Our Story: Part 1

Davian Myles

Growing up, I never really knew anyone who had experienced pregnancy complications or the loss of a child. If I did, my younger self was too naive--or perhaps too self-absorbed--to truly notice. My sister had a miscarriage between her second and third daughters, but even then, in my mid-twenties, I didn’t know how to support her in her grief. I didn’t understand her pain. So, when my wife, Cassie, and I faced our own loss, I was unprepared in every possible way.

Cassie and I were married in August 2020, during the height of COVID. Our relationship moved quickly--we met online, dated briefly, and got engaged soon after. By the time we were married, less than a year had passed since our first date. From the start, we shared a deep desire to become parents. Cassie often talked about her dream of being a mother, a hope she had carried since childhood. I, too, felt the pull of parenthood, especially after watching my sister raise her three daughters. My nieces were my world, and spending time with them deepened my longing to have children of my own.

After our wedding, we decided to wait a year before trying for a baby. To prepare ourselves for the responsibility of raising a child--or so we told ourselves--we got a goldendoodle puppy named Sage. She quickly became the center of our little family, her playful antics filling our tiny apartment in Lincoln, Nebraska. We often imagined the life we wanted: kids and a dog running around together, growing up as best friends. Sage was perfect--gentle, loving, and great with children. She made us even more excited for the future we were building.

In August 2021, a year into our marriage, Cassie handed me a positive pregnancy test. She’d been feeling nauseous and slightly uncomfortable since we had returned from a cousin’s wedding in Arizona, but we had chalked it up to dehydration from the desert heat. Her symptoms persisted, though, and when she handed me that test, I was overwhelmed. Joy, nervousness, confusion--they all crashed over me at once. It felt surreal to know our dream was coming true.

But as we approached our 19-week appointment, the dream began to unravel. Cassie had started spotting and experiencing cramps. Concerned, we booked an urgent visit with her OB-GYN. Sitting in the waiting room, time crawled. When we were finally seen, the ultrasound technician seemed calm and patient, answering all our questions. But toward the end of the appointment, she excused herself and returned with the doctor. They whispered quietly, keeping the screen turned away from us. My heart sank.

The doctor sat down on a stool, her expression grave. “Cassie, you are starting to dilate,” She said. “We need you to go to the hospital immediately.’ The words were a punch to the gut. Tears filled my eyes as my mind raced, grasping for answers. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

At the hospital, specialists presented us with an impossible choice: attempt to keep our baby in the womb, risking Cassie’s health, or deliver early, knowing he wouldn’t survive. After agonizing hours, we made the most devastating decision of our lives.

On November 24, 2021, our son, Davian Myles Loving, was born at just 8.9 ounces. His lungs weren’t developed enough to sustain him, but he held on for 43 precious minutes before passing in my hands. I remember every detail of those moments--his fragile body, the steady but faint rhythm of his heartbeat, the unbearable stillness when it stopped.

The grief was overwhelming. Losing Davian shattered our world. Cassie and I had both struggled with anxiety and depression in the past, but this was a depth of pain we’d never known. Some days I cried uncontrollably, clutching my pillow, while Cassie sat numb on the couch. Other days, our roles reversed. The Joy of life seemed stolen from us, replaced by a relentless ache.

Adding to the pain were well-meaning but thoughtless comments from others. I remember men telling me, “Cassie needs you to stay strong. You are the provider.” They made me feel like my own grief was a weakness, something to bury. But a close friend gave me a piece of advice that changed everything: “You have the right to grieve your child. To show up for Cassie, you need to process your own pain first.” Those words gave me permission to grieve fully and deeply.

Cassie and I struggled with our faith during this time. Though we continued attending church, it felt hollow. The hymns and sermons seemed like empty promises from a God who had let us down. By May 2022, we needed a fresh start. On a whim, we moved to North Carolina--a place we had only visited once, during our honeymoon. We hoped a new environment might help us heal.

There, we found a church small-group that welcomed us with open arms. Unbeknownst to us, this group would be a lifeline, helping us rediscover our faith. One Sunday, during a study in the book of Joshua, the pastor posed a question: “Are you living in the wilderness, or the promised land?” Cassie and I realized we had been wandering in a wilderness of grief and isolation, trying to carry our burdens alone. That moment marked the beginning of our healing.