Don, what was becoming a parent like?
| S:2 E:4Every parent remembers the day of the positive pregnancy test, right? The excitement, the nervousness, the dreaming and the planning that goes into the arrival of a new addition to the family. It’s hard to imagine things going wrong– until they do.
Get started with Storyworth here!
Where to Listen
Find us in your favorite podcast app.
Krista Baum:
Hi, welcome to the Storyworth Podcast. We're glad you're here. I'm your host, Krista Baum, Co-founder of Storyworth. On this podcast, we feature true stories written by Storyworth writers. If you're new to Storyworth, we help people write their life stories, the big stories, and the small ones.
Once a week, we send our writers a question to help inspire their writing, they reply to the email with an answer or story that comes to mind. At the end of the year, we print what they've written into a beautiful keepsake book.
Every story written using Storyworth is private, but for this podcast, the writers volunteered to share their stories publicly with you.
[Music Playing]
Every parent remembers the day of that positive pregnancy test; the excitement, the nervousness, the dreaming, and the planning that goes into the arrival of a new addition to the family. It's hard to imagine things going wrong until they do.
Don Miller shares a chapter from his life today. But before we talk to him, we're going to hear Don's story as read by voice actor, James Johnston.
A note before we get started, this is an emotional story about childbirth and loss.
James Johnston:
It was New Year's Day, 1968. My wife Barbara, and I were having a light breakfast in our two-bedroom apartment in Claremont, New Hampshire. Still in my early twenties, I was probably nursing my hangover from New Year's Eve, but I remember Barb watching me eat with a sly grin on her face.
“I've got something to tell you,” she baited me: “Something exciting.” Without a clue as to what she wanted to tell me, I replied, “Yeah, like what?” She continued to hold my gaze across the breakfast table with a big smile on her face.
“You're going to be a daddy.”
I was completely stunned. It took me a minute to fully process what she had said. Finally, I reentered my body and found the words: “Are you sure? Are you really sure?” Her smile grew wider: “I'm sure, are you happy?” It's been 53 years since that moment, but I can recall it in such precise detail.
The joy on my young wife's face, the feeling of my heart hammering with excitement inside my chest. A mile a minute thoughts like an ecstatic tornado in my brain, I was more than happy. “This is so crazy,” I blurted out, and then thought of her condition.
“Are you alright?” She laughed, “Nothing will happen for a while.” I had a lot to learn about pregnancy. We ate together and discussed the extraordinary news with that special awe and enthusiasm reserved for first time parents.
One of our first projects was to plan the baby's room. Barb picked out a calming pale yellow for the color scheme. It was so fun and exciting working together to plan the nursery. Over the passing weeks and months, I would work on the room when time allowed.
I can remember saying to myself many times, “In a few short months, we'll be bringing our baby home, I’m going to be a dad.” We shopped for anything and everything we thought we might need. We were so young and inexperienced, but there was a certain indescribable bliss in that fact.
Barb saw the doctor every month and things were progressing in textbook fashion. All the modern technology wasn't available back then. Doctor's visits were pretty much “Everything looks good, see you in a month.”
At her doctor's appointment in early August, Barb learned she would likely give birth within the next 10 days, this kicked off our countdown with a tremendous sense of anticipation. By this time, Barb was ready to meet the baby and just be done with the pregnancy.
I really felt for her watching her in those final days. A woman having a baby is such an incredible thing, and I remember realizing women are so much tougher than men. My adoration for my wife just grew and grew.
A week later on August 8th, Barb woke me out of a sound sleep, it was 4:00 AM: “Let's go, it's time.” The adrenaline kicked in immediately, I jumped out of bed and raced to put on my pants and shirt. “Wait, I couldn't find my shoes, where are my shoes? Oh, found them. Whoops, no socks, where are my socks?”
Barb suddenly shouted more urgently, “Let's go! To hell with the socks, we needed to leave.” I rushed to the car, Barb stood there shaking her head with forced patience, she asked me, “What are we missing?”
I was confused, I thought for a couple seconds, but now she was glaring, “The car's locked, get the car keys.” I sprinted back in the house and grabbed the keys and away we went.
