Category Archives: Fatherhood

In the Family

2 Replies

My father is a storyteller. On summer vacations as a kid, we would trek from California to New Mexico in our brown Ford Aerostar mini-van. This was long before in-built car TVs and fancy portable video games. As we made our way across the endlessly homogeneous desert Southwest, my father would spin impromptu tales. In the ones tailor-made for my sister, something beautiful and magical would always happen; in mine, it was something gross. I don’t remember the precise details any more than the landscape, but I recall how those hours flew by amid squeals of laughter and groans of surprise.

In his retirement, my dad has been setting down these and many other stories for young people. And most recently, he has begun sharing some of this work in text and audio snippets on his new website. Be sure check it out, and leave an encouraging comment for the man who first introduced me to the pure delight of letting one’s imagination catch fire.

Generativity and Letting Go

20 Replies

“We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”

-Joseph Campbell

Recently, we began the process of giving away baby items bought or given to us for our son, James. Since he never came home from the hospital, they remain unused. Several months ago, we moved them out of the shed, into a closet at my parents’ house. But the time has come for another step. We are beginning to pass these items on to friends and family who are becoming parents. We have been unable to have another child, and are not in a position to adopt. And so, in the same gesture of giving that celebrates the new parenthood of people we care about, we also acknowledge it is unlikely that we will raise a child of our own. Neither of us ever thought it would be this way.

Since our young neighbors moved in across the street with their infant and toddler, I have been unable bring myself to exchange more than a passing smile or wave on this otherwise friendly block in our quaint small town. More than two lanes of quiet asphalt stretch between us. As much as I realize, rationally, that I sometimes idealize the hard work of child-rearing, it is tempting still to wish for a different life. And yet, over the past three years, I have had the opportunity to face down some of the deepest questions about my life, and how I must make meaning in it anew.

Perhaps a branch of my family tree will end with my name on it. But I have not lost the chance to influence my world for the better. Sharing my love of poetry is one way. As I slowly wake from the long dream of grieving, I am sure I will find others. For now, we are taking small steps toward the next crossroads–one bag of diapers, one box of clothes, one bassinet at a time.

Encountering Andrew Philip’s the Ambulance Box

1 Reply

“Even the pick / of those we share our pulse with shares this jolt / beneath the ribs, this double click of love. / How could they cope with even just one heart?”

-Andrew Philip, “Cardiac”

The Ambulance Box by Andrew PhilipI have Jilly Dybka to thank for sending Andrew Philip my way. Since I have written openly about the difficult and transformational experience of losing our first-born son, she must have recognized the the rare opportunity our being in touch provides. I am glad she did. It is an experience Andrew and I share.

Naturally, I was keen to read his debut book. What I discovered was not only personally moving, but profoundly accomplished work. Andrew writes in both English and Scots, placing himself in a tradition stretching back to John Barbour and encompassing Robert Fergusson and Robert Burns. As an American, I feel under-qualified to comment on the unique cultural and socio-political implications of this dual-language approach. (And, I must admit that I gave the online Dictionary of the Scots Language a good workout in making my way through some of the poems.) However, both as a poet in love with lyricism, and a father who lost an infant son, I can not resist adding my praise and commendation to the acclaim this book is gathering.

Andrew writes not only in Scots, a Germanic (not Gaelic) language, but in German as well. In “Berlin / Berlin / Berlin” he combines all three. If it is true, as Robert Frost tells us, that “Poetry is what gets lost in translation,” there is a poetry uniquely found between the languages by Andrew Philip. Wildly associative, and at times experimental, the musicality of these poems lend congruity and veracity even as they burst with linguistic mischief. This is, above all, a collection full of life–which is what makes the moments in which poems touch, lightly but unflinchingly, upon grief, all the more profound. From the premonitory vision of a “difficult, unasked-for joy” in “Pedestrian” through the incredible moment in “Still” when grief rewrites the resurrection, announcing in broken lines across the page, “he is not here / he is not here / he is not here,” these poems are rapturous even in despair. Sentimentality and easy words seem as though they might never have been invented in the remarkable worldview Andrew hands us in this book, “in a language,” as he says at the end of “Tonguefire Night,” “yet to be born.”

As part of Salt Publishing‘s innovative cyclone virtual book tour, I will have the pleasure of interviewing Andrew in about a month. I hope you will join me. Salt has also recently launched a highly successful “just one book” campaign to save this well-regarded imprint from financial doom. If you do choose to support world-class poetry publishing by purchasing just one, or one hundred, books from Salt, be sure to make your first The Ambulance Box.

