Anya's autopsy. In fact, this was annexed to the coroner's report which only summarized it. 
• What it meant for the death to be ruled accidental. That conclusion suggested that a better medical intervention could have led to a different outcome.
• The extent to which the intubation had failed. There were three documented intubations: An initial one failed, another came loose during transport, and a third when Anya arrived at the hospital. Most importantly, I didn't seek to find out whether the Maison de naissance actually did change anything in response to Anya's death to ensure better intubation training. 

So I set out to get answers, both from the Bureau du coroner, and the Maison de naissance. I was very grateful for how receptive they were to answering my questions after all of these years. I was able to speak to the coroner that led the investigation, as well as the head midwife in charge of the Maison de naissance. 

The good is that I emerged from those conversations with a better understanding of the nuances. There is no world where Anya would have been completely fine, even in a hospital. A lot of damage had already occurred in the days prior to her birth, and she would in all likelihood have faced lifelong health consequences. But she could have lived with a better intubation, hence the recommendation. The head midwife did confirm with me that following Anya's death, training frequency did increase, however she did not recall another time where an intubation had been needed since.

The conversation with the coroner also led me to understand how difficult it would be for me to ever get the autopsy, due to how the applicable law is written and how it restricts the sharing of annexes to Coroner's reports. Long story short, after formally requesting it anyway and being denied, I did what anyone else would do in the circumstances: I wrote to the Chief Coroner and the responsible Minister, pleading with them to inject a bit more humanity when it came to interpreting the law, in circumstances where parents want information about their deceased children. To my great surprise, a few weeks after my request, I was invited to meet with the Chief Coroner who told me that they were touched by my request, and that they would not only give me the information I was looking for, but would institute new procedures for helping parents in similar circumstances going forward.

So this year, Anya, your existence had an impact. I think you will next year too. First when I publish this memoir which is currently being edited (I am hopeful to publish it by spring of 2026), and second as I advocate for higher frequency of resuscitation training, to make sure the lessons learned from one Maison de naissance are actually applied beyond just those walls. I look forward to telling you all about it.

 Je t'aime.

-Papa 

 

 

When I Go

Happy 11th birthday, dear daughter. 

I am grateful as always for this annual ritual, allowing us to pause and reflect on your beautiful brief existence on this December day. In thinking of you today, I was remembering this verse in a lovely song:

 

We're all just these monkey shapes, clocks wound up with springs

Some get awhile, some just a little swing

(Craig Cardiff, Father Daughter Dance)

 

There's something poignant to me about how well that verse captures the uncertainty of tomorrow, and about how none of us knows when any of our clocks will have exhausted their wind-up. And it occurs to me that I have now spent more than a decade reflecting about you, but I haven't spent much time at all thinking of how I might want have wanted you to reflect about my existence on this planet when my own clock gives out. 

Of course, grief is a journey everyone has to undertake by themselves, in a way. But maybe having a sense of what you would have wanted me to know, think, and feel about you would have helped guide that grief, a bit like a lighthouse on a foggy day.

So what would I want you to know, think and feel through your grief of me? 

First, although I'd certainly want you to reflect on who I was as a person, it is not with the hopes that you would strive to be who I was. Each generation learns, both from the good and the bad of their parents, and I'd want you to take what inspires you to be better, and leave the rest behind in the past. 

I would want you to know that the person I strove to be is:

• Someone who recognizes their own inherent imperfection, and constantly works to improve at all facets of live. There are so many things in life that start out hard- Communication first and foremost. But you know, also baking. It's important to keep working at it.
• Someone who acknowledges that there is so much more to know about the world than any person can ever know (both in terms of general knowledge, but also in what others are going through at any point in their lives). And given that, it's important to keep a humility, kindness and a hungry curiosity in how to approach the day-to-day.
• Someone who gains hope and purpose when linking the little things to the bigger picture. That time-out that I gave? It's to have a kid that is reflective about how they treat others, who will grow up to be a kind adult. That spreadsheet template I just finished for work? It's to allow everyone to know about the amazing impacts that funding science can lead to.
  

I would want you to think very carefully about how closely I resembled or diverged from that person I strove to be. Maybe I was nothing close to that. Maybe to you, I never quite figured out how to really listen in a way that you would feel heard. I'm sorry if that's the case. Don't tell yourself you're wrong - after all, it's right there in that first bullet that I was imperfect.

Finally, I would want you to feel that I am there within you - all of the good parts you've decided to take on as your own, and that you've made a part of yourself as a person. That's the love I want to give to you. Leave the rest behind.

Dear Sister (Happy 10th Birthday)

Dear Anya,

Today you enter the double-digits. Part of me doesn't quite believe that it was so long ago since I held you. If we could shed bits of our souls to forever remain in the moments of our lives that mark us, surely a good part of mine would still be there with you, on that day in 2013, holding you and existing with you. 

Yet here we are - a full decade later. Time can be both wondrous and cruel. People enter and leave our lives, change for the better and the worst, and we bear witness to it as best we can, trying to remember who we were at different points in our lives but forgetting most of it. 