We lived only a couple of miles from the hospital, so we arrived in no time. We pulled up front. I ran inside and I flagged down a nurse, she grabbed a wheelchair, and we rushed back to the car. It was Barb who remained totally calm, much calmer than I into the wheelchair she went.
The nurse rolled her inside and then turned to me, “Mr. Miller, we're all set now, we'll keep you posted on the progress.” I gave Barb a kiss. “Come down,” she joked, “Everything will be fine.” She passed the doorway and gave me a smile and a small wave goodbye.
I need to explain something at this point; back in those days, the delivery process was entirely different. The mother to be went to the delivery area and the father to be wasn't allowed in. The hospital was very strict about this, I wouldn't see Barb again until after the birth.
There were no cameras, no cell phones, no social media, no friends or family as birth attendants to coach and comfort the mother. Instead, all family waited in a special room where the nurse would offer periodic updates.
The message was clear to us, “Fathers to be, just keep out of the way.” So, into the waiting room, I went, nervous wreck. I paced the floor, it was about 6:30 AM when a nurse finally appeared: “Mr. Miller, Barb is doing just fine, but it's going to be a while. She wants you to tell her parents and your parents, she's here.”
I was so nervous to leave the hospital, but happy to have an errand to focus on. Remember, we had no cell phones, no internet or email. I headed out to deliver the news. On the way, I stopped at Jake's diner for a quick bite to eat.
It was a local breakfast spot, and I ran into a few of my buddies. I proudly told them Barb was in labor. There were many slaps on my back and a chorus of congrats for my friends. Then I continued my way to inform Barb's parents who were especially excited to welcome their first grandchild.
From there, I headed to see my dad in the next town over. Now, my father never displayed his feelings, however, on that morning, I recall some emotion sneaking through that tough exterior. I can remember him saying, “This will be a day you'll never forget. Becoming a parent is one of the most wonderful things that could happen to you.”
I headed back to the hospital, it was now 11:00 AM. I checked in with the nurse, she went and checked on Barb and returned with an update: “Barb is doing great, she had an epidural, so she is quite comfortable. Here's a list of things she wants you to get from the house for her. We've got three or four hours before things really get going.” Once again, I was relieved to be useful to Barb.
At home, I kept looking in the baby's room, sparkling clean and welcoming, baby blankets and diapers arranged just so, a teddy bear and rattle lying in the crib — the short time this room would come alive with our child.
I remember saying to myself, “It doesn't get much better than this.” I made up my mind to head back to the hospital and stay until our baby's delivery. In the waiting room, I was joined by two other nervous young men.
We all sat or paced nervously, we would chat with each other for support. One guy said it was his second child, the other was waiting for his firstborn. The experienced dad was a lot, lot calmer than I. He had a three-year-old girl and hoped for a boy, the other father to be said he didn't care. Boy or girl as long as they were healthy.
At 4:00 PM the nurse entered, we all jumped up in unison like puppets pulled up right on strings. She announced, “Mr. Johnson, you have a beautiful six-pound, six-ounce baby boy.” The father who had been hoping for a boy grinned a huge smile. “Your wife is doing great, we're taking her to her room, and you can see her shortly.”
The other dad to be shook his hand and congratulated him. An hour later, the nurse entered again with a smile on her face. We both perked up: “Mr. Brown, you have a beautiful seven-pound, two-ounce baby girl. Your wife is doing well, and you can see her now.” I congratulated him and away went the proud papa.
By 6:00 PM, the minutes were dragging, a thousand thoughts were competing in my head: “Will I be a good dad? How do I change a diaper? Is Barb doing okay?” Finally, the door of the waiting room opened.
I jumped up knowing any news would have to be for me. It was the doctor himself who walked in and I noticed a little blood on the front of his gown and his mask hung down limply. His expression didn't match the joy of this event, he had a terribly sad look on his face.
He cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice. “Mr. Miller, I'm so sorry, your son died during birth. The umbilical cord got caught around his neck and we couldn't reach him in time. Barbara lost a lot of blood, but we have that under control. She's sedated right now. Again, I am so sorry.”
I said absolutely nothing, I was in shock, I guess. I remember him walking over and hugging me, “You'll be able to see Barbara in a few minutes. Again, I'm so sorry.” Then he left and I was alone.