The Third Year

20 Replies

Yesterday, had he lived, our son James would have been three years old. Looking back on the first and second anniversary, it is clear we have come a long way. Last night we saw “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” a film based on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story wherein a man is born old and grows younger, ending up as an infant who dies in his true love’s arms. Even a year ago, I might have had to walk out after the doctor’s (incorrect) prognosis, early on in the film, that the old-man-baby would not live long. Instead, I sat through it, and am glad I did. It is a compelling (if stylized) look at the transitory nature of life and love.

On one of our bookshelves, I have lit a candle next to a picture of James. Though he never opened his eyes, our baby was beautiful. Yesterday afternoon, I went in for new head shots to post to the company website. As the makeup lady dabbed my lips with flesh-toned gel, I thought back to my goth days in San Francisco, when I would trace my lips with black lipstick before a night out on the town. Then, as I felt her moving along the peaks of my lipline, I thought of James’s lips–a cupid-bow-shaped miniature of my wife’s own lips. Moments later, I was smiling into the flashbulb.

My inner life is my real life. In it, I carry the memory of my son. Over time, he has gotten lighter, as I have come to embrace greater hope, and to acknowledge the blessings he brought. Were it not for James, I might not have started writing poetry again in earnest, let alone completed an MFA. I would not know what I know now about fatherhood, the depth of support that can come from friends and family, or the strength of our marriage to endure. Though I have come a long way in recovering from grief, it still pricks me like the thorn Antonio Machado described in his own poetic heart–influencing all that I experience and express, and reminding me, poignantly, of that heart.

Godspeed, James. Thank you.

The Shed

12 Replies

Today, we tackled the shed, a routine suburban act of tidiness for most couples. But the reason we hadn’t used most of the stuff in our shed since we moved in over a year ago is piled up against the back wall: the stroller, the diaper genie, the car seat, and the chest of drawers we refinished by hand, every drawer filled with baby clothes. We have been unable to have another child in the two-and-a-half years since the birth and death of our son, and today, we decided, in order to stop avoiding more than momentary forays into the shed for a critical item, that it was time to move the baby stuff into storage.

The chest, with all that it symbolized as an act of preparing for parenthood, we decided to set aside until we could find it a new home. That meant going through each drawer, re-packing the small hats and shirts and vests and the impossibly small socks. What got me was the smell. I realize that brand new baby clothes don’t actually smell like babies–it is, in fact, the other way around–but the two have become closely associated for me, and somehow my nose has secret wiring straight to my heart. I again recalled Keith’s post last year about the cap his son wore to keep warm, and how he and his wife tried in vain to hang on to what he left behind in that cap–his smell.

Moving the baby stuff offsite was also a way of accepting that we may not be able to have another child. Facing this has meant riding out a second wave of grief, with many of the same effects as when we first lost our son. In the past two-and-a-half years, many new people have come in to our lives–new friends, neighbors, and colleagues at work–who know nothing about our James. And so, I find myself, at times, living in two worlds at once. Occasionally, the disparity between what others can see, and what I carry inside, is brought into startling contrast by, for example, a giddy new mother, unaware of our past, eagerly accosting us about our plans for “starting a family.” I respond with a sheepish grin, and change the subject. They probably think this means I don’t like kids.

Life was never what we thought it was supposed to be about. A shed piled up with junk is about more than clutter. The name “shed” somehow seems fitting–as though I have cast off a heavy coat or, like a snake, shed a skin. Or reached, perhaps, a watershed in recovering from grief, choosing once again to direct myself, despite so much uncertainty and disappointment, toward renewal–and with it, a strange kind of hope.

The Second Year

13 Replies

If he had lived, our son would be two years old today.

Several close friends have had children in the past year. I have been too afraid of breaking down in front of the parents to accept invitations to meet them. Just the other day, however, we were at a restaurant and some friends came in with their nine-month-old twins. I decided I was feeling strong enough to finally meet them.

Before approaching them, I washed my hands in the bathroom, since I have been fighting off a cold. I pumped soap from the dispenser, and ran my hands under the tap. Absentmindedly, I began lathering up my wrists and rubbing furiously. I was back in the hospital, scrubbing up at the sink inside the entrance to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Back then, I washed my hands vigorously, thoroughly, twice in a row–up to the elbows and underneath each fingernail. I shuttled over colostrum and came back with empty bottles, stole away in the night while Val was sleeping off the anesthetic, aware each visit could be the last. Every time, I scrubbed down furiously, as though some miracle of cleanliness could restore the electricity to our son’s brain.

