(This is a guest blog about Dylan by his mother, Joanna. Thanks for sharing this with us, Joanna.)
I wanted to thank you for making this movie and telling your story. This is our story:
To paraphrase, the classic poem says that our lives are represented by our “dash,” by that time between our birth and our death. It is this time that matters; it is this time that “counts.” (http://lindaellis.net/the-dash-poem-by-linda-ellis/)
My son, Dylan, has a “dash,” but instead of it being the time between his birth and his death, his dash represents the time between his death and his birth.
His dash is full of sorrow and pain and love. Is that all that matters? No. For him, his life is much more than his dash.
His dash is missing the rest of what matters—the happiness, joy, and laughter that balance out the sorrow and pain. This doesn’t mean that his life is missing this light. His life, before and after his “dash,” was much too short, but it was full of happiness, love, and joy.
Dylan’s brief life included the nervous joy of finding out on my birthday that we were expecting our third child.
Dylan’s life included the breath of relief when we passed the 12-week “safe” mark. His life included the thrill and excitement of telling his older brothers that a new baby would be joining our family to make us complete.
Dylan’s short life included the warm comfort of the 20-week ultrasound telling us that all was well and the slight trepidation of learning that we would have a house full of boys.
Dylan’s life included his first Christmas, surrounded by the love and warmth of his family and friends. We were given decorations for his nursery that we would never finish and tiny outfits that he would never wear. We laughed and looked forward to celebrating the next Christmas with three boys, instead of just two.
We were granted another sneak peek of our precious Dylan at 28 weeks with a follow-up ultrasound that showed that all was still well. Our sweet, healthy baby was growing like a weed. We laughed and played as he rolled and kicked inside me. We giggled when his 2-year-old brother pretended that he, too, had a baby inside. We snuggled together as a family of five.
At 34 weeks, we breathed our final sigh of relief knowing that we were truly at the “safe” point in our pregnancy. We knew that babies born at 34 weeks have a great chance of survival, so our house was filled with joy and happiness. We washed the tiny clothes from Christmas. Dylan’s brothers helped fill his drawers with his clothes, blankets, diapers, and love. For three more days, our lives were simple and complete. Dylan was alive.
The night he died, Dylan was a bit quiet, but we snuggled and we played. As a family, we went out to dinner with his uncle and Grandma. I drifted off to sleep with him sleeping inside me.
The next morning we learned he had died at 34 ½ weeks. He died while I was sleeping.
We filled his dash with the horror on the face of the sonographer; the sadness from the doctor and nurse; the coldness of the tile floor as I curled up on it, unable to move; the primal screams from his father; the tears from our family. We also filled his dash with all of the love that we could bear. We filled it with the songs we sang to him; the visits from friends and family; the care and support as our community mobilized to hold us afloat. We filled his dash with a lifetime of love and of suffering.
So his life is in his dash. In the love and pain and sorrow. But his life is also in the time before and after. His life is the 34 ½ weeks he was living inside me. His life is also in the 10 months his body has been gone from mine. As a family, we laugh and we cry. We feel joy and sorrow. We talk warmly of Dylan and the happiness he brought us. We weep together at the hole he has left behind. We will never know why he died, but we will always know that he lived. He lived and he lives still. He was born and he was born still.
Again, thank you so much for making this movie. I am continually amazed by the silence surrounding stillbirth, even from friends and family. This movie is a huge first step towards opening the door to the hard conversation about the death of an unborn child.
Best,
Joanna