I don't know how long I stood there in the doorway, paralyzed by the news. I couldn't think, I couldn't process what just happened. Then I saw two nurses rolling Barb down the hallway on a gurney.
I'll never forget the image of Barb, with IVs connected to both her arms. Barb was laying on her side, eyes closed. She was crying, I could hear her moaning, “Where's my baby? I want my baby.” Both nurses had tears running down their cheeks. They rolled right by me, as I stood frozen in the doorway.
One of the nurses glanced up at me with such a sad look, I couldn't move. Barb wasn't fully conscious, but continued to moan, “Where's my baby? I want my baby.” I don't know how, but I regained enough composure to see Barb, she was now asleep, heavily sedated.
I held my wife's hand and wiped the dried tears from her face, and suddenly it hit me, I needed to tell her parents. I softly kissed Barb on her forehead and left the room.
I found a payphone in the empty hospital lobby. It was now about 9:00 PM. I remember thinking how everyone was home, totally unaware and enjoying their evening, while I was there in the hospital with my heart broken into pieces, it didn't seem fair. Why me? Why Barb?
I took a deep breath, grabbed a dime out of my pocket, and pushed it in the slot, I dialed Barb's parents' number first. Barb's dad, Ray, answered, had a hard time speaking: “Ray, Ray,” I repeated my voice cracking. He eagerly cut in, “Hi Don, you got some news?”
So difficult to force out the next few words, I knew it would break his heart. The lump in my throat was enormous, and I started to cry: “The baby died Ray, baby died.” The rest of that call is a painful blur in my memory.
After that call, I needed to collect myself and call my father, another deep breath, another dime in the slot. I dialed his number, he answered, and all I could utter was a weak, “Hi, dad.” Hearing my voice, he chimed in, “How's things going? Everything okay?”
I tried so hard to control myself, but I just couldn't hold it in any longer. The heartache in my chest pounded past that lump in my throat, and for the first time, I found myself weeping for my baby boy. After that call, I didn't want to go home to our empty house with the beautiful baby room, I just wanted to be near Barb.
I laid down on one of the couches in the waiting room and simply listened to the nighttime sounds of the hospital. I cried not for myself but for Barb. To carry our baby for nine months, experiencing all the emotions, the sensations, the highs, the lows, the anticipation, the discomfort, and finally, the tremendous effort of childbirth, only for it to end this way. I knew my anguish could not compare to the agony of her loss.
Finally, my brain became numb, and I was lying half asleep and felt the presence of a nurse near me. She gently covered me with a blanket, softly patted my back. It was a simple act of kindness, I remember to this day.
Morning arrived and I forced down a cup of terrible coffee from the hospital vending machine. A nurse approached me, I had been around for so long, they were calling me by my first name. “Donnie, Barbara is awake and alert, I'll take you to her.” It had been a full 24 hours since we arrived at the hospital together, a lifetime ago.
My heart was pounding, unsure what I should say to her. I told myself to be strong for her, and I entered the room. She looked so fragile with IVs still in both arms, so exhausted, her face, streaked with dried tears, a machine above her beeped steadily.
What my young wife said to me then is still with me 53 years later: “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.” She began to sob. “I know how badly you wanted a baby boy.” I was horrified. It was as if she was taking the blame. I begged her, “No, no, no, don't say that.” It just tore my heart completely out. We both wept together for a long time until we were both cried out.
We managed to calm each other for a while until my dad walked into the room. Barb saw him and immediately started crying again. “I'm so sorry, I know how much you wanted a grandson,” and my father who never showed emotion, rushed to her bedside, he embraced her the best he could with the IV tubes in the way.
“No, Barb, please don't say that.” I saw tears in his eyes. “Please, it's just a terrible thing that happened.” He held her hand and she calmed down. At the end of his visit, he motioned for me to follow him outside the door, so I told Barb I would be right back.
A man was waiting for us in the hallway, “Hi, Mr. Miller, I am John Smith from the administrative office. I'm very sorry for your loss, but there are a few things I need to go over with you.”
