The first thing I learned was that it’s okay to say her name. The second thing was that naming what actually happened mattered. Marion died. You can say it. I can say it. I need to say it. I need you to know she was real. That she was ours. That she was. My grief is not an abstraction. 

I am still Marion’s dad, and when you ask me how many kids I have, I answer “three” in my head before my mouth says “two.” I thought that would change, that the impulse would dwindle, but it hasn’t for me, and I get a small tinge of pain and comfort each time. I’ve come to feel grateful for that feeling.

Baby Marion Sullivan by NILMDTS Affiliated Photographer Melanie Rodger

Our family met and lost our sweet baby girl, Marion Rose Sullivan, at 6:38 pm on February 19, 2021. She was 1 lb, 6.7 oz and 12 inches at birth. The only cries in the delivery room were our own. I wrote a reflection shortly after she died that we shared with friends: 

•  It has been two months since we last held our little girl, and each day she gets farther away. Days are more normal, easier. We yearn, often, to be back in that delivery room. It’s the last place we will ever be with other people who met Marion. It’s the only place we’ve been with people who understood how beautiful it was — no one asks you for the birth story of your deceased child, but that doesn’t take away from your reality. But every day, we are farther removed from that room, from Marion, from the sharp agonies of loss.

Now five years on, the delivery room feels like a faint memory. An assembly of facts and quiet remembrances: a blur of faces behinds N95s, the softness of the door opening and closing, the smell of the birthing blanket, the tension of staying with our girl and returning home to be with our five year old as she tried to cope with losing the idea of a sister who would never come. 

When a child dies, there’s no “but at least.” “But at least she lived a long happy life.” “But at least she’s not suffering anymore.” “But at least this, at least that.” These comforts we seek fall desperately short of our reality: this is bad, this is tragic, there’s no reason for it, and we have to find a way to live in a world and a universe where this happens every day, without cause, without recourse. It’s a lot. It feels impossible at times. 

In the aftermath of Marion’s passing, my wife and I settled into an evening routine we called “Grief Thoughts.” Your mileage may vary, but we found that after a day of masking, we needed to just say it. We had ground rules that were never officially stated, but quickly understood through trial and error:  

1. you don’t have to say anything;

2. you don’t have to respond to anything;

3. you don’t have to want to be hugged or comforted;

4. you don’t have to cry, or “be the strong one,” or any other preconception. 

We shed the expectations of each other and lived our grief out loud together. We heard and said the hardest things we’ve ever processed in those days. Over the months, the routine waned – but, five years on, we’ll still have one of those days and just say – “Hey, we’re having so much fun doing softball and tee ball as a family, and it just sucks so much that Marion can’t be part of this,” or simply “I can’t believe my baby died.” The same rules apply. 

We’ve made remembrance an active part of our life. We keep a small urn with her name on it in our living room, next to a candle that a friend gave us. We still light that candle, sometimes on a tough day, on a day we miss her, or on a joyful day that we wish she could’ve experienced. Every year for her birthday, we escape the city as a family – with Marion’s older sister and younger brother – and bring our photos, her blanket, and our box of Marion’s things. There’s not much, and there’s no expectation to review it all, but it is an open invitation. And we do a thing that many outside of the grief would find bizarre: we bake her a cake – from scratch, planned and decorated anew each year (part of the process!) – and we all wear party hats as we sing happy birthday to her. The candle is a sparkler, so no one has to blow it out. We honor and remember her in joy, because we did and do love her. 

In a culture that so eagerly runs away and hides from grief, I’ve found solace in an Orson Scott Card quote: “Life is full of grief, to exactly the degree we allow ourselves to love other people.” 

As a grieving father, I’ve learned that strength is not a monolith. It comes in the quiet moments by myself, mourning my child; it comes in the loud moments of well-intended ignorance from friends and family; it comes in the courage to have fun with your five year old who begs you to “stop being sad for a little bit.” Because ultimately, once I viewed grief as the natural outcome of love, it became something that I learned to accept, to expect, and even embrace over time.

Baby Marion Sullivan by NILMDTS Affiliated Photographer Melanie Rodger

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, a dedicated 501(c)(3) non-profit, offers families experiencing pregnancy and infant loss with complimentary remembrance portraits, capturing precious moments with their babies. Your generous donation can help us extend this heartfelt service to more families in need. Please consider supporting us here.