The majority of those who write to Matt are mothers of young children offering advice. Before long, the tone of the comments shifted from condolence to pragmatism. "It could happen to anyone," says Jackie Chandler, a longtime reader and now a friend of Matt. The first batch of comments on Matt's blog expressed sympathy. We want to know that if the unthinkable happened and our children or our friends' children were left motherless, our partners, husbands and friends would cope too. And we want it to be true, for Matt to be an everyman. When you talk to Matt, one to one, what comes across repeatedly is that he feels he's nothing special. Matt's posts were compulsive and charmingly artless. Grief is often sugar-coated and even when it's raw, it's rarely so honest. The juxtaposition is unexpected and jarringly funny. Then, abruptly, the scene shifted: Matt made a detour between the church and the wake – to collect some new releases at a record store. The poignancy of the service was depicted in minute detail. In one post, simultaneously heartbreaking and heartening, Matt described Liz's memorial service. Like many others, I kept returning to the blog, often starting my day in tears as I read the latest bulletin from a father I had never met but could so easily relate to. I stumbled on Matt's blog about a month after Liz's death. Writing through a haze of heartbreak, he found it comforting but bizarre that he and Madeline were recognised by strangers who had seen photographs and knew their story. Matt was in Minneapolis for Liz's second memorial service when the story ran and was confronted at the airport by rows of newspapers featuring himself and Madeline on the front page under the headline, "Without Liz, but not alone." Suddenly, Matt's blog was flooded by people drawn to this most universal of tales and traffic soared. The forum facilitators contacted him, and a front-page feature followed. doing it on my own (my wife passed away the day after our baby was born). To ward off loneliness, he posted to the online parenting forum run by his old home town's newspaper, the Minnesota Star Tribune. Soon after bringing Madeline home from hospital, Matt experienced an extreme version of the nerves felt by any new parent. When he replied truthfully – "She passed away the day after the baby was born" – he would find himself comforting strangers. But when he took his baby out, strangers would often ask difficult questions, such as "Where's Mummy?" In the first few weeks after Madeline came out of hospital, Matt couldn't bear to be at home, surrounded by so many reminders of Liz (she had left hairbands on every door knob, to save having to hunt for one when she needed it). At times he thought dying himself might be the only way through his pain, but he never seriously contemplated suicide: "The thought of our child as an orphan turned my stomach, and I hated myself for even thinking something so selfish." After the funeral, Matt took off for the hospital, feeding Madeline from a bottle while still dressed in his funeral suit.
He couldn't afford to lose himself in grief. Every Tuesday, every time the clock reached 3.11pm, the time Liz had died, he was compelled to remember when the best time of his life turned into the worst.įrom the start, his daughter gave him a reason to go on. "Doing it alone had never occurred to me." "I always thought I'd be a good parent alongside Liz," he says. Now Liz was gone and Matt had to deal with his loss as well as having to cope with a newborn baby on his own. Unlike some couples who meet as teenagers, they had grown closer and endured a complicated pregnancy. Matt worked for an internet search engine he was mellower, a counterbalance to his ambitious, successful wife.
MORE THAN JUST THE TWO OF US FULL
Liz, who was 30 when she died, was a high-flying Disney executive: highly motivated, driven, full of energy. Matt and Liz Logelin had been together for 12 years – since high school. Liz had seen Madeline only fleetingly after an emergency Caesarean. In the NICU he took Madeline from the tearful nurses and held her for the first time. He went to the only place that could offer comfort. Despite being surrounded by family, Matt felt starkly alone. And she was never going to hold her baby."īy the time Matt had summoned their extended families to the ward, Liz was dead. "She was going to die, today, here in this hospital. Liz's nurses, initially almost dismissive of her fainting spell – "It happens all the time" – quickly realised it was an emergency and hustled Matt out as the medical teams swarmed in. His elation turned to concern, then panic. As Liz fell, Matt staggered to support her, amazed at how heavy his petite wife suddenly felt.