Hey, it’s Kieran from Dad Matters.
I’d like to share some of my dad story with you, if you’ll bear with me. I did share this last year, but it’s as relevant now as it ever was.
I was 19 years old when I became a dad.
I wasn’t expecting it, neither of us were, but it happened, out of the blue, our daughter Emma was born.
She didn’t live very long, she had an infection called group B strep.
It was really traumatic for us both, and everyone around us. Emma’s mum was just 17, and neither of us knew she was pregnant. She went through something I couldn’t ever imagine and how she is as strong as she is now amazes me every day. Giving birth and not knowing what was happening, and then seeing your child and not being able to help must’ve been really harrowing and I wish, every day, that I could have shared that huge burden. Looking back I was ignoring my well-being, and trying to focus on supporting my partner, but I realise now I needed to be ok to be able to do that.
I didn’t speak to anyone about it at the time. We didn’t really speak to each other. I’d been advised not to bring it up in case I upset my partner, and because I wanted her to be ok, and because I wanted to avoid talking about my feelings, I didn’t. It seemed natural to not talk about it and at 18 I didn’t talk about anything emotional. I was never offered any support from the services around us, nor was I asked how I was by anyone. I’m not sure how I would’ve felt about that anyway, I wanted my partner to be ok, so it could’ve felt pretty unwelcome.
I didn’t see Emma, although I had the opportunity to. Her mum had some photos, which I loved to see, but It didn’t feel real, like an abstract situation that I was managing for other people. I guess it still feels a bit like that now, looking back on someone else’s life.
A couple of years later we had our next daughter, Dharma. It was then that I found out a bit more detail about how Emma had died. There were bright yellow stickers all over the Midwives notes that said GBS – and I asked what it meant. Until then I only knew it had been an infection.
My partner was told she should have antibiotics during labour, but then also told she could have them orally as she had a pretty severe needle phobia.
It was only when we were sat after inducing that we realised she hadn’t had the antibiotics. It was a real challenge. The obstetrician was abrupt and dismissive of my partner’s panic at having to have an IV and she didn’t have one in the end. My daughter dharma and her mum had to stay in the hospital under observation for a few days. I could only see them during visiting times, and felt so out of the loop. My partner needed me, and I was prevented from being there.
During the labour I was terrified. What if it happened again, how would I support my partner? How would I cope with losing another baby? I felt so overwhelmed, seeing my partner in so much distress with labour and with the pressure from the doctors about the antibiotics. She was really suffering. I felt helpless.
A similar situation happened when we had our youngest, Erin. There were mixed messages from Midwives and obstetricians, and my partner ended up being distraught over not having a drip – I was again distressed at the prospect of losing another baby, but torn with feelings of love and support for my partner who had to be feeling worse than I ever would. Visiting times were much better, I could and did stay all day until they were ready to come home. I’m happy to say both Dharma and Erin are doing well, 20 and 13 years old.
It’s 22 years since Emma was born, 20th May is her birthday. I still don’t talk about her much, although I talk to her often. I think about who she would have been, how her sisters would have looked up to her, and what her talents would have been. Even though she wasn’t with us, I was a dad, and I called myself a dad. I had her name tattooed on my ankle but kept it hidden for a number of years. Even now the awkwardness of explaining who she is when someone sees it is sometimes unbearable. I feel totally out of my depth when I think about supporting Emma’s mum, or even talking with her about it. I wish I’d done a lot differently, or could feel and act differently. I suppose that’s why I’m sharing this. It’s ok to feel overwhelmed, out of your depth and unimportant. You need to talk about it, with anyone who’ll listen.
I’ll listen when you need to talk, and there are other charities around who can help. I’m sharing this now because after 22 years, I realise I need to talk about it, and more importantly I feel comfortable doing so!
One of the main reasons I feel so passionate about supporting dads is that I had a pretty traumatic time, and all I wanted to do then, and now, was to be able to support the mother of my babies, who was going through far more than I was. I wish I’d known then that looking after myself was the only way to be able to support my family.
I want to help other dads to know how important they are, to their partners, their babies and in their own right! It’s ok to not be ok, and you don’t have to be strong all the time!
I’m not with my partner now, but she knows I’m sharing this. Emma’s birthday is difficult for both of us, but over the years it could’ve been so much easier if only we’d been able to talk.
