Fatherhood

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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 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.

I couldn’t resist. Here is your opportunity to generate names for my child that will give him or her the initials PHP.

[Update: I broke it by turning on archiving in the blog and am too lazy to fix it. But the source (below) still works. Honest]

Just a quick note to say that since announcing my news recently, a rather irreverent post has emerged recommending I name the child Phil Horatio, or Patrick Henry, or Paige Henrietta — anything, really, to ensure the child ends up with the initials PHP. Pretty funny stuff.

Something happened about 20 weeks ago that I haven’t blogged about yet. But having seen the face of the being who, inshallah, will soon be my child — I felt the need to share. And, given I am entering a whole new chapter in my own life shortly, I added a new category to my blog: Fatherhood. “Code Poet Poppa?” It has a ring to it, I suppose.

The experience of seeing a life that will soon be intertwined with my own is really hard to describe. I didn’t really feel proud — after all my part in the matter was microscopic in comparison with what God and genetics and all the cottage cheese my wife has been eating are doing here. In fact, it was humbling, and a certain sense came over me that I am not so much willing my own way into such fortunate circumstances as cooperating with something so much wiser, nobler, and more benevolent than my own small self. The same course that guided me from a similar one-pound little floating fetus to who I am now is ushering in a new life. And I get to watch — and even play.