Unseen father: A man's silent struggle with unspoken, repeated miscarriages

The picture was strange. I couldn’t make sense of it.

“Are you a geographer or surveyor?” I asked.

Why do you ask that?

“This looks like a satellite picture of some kind of mountain range”

He stared at the picture as if seeing it for the first time. There was a pregnant pause. Something had shifted in the air. “It’s an ultrasound image”.

I was so off, I felt embarrassed.

“It’s an ultrasound image of my son, Myles”.

I should have made the connection because there were no other pictures with children. Just a framed picture of the couple. “How old is Myles now?”

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That silent pause returned and his look became forlorn. “Let’s just say, Myles would have been six this year?’

“I am so sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay. You would not have known”.

As a coach, I knew to hold my tongue. Don’t minimise the loss. Don’t offer a motivational word of encouragement. Don’t change the topic. Don’t fall back on platitudes about “God’s will” or “God’s plan.”

Just sit in discomfort with them. Don’t move. Stay still, we just sat there, on his dining table in the small apartment staring at the pictures.

He was silent for a long time and I resisted all temptation to fill that silence with words of comfort.

Finally, he spoke, his eyes a bit glassy and he was smacking his lips, suppressing the rising emotion.

“You’re the first who didn’t feel a need to say anything,” he said.

“It’s the least I could do,” I replied.

“I wish more people understood this,” he said, staring at the ceiling as he tried to regain his composure.

“Understood what?”

He shook his head slowly and we returned to silence. Tears emerged. He wiped them away, then looked up at me, allowing me to see them. I saw a deep shame and surrender written in that gaze. “Just listening. It is easier to talk about it now. It hasn’t for a long time,” he shared.

He was a 32-year-old man and he had buried three children. Somehow, the first three were bearable because he had held them, seen them, named them. Myles died at four months old. The twins came two years later. They were named Myles,(the 2nd) and Michael. Myles died in the first month and Michael two months later. He thought he had gotten stronger, but the unborn and unnamed one nearly broke him.

Indescribable pain

He had no name and he started growing out of the womb at five months. They called it an ectopic pregnancy. His partner’s life was in danger and she had to go into surgery. He was facing that horror again.

The pain. Indescribable. He felt helpless and powerless as he watched his partner go through this recurring experience of loss. He could do nothing to relieve the pain. This wasn’t a problem that could be fixed. It rendered him silent for a year. Not more than five people knew what he had gone through. Not even his own siblings.

The other children were buried in a muslim cemetery in Nairobi. He knew where they rested. He had a place to remind him that he was still a father. I once had children too.

But this unborn one. Still difficult to talk about. “Six years, man, I have been trying to be a father for six years and nothing to show,” he chuckled at the thought and I chuckled alongside when he voiced the irony.

“I see jamaas playing around with baby mamas. They have children that they don’t want. Can’t even pay school fees. I don’t play those games”

They were not officially married — a ‘come-we-stay’ arrangement that had grown complicated. A Christian man and his Muslim girlfriend, keeping their relationship secret from their families. When Aleena got pregnant, the scandal erupted. Barely a month after conception, tragedy struck.

Sabotaged relationship

Her family scorned him, called him a failure, and tried to send her abroad, away from his influence. She came from wealth; he had known hardship since his parents’ death. His family, scattered and grieving, wouldn’t understand. When the twins died, the second from a chest infection, he was helpless. He let Aleena’s family bury them the Muslim way.

He was willing to convert, for love, for dignity. But neither pushed religion; it wasn’t a dealbreaker. He didn’t tell his family much, fearing judgment. After the third pregnancy loss, the pain returned. Her family paid the hospital bills again. He remained the tolerated outsider, not respected, just present because Aleena wouldn’t give up on him.

They had prayed. Hoped. Believed. Third time’s the charm, they thought. They would break the curse.“We too could be parents.” Then it happened again. It crushed him completely.

“Do you stop being a parent when your children die?” I posed.

He didn’t answer and instead started talking about his stages.

Crying. Blaming. Conspiracy. Anger. Lost Helplessness. Surrender. Now he was talking. It was a good sign.

“We talked about it with Aleena. Talking helps us heal in some way because who is there to blame, but yourself? You have to accept it. There is nothing like getting used to it. It is easiest to stay there. But the best way is to walk through it. Think of it like walking through a dark tunnel. You just have to keep walking until you see the light. I am at that stage where I see it, still far, but at least I know I am walking in the right direction”.

“Wueh, you have passed through a lot,” I said.

He just nodded and continued

“Imagine, you want to share or at least confide in someone else, but they can’t really feel it. They may feel sorry, but they can’t relate. In fact, they become very uncomfortable. Most people ran quickly from these topics. You get a quick “pole sana”. We are here to support you. They ask for the M-Pesa account for their contribution and tell you to be strong, God is in control. Then they are gone. Quiet”.

He had a lot to get off his chest.

“You know, people talk. Your woman is always pregnant, but we never see any children. Maybe the man was the problem. There is a question mark after your name .The family insinuates. We are tired of our daughter shedding blood. Imagine that. Even cheap drug addicts, who sleep in tunnels, can have children. What is wrong with me?”

I wondered how many unseen fathers were struggling to find anyone who could validate their specific loss. Losing a pregnancy, or a miscarriage, is a common and difficult experience. While the physical toll is on the carrying parent, the emotional and psychological impact is also profoundly significant for men.

We emerge from broken societies and are shattered in many parts. Grief was a collective experience that was recognised as a complex and non-linear journey supported by the extended family and the wider community. No one was left to navigate alone. Where there were once sacred rituals and ceremonies, now there exist only superficial condolences and pomp.

Once upon a time, a baby was conceived and instantly became a living being that we could count among our dead and integrate them into the ancestral lineage, facilitating their spiritual transition. That spiritual connection to the unborn child from conception was lost. Now we just talk in whispers about discarded foetuses with no names.

This is just an illustration of the experiences of men after a pregnancy loss. They are unseen in healthcare and societal narratives. There are many resources for women’s physical and mental health after a miscarriage, but fewer for men. This can make men feel unrecognised and alone in their grief.

“There has to be a lesson in it?” I prodded.

“Yes, as we count the years, talk about them more, imagine what scenarios would have been. Keep them in our memory. We talk about them with a smile on our faces.”

“These tragedies have brought us closer. Only the two of us can truly understand. There’s no one else. The strength between us pushes us forward. I feel very safe expressing my vulnerability with my wife.”

It was the first time he called Aleena, his wife, during the entire conversation. “We haven’t given up”.

P.S. This reflection on grief and unseen fathers is part of a series of insights drawn from my book, Strength and Sorrow, where I delve deeper into these universal experiences and the pathways to finding healing amidst loss