Adam Crawford’s daughter passed away when she was nine months old. This is what he’s learned about moving forward, as a father and as a man, after an unspeakable tragedy.
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When Layla passed away in February, I didn’t know how I would wake up the next day. I didn’t want to wake up the next day. I just wanted to close my eyes the night she passed and wake up in Heaven; just so I could hold her.
Nothing else mattered in those hours. Nothing other than holding my baby girl. But she was gone. I thought I hadn’t taken her for granted, but apparently I had. Why else would I feel such immense guilt for being deployed to Afghanistan for most of her life? Seven of her nine months on Earth, to be exact.
Instead of waking up in Heaven the next morning, I woke up to the realization that I had to continue to raise my son. But how? How could I do that with such a large piece of my heart broken off and floating around in my body?
How could I raise him to be a strong man and change the world when I couldn’t even save my daughter? It didn’t matter that her illness was the worst possible combination of influenza and RSV. There was no rationalizing this fear. I was helpless, hopeless. I couldn’t do it.
When we told our son that his sister wouldn’t be coming home, I felt another piece of my heart break off into the abyss. He was only 5. He didn’t understand. He thought Heaven was a place we could go visit. Permanent doesn’t exist to a 5-year-old. As I broke down into a ball of mush with him between my wife and I on the couch, I knew this would never get any easier.
I knew he would talk about Layla all the time—and he does. I knew that in and of itself would break me down—and it does. So, how would I be a Dad, the Dad he deserves, amidst this crisis?
I had no idea. But, as the days go on, certain things become clear. He loves me no matter what I do. He thinks I’m funny when I sing country songs at the top of my lungs from the kitchen. He thinks I’m strong when I lift him over my head and body-slam him on the bed. He thinks I’m cool when I dress up in my golf attire and take him to the driving range.
He gives me a hug when he sees me crying after he shows me a picture he drew at school of him and his baby sister. Being a Dad isn’t some big production. It can be, and should be strategic at some points, but most of all, it’s just being open and transparent with your children.
I’ve tried the façade of being the “man of the house” and there are times when that role must be played, but, in the face of a tragedy, that impacts a family such as the loss of a child—just being yourself is what’s desired and required.
I’m a parent who has experienced what no parent should ever experience—that isn’t my son’s fault. It isn’t my fault. And it’s definitely not an excuse to not do my duty.
I can’t tell you what it looks like once you have managed to overcome the grief of losing a child. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell you that. But what I can tell you is that you can’t keep it pent up, and you definitely can’t run from the needs your other child has. Embrace the grief and share the burden amongst those you love. That’s what love does. That’s what family does.
Grow together, not apart. Lean on those around you, not away from them. That is the example you want to set for your children. The example of being willing to accept help from those around you, not shun it. Including your children.
Layla will forever be a part of our family. She even has a stocking hanging from our mantle this year. My son talks about her every day—and I cry each time he does. But that’s how we are healing. That’s how we are keeping her alive in our hearts and minds.
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Credit: Image—Tim Green/Flickr
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I’m deeply sorry for you’re loss my son died last feb he was hit by a truck in front of my wife he would have been 3 this month I also blame myself and often think if I would have been there I could have saved him the what if game usually doesn’t work out well I can tell you the only reason I’m still here is because I have two other sons to take care of and that wouldn’t be fair to them
Adam; I’m sorry for the loss of your beautiful girl Layla. I lost my daughter Maggie 7 years ago. Her Christmas stocking still hangs on the mantle with the others. Time does heal; but love lives on.
I don’t know that I will ever recover, as I said in the article, I don’t know what it looks like to be on the other side of this, but what I do know is that I learned to embrace every single moment. And while I’ll never be thankful for losing my daughter, I am thankful that I’ve had a wonderful group of people around me (my wife being number one) to hold us up and love and console us every day. Sometimes in the darkness of tragedy you are able to see the light of everyone else around you.… Read more »
I read this while my two girls, age two and six, are playing Barbie on the floor in front of me. I can not imagine the pain you and your family endured. Losing either of these two would be losing a big chunk of me. I dont know how you recover from the loss you had. Wishing you love and light. Thanks for sharing.
My wife and I have suffered 5 miscarriages – while it has been awful, I still don’t think it compares to your situation. But you have my genuine sympathy, for what it is worth. I hope you are able to get all the help you need and your recovery goes well. You will get there, it’s a long road but not infinite.
Rob, thanks for the comment. I don’t think it’s about comparison, I think it’s about how your heart breaks. Pain is relative and different for each person, I can’t imagine what that’s like. We are going through fertility treatments now and if we were to have a miscarriage it would be devestating. You are right, the road is not infinite, it’s just ever changing and your comments are humbling and encouraging. Thanks for taking the time to read it.
Truth. From one baby loss parent to another.
A beautiful piece Adam. Brought tears to my eyes and reminded me of my best friend who lost his son at seven months. It was painful to watch him him and his wife go through so much grief. Your article added another layer of insight – thanks.
Thank you for the comment. It’s something that is so hard to explain to a child, but you learn that you don’t have to explain it. They already know.
Adam, I am so sorry to hear about your daughter. Her life mattered. Your love for her mattered. That is all I can think of to add. I am thankful you were able to write about it in a way that is so filled with grace—and ultimately hope. Wishing you much love and peace.
Thank you , Lisa. It means a lot, I appreciate your comment.
Adam, your words are humbling. I will never forget the phone call that horrible night when I was told that she was gone. I cried for you, along with my 2-30 sisters. My children and I prayed every day for her recovery, and that next morning, we prayed for God to give your family the strength to survive the loss. I don’t know if you were a writer before this tragedy, but what I read now is so touching and beautiful. Thank you for sharing your feelings with us. I understand the guilt, even though it is not logical. If… Read more »
Alison,
Thank you for all you did and your continued prayers. The support group we had and continue to have is unbelievable.
God Bless,
Adam
Adam, as a dad, I am humbled. In my worse night meres, I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a child. Last week, one of my CRHP brothers also lost their 9 month old daughter. Her funeral is Monday and I’m struggling. My heart and prayers go out to you and your family. At midnight mass this week, I will go to one of the chapels and will light a candle for Layla while wishing her a Merry Christmas as she’s with the Lord in heaven. I will also light a candle for you Adam, may God continue to… Read more »
Tom, thank you for your comment. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you took the time to write a comment on this post, much less take the time to pray and light a candle for my baby girl and I. There is nothing you can say to make your friend feel any better, there is nothing anyone can say, but knowing that we had friends there just to stand by us through the rough times meant more than any single word or phrase anyone can say. A hug goes a long way. Thanks for the… Read more »