I stared at him. I couldn't imagine what could be so important at a time like this. He continued slowly: “Mr. Miller, what would you want done with the baby?” I stood there, totally dumbfounded. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?” His reply was quiet and direct, “You're the father and we need to know if you plan on cremation or burial, it's a state law, I have to ask you.”
It hit me like a freight train. My first act as a father was to decide what to do with our baby's body. The terrible reality set in, and I slunk down in a chair and just balled into my hands. I couldn't stop, I could still feel my dad's hand at my shoulder as he said, “With your permission, I'd like to take care of all of this for you and Barb. I can only imagine how overwhelming this must be. Please let me do it.”
He hugged me and left, and he really did take care of everything for us, my dad, my superhero, he came to the rescue like always. Barb and I kept each other company for a long time, and finally, the nurse came in and told me it was time for me to leave. They were getting ready to move her out of intensive care to a private room.
I gave Barb a kiss and she grabbed my hand, “I want you to do something for me,” she pleaded. At this point, I would've done pretty much anything for her. She took a deep breath and told me in a quivering voice, “I want you to clean out the baby room before I come home.”
I held her hand and I promised, so I went home. It wasn't easy to walk into that silent place, I decided to empty the nursery immediately and by that afternoon, it was done. I took most everything to a secondhand shop, traded it in for a set of twin beds and a bureau.
Then I headed back to the hospital, my sobering task complete. Dad called me early the next morning to ask if it would be alright for him to arrange a small graveside service Sunday morning for our son.
Once again, these decisions were totally overwhelming for me, and he had my permission. Sunday morning came, Barb was still hospitalized, I had no idea what to expect with the funeral. I drove to the cemetery in a numb day, still struggling to grasp what was happening. I arrived and saw quite a few people in the grave site.
My father had purchased multiple plots for the entire Miller family, and this was the very first grave. I still vividly remember looking down, seeing the tiny coffin sitting over the small grave, I couldn't take my eyes off it.
After the short service, each person approached me, we hugged, we cried together. Finally, it was just dad and me, his eyes were red. He said something that at the time I couldn't fully understand. However, as the years went by, I came to grasp its deeper meaning very clearly.
He put his hand on my shoulder and told me, “I don't know how you're getting through this, I can't imagine the pain that you're feeling right now.” As a father, he knew the eternal love between parent and child, I was still so new to fatherhood.
But as the years passed, his statement would take on new clarity for me. As we brought home two healthy babies, but endured the pain of losing another son. Together, Barbara and I slowly gathered the pieces and continued our lives.
Youth has an amazing way of enabling us to accept our reality and move through the unimaginable. We grieved together, learned how to lean on each other again, and we gained the courage to have hope again, more than 50 years later, we continue to love our firstborn, Donald Oliver Miller with a special tenderness. A parent’s love, even forged in the most painful of experiences is indeed eternal.
Don Miller:
Don Miller, 80-years-old, today's my birthday, lucky I made it. I live in Windsor, Vermont, wintertime out here now, and I'm here talking to you.
Krista Baum:
I'm really glad that we're talking. I have read your story, I don't know, probably about 10 times now over the last several months, and I choke up every single time I read it and every single time. And I'm a mom, I have two children and I have been adjacent to people who have lost their babies.
It's just like both heavy but also, really beautiful in some ways, in how people really lived up to their obligations to each other. It's an incredibly sad thing that happened, but it wasn't all sad that you guys were all very kind of loving and there for each other, and I think that's really this microcosm of life.
Where there are all these big things you anticipate and then there's disappointment and grief, but also like care and love and — had your family always been close or like did this support surprise you?
Don Miller:
It did for my father, because he was a tough, stern from the old days and zero emotions. So, that's the thing that surprised me the most, showing his emotion. He had kids so he could imagine what it would be like. Of course, I was young and didn't — this is my first time and my wife's first time, but he knew and later on in life I realized what he was saying.
Krista Baum:
You mentioned in the story that it prepared you for what the future held for you and your wife. How so?
Don Miller:
Well, we were married two years at that time, and then two years later we had a son, Ricky, and then five years after that, we had a daughter and then another son. But 1975, our house burned down. We lost everything that we started out with, memories and so on and so forth. So, we lost it all and my dog actually woke me up and saved our life, that was 1975.