This year I wanted to give the chance to William and Juliette to capture their own reflections about you, at the ages of 8 and 6. I don't know how they will think of you as they age - certainly that is going to continue to evolve as they reflect more and more deeply on life and mortality. I want them to be able to look back and remember who they were, and what you were to them at this point in their lives.

I asked them each if they would like to write you a letter, with no specific instructions. Here is what they wrote:

William:

Juliette: 

 I also asked them three questions:

1. Is there anything you wish you knew about Anya that you don't know?
2. Tell me about how you think of her as part of our family.
3. What would you like her to know about you?

Here's what they had to say:

They wonder about your hair, how you would play with them, and importantly Juliette would like you to know that she likes unicorns. 

It's heartwarming to see the place they hold for you in their own little hearts, and to see that ten years later, our love for you can continue to grow.

Happy birthday Anya.

Dad

Balado Histoires de pères

Merci à l'équipe de Naître et grandir pour la chance de discuter d'Anya et du deuil périnatal sur le balado Histoires de pères. C'est toujours un grand plaisir de parler d'elle, surtout en approchant son dixième anniversaire.

Reflections on "Being at Peace"

Nine years ago today, Anya was born. Nine years. 

It seems so hard to believe that this much time has passed since holding her in my arms. My firstborn, and my first beautiful baby.

Although I still think of her often, these days I don't quite know how to visualize her. Is she still that baby? Is she a nine year old girl? Both, and neither? With time, it feels like her image is blurred in my mind, and the lack of a clear focused picture makes it difficult to connect to her, including when I stop by her headstone to clean out the weeds or just say hello. 

I want to stay connected. To me, the notion of being at peace with her death means continuing to feel that connection. Continuing to feel love, and warmth. But is that what being at peace truly means?

Kayleigh and I had a good discussion this morning about the evolution of our grief. As distance takes hold, and sadness isn't an open and obvious part of it, is it genuine peace? Or is "peace", in a sense, building a wall against the negative feelings over time - feelings that are inextricably linked to the love we feel, and directly at odds with the idea of staying connected?

On the other hand, maybe in a sense, there is only so much negative emotion that one can conjur up - like a well that eventually runs dry. And maybe connection has to take a different path. But that in itself feels like a different kind of loss, since that sadness has been so closely linked with some of the deepest love I've ever felt. 

I don't know the answer. But I'll keep reflecting.

 

Eight Years Gone, Eight Years Loved

Dear Anya: 

I met you for the first and last time eight years ago today. Eight years. Although we are more and more separated by time each year, part of me still exists there with you, on that day. 

I often think of holding you in that hospital room. That room, on that day, where everything in the entire universe felt whole for one last time. It has never felt the same since. 

Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't want to ever go back to a place where I don't feel your loss. There was a wonderful expression I heard this year: what is grief, if not love persevering? It is a privilege to ever get to feel such love in life. Love that perseveres. 

My universe was never going to feel whole forever. Eventually in life, grief becomes a certainty. I feel fortunate to not have had to figure that out too early. And I feel fortunate to not have had to figure that out too late to truly appreciate the value of the present moment. Thank you for this enduring gift. I love you. We love you. Happy birthday.

Being Apart

Happy seventh birthday, Anya.

Quite the year you've missed. A year characterized by physical distancing. Staying apart from friends and family for the good of each other.

It is necessary. The cost to not do this would be too great. At the same time, it can be hard to quiet the voice questioning how much collateral long-term social damage is occurring. Friendships and relationships take work after all - work that is impossible to do well at a distance. And when it becomes possible again, can we ever hope to catch up? Can we rebuild the loving closeness that's starting to feel like a distant memory?

But as I reflect on the deep love I feel for you after you've been gone seven years, it seems like an easier question to answer. Of course we can. Love is not a fickle thing.

Your brother started school this year. Starting in the middle of a pandemic will give him quite the story to tell for the rest of his life. Your sister meanwhile went back to daycare after a pandemic-induced shutdown in the spring. 

It's not risk-free of course - nothing ever is. We judged the benefits outweighed the potential costs, and those benefits became evident pretty quickly as William has made huge strides in just a few short weeks in his reading, writing and French-speaking, and as Juliette has had a chance to develop her fierce independence without a big brother ever-present.  

We were reminded of the possible costs in the middle of November though, as Juliette developed a bit of a cough that persisted a few days. She got tested out of an abundance of caution. It came back positive, to our great surprise. 

When risks materialize, it's hard not to look back and question. Did we make a mistake sending them out into the world? In the end we were lucky. Juliette stopped coughing the day after she got tested, and the rest of us were negative. The harms did not outweigh the benefits. Not this time. But they could have, especially if we hadn't been apart from those in our family who are more vulnerable. 

We won't be apart too much longer from friends and family. Vaccines are amazing. 

(Thanks to Suzie for the amazing song above, and Sarah for coordinating last year)