Remembering My Cecilia Rose (August 8, 2007)

Dear Substack subscribers, please forgive the tone of this post, but I want to remember my daughter, Cecilia Rose Birzer, who would’ve turned 19 on August 8, 2026. I’d write on that day, but I can guarantee you, I won’t be in the mood. That day, no matter what, is always a huge downer, every year without fail. It will be a depressing day, a day in which I want to do next to nothing.

Let me start at the beginning and explain why today is the anniversary of it all. Cecilia Rose would’ve been our fifth child, and we had chosen godparents in our great friends, Phil and Melinda Nielsen. Dedra, my wife, came to full term on this day, August 6, in 2007. Our doctor, a wise and rather beautiful person, asked us to induce and deliver her immediately. Somehow, in our utter arrogance, we wanted a “natural birth,” and so we waited. We waited on August 7 and nothing happened. Early morning, August 8, though, Dedra was awaked early in the morning by a sudden jerk. We knew something was wrong, and we rushed to the hospital. We hoped beyond hope, but it was too late. That jerk was Cecilia Rose getting caught in her own umbilical cord and strangling to death. If only.

Without question, that day was the most horrible as well as the most blessed day of my life. At that point, we did induce the birth, and late in the day, my wife gave birth to our deceased daughter. We were able to hold her for several minutes, but her body was without a soul and she cooled down immediately. It was horrifying.

Some amazing things happened that day, though. Some of our closest friends—Mark Kalthoff, Steve and Laura Smith, Eden Simmons, Father Brian Stanley, and Mark and Christy Maier—spent the day with us. The nurses must of thought we were insane, as we laughed and cried and prayed. Every emotion was utterly raw and we were quite loud. It was the day I finally understood what true friendship and true community mean.

Then, even more amazingly, my wife—with the strength of her Viking ethnicity—gave birth with the ferocity and determination of a Demi-goddess. Her strength—and my weakness—were palpable. I’ve never been so proud of her.

After the birth, though, I went home to take care of the other kids. After just a few short hours of sleep, I found them all jumping on my bed, excitedly demanding to know whether they had a new brother or sister. In one of the most painful moments of my life, I had to tell them that their baby sister had died. Nathaniel was horror struck, and Gretchen lost it. I’m not sure that Maria and Harry were quite old enough to understand what was happening, but they were sad as well. Even nineteen years later, I can so clearly see each of their pale faces, tears flowing.

The days that followed were each horrors. Every minute felt like an hour, every hour like a day, and every day a month. Doing everything from planning a funeral Mass to buying a casket to buying a burial plot and paying property taxes on that burial plot just about did us in. At one telling moment, while the extremely nice church ladies were trying to help us with the funeral arrangements, we snapped—”No, of course, there can’t be Altar Girls; we aren’t heretics!!!” They didn’t deserve that, but we were at the end of what we could take.

On August 14, we had the funeral, presided over by two close friends, Father Brian and Father Bill Miscamble, an old friend from Notre Dame. Steve Smith pretty much took over the whole Mass and arranged the readings, the rosary, and everything that matters. Of course, we were utterly stunned by how many people came to the funeral. President Arnn shut down the college and encouraged everyone to attend. They did, and the church was packed. Friends and family flew in from all parts of the country. Each and every visitor was a gift. Indeed, I was truly humbled by the gifts of their presence.

The funeral was excruciating, and the burial terrible—I couldn’t believe we were leaving our daughter in the ground. Amazingly enough, though, we live across the street from a gorgeous nineteenth-century cemetery, Oak Grove. Having walked through the cemetery daily, I know it intimately. That our daughter is buried only yards from our house has meant everything to us over the past two decades. We visit often.

Crazily, that year after Cecilia Rose died was a sabbatical year for me. My first. I did everything I could to distract myself from her death, and I dove into the book I was writing at the time, American Cicero: The Life of Charles Carroll. I love the book, and I’m very proud of it—but it will always be tainted by Cecilia Rose’s death. I also spent as much time with Dedra and the kids as possible—watching and reading Batman, reading the Lord of the Rings, going on long walks, and playing Legos.

But, I will admit, I was absolutely furious at God. I couldn’t understand how He could so readily ask us to be parents and then take away the chance of doing so. I screamed at Him. I screamed a lot. I called him the Greatest Abortionist of the Universe. I would walk over the Cecilia Rose’s grave, lay down, and just yell and yell. I have no idea if it was healthy or not, but it was a little nutty, to be sure.

I have always loved music—especially complicated rock music—and one album, in particular, Marillion’s Afraid of Sunlight, kept me calm and sane. On my iPod, I listened to it over and over. Those guys in the band have no idea who I am, but I can honestly say they saved a life that year.

Though I never stopped attending Mass or taking the sacraments, I was pretty mad at God for about a decade. On what would’ve been Cecilia Rose’s tenth birthday, my very wise and beautiful oldest daughter, Gretchen, told me that I had been angry long enough and that it was time for reconciliation. She was right, of course. I suppose I should feel bad for doubting God’s intentions and for having spent a decade of my life angry with Him. I choose to believe, though, that as a Father Himself, He understands. Someday, I’ll find out.

One thing I’ve always been able to do is write, and I promised myself that I would never go a year without writing my reminscenes of my daughter, Cecilia Rose. It’s the least I can do to honor her. I want her always to be a part of the family. We celebrate her birthday, we put a stocking out for her at Christmas, we visit her grave frequently, and I always proudly say I’m the father of seven (even though only six are living).

This year, her birthday hits especially hard. She would’ve turned 19, and, as we’ve kept all of our kids out of school an extra year, she would’ve been an entering freshman at Hillsdale College. She would’ve, I’m sure, lived in Olds dorm. In the brief moments we knew her, she had black curly hair and deep blue eyes. That’s how I see her still, but at age 19. She’s bright, like her siblings, loves to read, loves to hike, and still isn’t too old to be play with Legos. I’m not sure what she would’ve majored in, but I’m guessing English. Cecilia Rose is brainy and beautiful, a Birzer. I can see her giving us a hug at opening ceremonies, taking the Platonic oath to the good, the true, and the beautiful, and then saying goodbye. Another hug. All is well.

If only.

[Please note, the icon at the top of this page was written by Phil Nielsen, as a gift to our Cecilia Rose. Phil, as noted in the piece, is her godfather.]