To My Forever Firstborn

She would have been 7 years old this past December. I rarely remember my dreams; they evaporate within moments of opening my eyes. Except for the three dreams where my daughter has visited me. In each of those dreams she appeared the age she would have been. Her hair was a soft, amber brown just like her mother’s. Her eyes were a deep and dark brown like mine, her father’s. The way she smiled had a breathtaking sparkle. Lila, her name, means “night.” But anticipating her arrival brought my wife and me the brightest light we’ve ever known. We loved saying her name. Lila sounded so soft and beautiful. We agreed on her name as soon as my wife introduced it. Each night she came, I knew I was dreaming – and I held on as tightly as I could to stay asleep and be with her.

Waking up is devastating. It’s like stepping into the life I thought we’d share, that we were supposed to share, and then having it ripped away from me. The weight of grief is so heavy on my chest that I can’t move. It felt just as extreme and suffocating as it had during our first year without her.

My daughter, Lila, was stillborn at 38 weeks on December 13, 2017. Fewer sounds haunt me more deeply than the silence in the delivery room when she was born. Fewer sights broke me more than seeing Lila placed directly in my wife’s arms and hearing her whisper “my baby, my baby…I love you so much.” My wife delivered Lila via C-section and was very heavily medicated. The moment Lila was placed on her chest, I think she forgot that her daughter had died. That’s when grief gripped my heart so tightly, I thought it might burst. I had no idea how we would ever heal. We spent two days in the hospital with Lila before we had to say goodbye. I marveled at every part of her perfect baby body: her fingers, toes, hair, eye lashes, tummy. She just looked like she was sleeping.

I have no memory of leaving the hospital.

The following weeks were painful and bleak for my wife and me. Everything in our home reminded us that our daughter was gone. Especially the silence. Her empty nursery, her disassembled car seat tucked in the corner not quite out of view, her vacant highchair. For a while, we couldn’t bring ourselves to remove the outfits that hung in her closet. I still don’t know why. I know there is no reasonable explanation for why we kept painful items in plain sight. I know there is no perfect way to navigate something so entirely imperfect like the loss of your child. And I know that my wife and I followed what we felt in each moment because that’s all we had to hold onto. In the vast abyss of grief, we welcomed the pain. We welcomed the reminders of Lila because that was all we had left of her. Pain kept us most closely connected to Lila. We didn’t know any other way to access her than through agony. There was no guide. Nothing to make it easier. We lived in a fog of grief and longing. We yearned more strongly for Lila than we had anything else in our lives.

The subsequent months following Lila’s death brought a terrifying darkness to my life. One that felt so vast and deep that I hardly recognized myself. Numbness from the first few weeks suddenly turned to a sharp, jabbing pain. I was constantly overwhelmed. What was happening to me? Why couldn’t I find joy, light, or excitement in anything? Art was no longer beautiful. Music didn’t move me as it had my entire life. Grief lurked in silence, but also in the noisy outside world. Predictable things like a painful six-month milestone, pregnancy announcement from loved ones, or diaper commercials would crush me. But even things like sunny days – the ones my wife and I loved and longed for as Maine residents who endured long, harsh winters – brought grief to my doorstep. I looked forward to sharing those sunny days with Lila. Anything joyous became sad because Lila wasn’t there to share it with us. That unpredictability of grief drove me to a constant state of tension. Maybe if I ignored grief, it would go away. Maybe if I kept running, it would never catch me. Maybe if I kept track of patterns and situations that triggered me, grief would never affect me. Maybe I could control it. And maybe I could remove it.

Years later it dawned on me: grief was a part of me. I couldn’t ignore it and I couldn’t run from it. The death of my daughter, the root of my grief, isn’t something I can run or hide from. Once I accepted grief as a companion it became less terrifying. There are still days and moments that evoke the deep and visceral pain of those early days without her. But now, there are days where I see my daughter in beautiful and vibrant moments. Every clear day, as the sun sets behind the trees, the most magical light appears throughout the walls of our home. This light’s apricot hue is so delicate and gentle that I nearly hear it whisper hello. We call it “Lila’s light.” I’ve spoken to that light, I’ve laughed with that light, I’ve cried with that light, I’ve closed my eyes and bathed in that light. I recall that light in moments where I need to center myself.

It is not just pain that defines her. A new perspective on parenthood, an increased capacity for empathy, and a desire to live so fully for her have become new bricks in the foundation of her memory. Time, therapy, community, and patience gave me the gift of finding happiness in life again. Happiness that Lila evokes and that I share with her. Talking about her — and to her — helped. I will never recover from the loss of my daughter. And I will never stop grieving the loss of my daughter. And I don’t have to.

I start every day by telling her I love her. I love you so much, Lila. Please come see me in my dreams again soon.

Rob Reider lives in Falmouth, Maine with his wife, son Dallas, and daughter (in the stars) Lila. He is the Executive Director and Co-Founder of SAD DADS CLUB (Instagram: @sad.dads.club). SAD DADS CLUB helps fellow bereaved fathers navigate life after loss by nurturing a supportive community and providing access to mental health services.