And then in 1982, when my son Ricky was 12-years-old, my father was a pilot, so he took my son Ricky on his birthday, March 21st to Northern Vermont to go snowmobiling, took my nephew also.
And on the way home, they crashed and my father was killed and Ricky was 12 years old. He broke his back and got severe concussion but survived, and my nephew was banged up and also survived. 20 years after that, my son Ricky died. So, we've had a tough grind.
Krista Baum:
I'm really sorry to hear that.
Don Miller:
It's all written in my book, everything that's happened. I wrote in the book and that's why it took me two years.
Krista Baum:
What was it about the first experience you think that prepared you for those? Was there a certain thing you learned that you pulled out? When these other really hard times happened, like …
Don Miller:
But I think seeing that we moved on and everything was okay, and we just kept going on and getting better, that was a terrible experience. But I learned that at young age that life continues on and things do get better. And when something bad happened, I knew that on the other side of it, it will probably get better again, and it does.
My book that I wrote from your site right on the front of it, it says, “Never give up.” That's my motto. So, that's the motto of my book, “Never give up.”
Krista Baum:
It's a great motto. Did it change your marriage in any way? Your relationship with Barb, did it change in any …?
Don Miller:
57 years married now, this next month. I guess it probably solidified it and made us closer. We still fought, but everybody does. To me, a mother losing a child, it's probably the worst thing a human being — a mother. A father loses it, yes, that's tough, but a mother carries it, brings it into the world and I just think she's the greatest thing going because she's lost two kids.
Krista Baum:
Sometimes I think that when you go through things together, you just are more convinced that your partner is steady and with you through everything. Do you know what I mean?
Don Miller:
Yeah, I do.
Krista Baum:
And I can imagine, she was what, 19 when she got married? I mean, there's not a lot of life experience that she could have had at that point, you either, really.
Don Miller:
No, she was very sheltered. I had been around quite a lot with my friends and stuff, but she was really sheltered, yeah, she was.
Krista Baum:
But I mean, you were still a very young man and …
Don Miller:
I was 22 when she was 19, we were very, very young.
Krista Baum:
Yeah, I could just imagine there not being a lot of big things that had happened yet. You both still had your parents, like she had just lost this baby, but she was very worried about you being disappointed and you were like, “No, no, how are you?”
Don Miller:
Oh God, that just about killed me, and I still remember when she said that, I mean, just devastated me that she would think that — worried about me at that time.
Krista Baum:
What do you hope that people will take away from this story when they hear it?
Don Miller:
I guess my motto “never give up.” It's a horrible, horrible thing, losing this child is just — I think it's the worst thing a human being goes through to lose his child. It’s just not in the life cycle. The parents and grandparents are supposed to go, but not the children.
But we made it through it twice and we're still plugging along, and we still got two other beautiful kids and I'm 80-years-old and we're still going.
Krista Baum:
You say never give up. Do you remember after this (I can imagine there were some really heavy days just filled with grief) there being a point where you guys started laughing again or the day didn't feel as heavy as the day before?
Don Miller:
That first child, you're so young you don't understand really what happened. I mean, you understand, but you don't really understand the magnitude of it, as a parent, because it was our first child, we didn't know anything about that. We were young.
So, it didn't take long before we were moving on. And year and a half later, Barb got pregnant again, and so then we got excited over this, and it didn't take too long before we began to move on.
Krista Baum:
Take me through that second baby.
Don Miller:
Second time around, I was still sitting in the waiting room, and I was terribly nervous, but Barb wasn’t. Once again, she was very, very confident and she's been a very confident lady most of her life anyways. But she was very confident, and I was worried sick and my parents were, her parents were, but she wasn't. She just said, “I got a really great feeling,” and she was fine.
Krista Baum:
Well, good for her, I like this lady.
Don Miller:
She had to calm me down.
Krista Baum:
When the nurse came out in the delivery room for baby number two, can you walk me through that moment?
Don Miller:
Actually, the doctor came out because he said, “I want to be the one to tell you, I told you last time,” the same doctor. “I'm so happy to tell you Mr. Miller, you have a beautiful, healthy son,” and he gave me a big hug, and that was so cool.