It has not been an easy two years. But James’s death caused me to reevaluate what matters. I rediscovered the young idealist, who left the engineering department at Berkeley during the height of the dot-com era to study poetry instead. I recommitted to my writing, and signed up for an MFA. With such loss has come not only grief, but great compassion. I want to write about what makes us human, because never has it impressed upon me more that this is precious in its entirety–from my flashback in the bathroom to the radiant abandon with which infants squirm in their highchairs. There is so much to life. Sometimes it overwhelms.

I say once again: Godspeed, little James. There is so much more to love than could ever be comprehended.

Thank You, James

4 Replies

It has been one year since the birth of our son, and in three days’ time, it will be the first anniversary of his passing. My mother raised me to always write thank-you notes for gifts I received. His was one of the greatest so far in my short life.

Foremost, he helped me to rearrange my priorities into something far more human. I have experienced, although briefly, the selfless love of fatherhood. And I know loss. The hustle and buzz of technology, the pleasures of the mind alone–no longer hold so much sway. More and more humanity seems like a single organism to me. More and more, I feel compassion, poignancy–how much everything matters that is done with love.

I came back to poetry after a four year hiatus, and upped the ante by enrolling in an MFA program. It hasn’t been anything like an easy year–even now as I’m writing this, I’m quite sick and somewhat miserable. Yet the effect of such profound love and loss this year is something I would not trade. I can’t be sure I’ll keep feeling this way in the coming three days, or even in the coming years. It’s been pretty rocky at times so far. But when I get down to the heart of this experience, strange as it sounds, I am grateful.

Thank you, James. And Godspeed.

Imagining Ourselves Fatherhood Exhibit

8 Replies

When my wife found out the International Museum Of Women asked me to submit a poem, she didn’t miss a beat: “You go girl!” In actuality, they are preparing an exhibit featuring the art of young men as an analogue to their recent and highly successful “Imagining Ourselves” exhibit featuring young women.

I just learned that the poem I wrote specifically for the Fatherhood part of this series has been accepted as part of the exhibit. Audio of me reading the poem as well as commentary and conversations about the work are available here. (Note: the website misrepresents my line breaks–all lines with only 1-3 words on them should be a continuation of the previous line.)

Ceremony at Sea

5 Replies

Nine of us set out on a small rented sailboat from Santa Barbara harbor yesterday. We prayed together, then scattered James’ ashes at sea, along with white roses and multi-colored petals. Val’s sister joined us from Australia, as well as my sister, friend and skipper Justin, his wife Rachel, cousin Betsy, and my parents. It was a beautiful day, and an important completion in another chapter of our life.

Life Goes On…

2 Replies

Last week snow settled into the stripes of the Topa Topa mountains above our house, and further up the canyon dusted all the trees. Then a few days of sunshine. And last night the rain came down by the bucketful. It has been surreal, the fact that the world goes on from here–and us with it. But I’ve been dealing with the mundane world again slowly, doing my best to remember what it’s really all about in the process.

Yesterday PHP Quebec published their list of sessions, and I guess the process was in motion before I decided to pull out, because I noticed my name still there. It just doesn’t make sense for me to travel so far and stay in a hotel, apart from my wife, so soon after the passing of our son. We need to be together, and I still need time. Still, it was great to see my name on the list with Rasmus, Ilia, and others major players in the PHP community. As Chris keeps reminding me, there will be other conferences. And as my heart keeps telling me, there are other, more important things in life.

James Valentine Peake

26 Replies

James Valentine Peake was born on Tuesday, January 24th by emergency Caesarian section. He lived only three days, and died in my arms on Friday, January 27th. He was surrounded by the love of his family. He went peacefully without struggle or pain, and looked ever more beautiful as he was leaving our world. Even though we don’t know if he could feel or perceive anything physically (the doctors discovered almost no electrical activity in his brain), we do know that he got our love, and the love of so many during these precious three days.

Val has been discharged from the hospital and is resting at home. Our experience has been very profound, and we are both feeling very tender. We are really just taking it moment to moment, supported so caringly by family and friends. My worldly ambitions seem very trivial right now, and the last thing on my mind is software design. In time I’m sure other posts may emerge on this site. But for now, we are simply in mourning–for our hopes and dreams as parents, and the great love and loss we felt for our precious son. I feel blessed to have experienced, briefly but profoundly, the essence of parenthood–that pure and selfless love–and know we will never be the same.

Please keep us all in your prayers for the highest good, and also say a prayer of loving for the soul of our beloved son if you feel so moved.