Krista Baum:
Were there any other silver linings to the hardships you've been through?
Don Miller:
Part of the losing children, losing Rick, I was junk, I mean, truly, truly junk. I just didn't care about nothing. I was ready to give up, and for three years I was pretty disgusting actually.
And one day my beautiful wife grabbed me by the shirt, just like a kid that's not behaving, and she said, “You listen to me, I know you're hurting and I'm hurting. But our two kids are hurting too, and we have two kids to take care of, and you got to get your act together and let’s start taking care of those kids and think of them.”
And boy, did I need that, she was right. What I had done was I was so buried in grief as a father, I forgot that I had a wife and two kids that I should be giving strength to, and I didn't. They were the ones that were giving strength to me.
So, that really, really, really helped me get my head together. And the next day, I was driving down the road and I was listening to Golden Oldies and the Elvis song was on, “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” So, I started changing the lyrics to what I was feeling at that moment.
And I said the whole thing as it went along and I ball like a baby, but it really kind of like unleashed a — something opened up the safety valve or something. So, I came home, and I wrote down what I wrote, and I took it to a musician buddy of mine and he put a tune to it.
And so, that was my first song, it's helped me so much. So, I ended up writing 15 songs. I didn't copy of the song, but it's done now.
I just wrote lyrics and I really, really enjoyed writing the lyrics. One of them titled Setback Ain’t Nothing but a Setup for a Comeback. So, I wrote the song about things like that, kind of inspirational song.
And then I wrote a song about losing when you have to take your dog to the vets for the last time, wrote the Last Ride. My daughter put it on Facebook, a guy down in Houston, Texas, a movie director saw it. And he had just done a little six-minute thing about the same thing about his dog.
And so, we got in touch, and he said, “I'd love to do a music video with that,” I said, “That'd be great.” We had such a great time, the director said, “You know, you're a really good writer, why don't you write your story and maybe we can do a movie?”
So, I did. I wrote If I Could Run, which was a story about me in high school getting bullied and how I got through it. And it came out really good, we won a lot of awards with it. But that's how I got started in writing was actually my son's death, what got me here. So, I add that as the good part of the feeling.
Krista Baum:
What a great therapeutic use of art.
Don Miller:
Yes, therapeutic is the word that I use all the time, it has just been so great therapy, and I enjoy it so much. And the whole town joined in on it and stuff. So, it's been a great, great, great thing.
Krista Baum:
Would you want to share the poem you wrote to the Elvis song about your son?
[Music Playing]
Don Miller:
Yes, it's called, Are You Lonesome Tonight Elvis’s song.
“I am so sad tonight, I miss you tonight, my heartaches since you've gone away. My memories strays back to those precious days when we were together, I thought for always. Now, my life is so empty. I look and you're not there. My heart never stops hurting. Your memories are everywhere. Oh, my heart is full of pain knowing you won't be back again. Ricky my son, how I miss you tonight …”
And then it goes on, continues on and on.
Krista Baum:
It's really beautiful.
Thanks for joining us today. If you want to get started writing your life stories or want to give the gift of Storyworth to a loved one, head over to storyworth.com. And if you'd like to volunteer one of your stories for a future episode, go to storyworth.com/podcast.
In our next episode:
Narrator:
There are some things you can be certain of in life, like the widely accepted death, taxes, and election season TV commercials. And until recently, I would've added family to that list.
Krista Baum:
How one woman's world was turned upside down by the results of a genetic testing kit on her 70th birthday.
Storyworth is a production of Evergreen Podcasts, hosted by me, Krista Baum, and produced by Hannah Rae Leach. We get production help from Jill Greenberg and our mix engineer is Sean Rule-Hoffman. We'll see you next time.
Recent Episodes
View AllHey Michael, what's your go-to story?
Storyworth | S:3 E:14Hey Myrna, is there anything your parents forgot to mention?
Storyworth | S:3 E:13Donna, what was the Greatest Generation?
Storyworth | S:3 E:12Steven, what was your grandpa like?
Storyworth | S:3 E:11Hear More From Us!
Subscribe Today and get the newest Evergreen content delivered straight to your inbox!