Courtney Crowder

ccrowder@dmreg.com

Batman, Robin and an Easter Bunny sat next to each other in chairs a bit too small for their capes, utility belts and gobs of fluffy white fur. They quietly observed the goings on, often standing to accept silent hugs or handshakes.

A Superman and '60s-era clown with a cornucopia of pink hair flowing from a ludicrously small hat sat a few rows back. People wearing shirts emblazoned with superheroes mid-punch and Jedis holding lightsabers aloft were peppered throughout the bare, darkly lit room.

The plethora of balloons and gift bags sporting Avengers, Justice League and Spider-Man logos gave the space the look and feel of a youngsters’ birthday bash.

But though this was a celebration of life, this wasn’t a party.

This was a funeral.

Jennifer and Bobby Leonhard, both 33, were holding services at Dunn's Funeral Home in Des Moines for their son, William, who was stillborn. After years of infertility, William was the Leonhards' miracle baby. The couple had been told they lost him in utero at eight weeks only to discover he was still alive at 18 weeks. He passed away shortly before Jennifer went into labor.

When it came time to plan William’s funeral, the couple decided they didn’t want to mourn his death, but celebrate the time they spent with him while he was in the womb. Self-described fans of all things nerdy, the Leonhards invited the comic-book community to dress up in their favorite costumes and attend the services. While Superman and an Easter Bunny are not regular sights at funerals, many local cosplayers, or people who make and wear superhero suits and other outfits, have joined in on the growing national trend of donning costumes to help community members deal with grief.

For Jennifer, throwing a costume party, even as a guise, seemed more pleasurable than hosting a funeral, she said.

“In our darkest hour, we needed to celebrate what we had and who we wanted him to be,” said Bobby. “We wanted people to have fun in his honor. We needed, desperately, to have one less sad day.”

Interest in cosplay — the hobby of creating and wearing costumes based on beloved characters or historical figures — has grown exponentially since "costuming" became popular in comic circles in the 1970s. As comics, sci-fi shows and fantasy stories transitioned from niche interests to a dominant part of pop culture over the past decade, cosplay became more popular as well, experts said. Once relegated to conventions, cosplay is so mainstream that now there’s a new trend in costume crafting: “cause-play,” or using the costume-wearing avocation to lend a hand lifting people’s spirits when they face a difficult diagnosis or tough situation.

"There are societal norms we have for dealing with grief, but those aren't always comforting to people," said Jeanie Smith, a deacon with St. Timothy's Episcopal Church in West Des Moines. "Those of us who love the person grieving need to help them in the way they want and support them in doing whatever brings them comfort."

"Grief really is an individual process," Smith continued. "We all express it and deal with it in our own ways and those should be respected."

In Des Moines, where bi-monthly cosplay workshops are well attended, at least three cosplayers’ clubs don their costumes altruistically at hospitals, libraries or schools.

For kids and adults willing to suspend disbelief, these costumed people are heroes made flesh; and magic made real. Like the comic books from which they’re inspired, these three-dimensional superheroes offer a respite, a chance to escape reality and relish childlike wonder.

"It allows patients to have a little break from the hospital setting," said Erin Biegert, a child-life specialist at Mercy Children’s Hospital and Clinic, where local cosplayers visit about every quarter. Pediatric patients "are often worrying about exams or procedures or tests, but when a character from their favorite show or favorite comic comes in, they get to be kids again. We see them open up with staff members and smile more and they are joking around. It normalizes the hospital environment for them even if just for a little bit."

At William’s visitation, Jennifer wore a crop top that displayed Batman's bat signal painted around her still-distended belly button. Illustrating her stomach with a design that made her happy was a coping mechanism recommended by her midwives in the days after losing William, Jennifer said.

Carrying a Batman doll and wearing a Batman mask, she greeted guests with mostly dry eyes.

She’d grieved enough, Jennifer said later. This was her chance to give her son at least some of the experiences she hoped he would have in life.

“I wanted him to get to cosplay and meet these guys,” she said. So “I wanted to take advantage of our last opportunity to do that.”

* * *

“It happened at eight weeks.”

Jennifer has repeated that phrase at countless doctors’ appointments over the eight years she and Bobby have been trying to have a child. The “quite a few” miscarriages she’s suffered all happened right around that two-month mark.

So when she found out she was pregnant around Halloween, her eighth week loomed large on her calendar. Their history made them nervous, but Jennifer and Bobby chose to spend the fall celebrating their impending offspring.

The couple, who met as students at Marshalltown Community College and both work in retail, had been through multiple invasive tests, numerous trips to fertility clinics across the state and immeasurable emotional stress before discovering that Jennifer had a rare allergy that allowed her to get pregnant, but not keep the baby.

Around mid-December, at just about eight weeks, Jennifer and Bobby had an ultrasound and were told their “worst nightmare” came true. The technician couldn’t find William’s heartbeat. Their baby was gone.

“The news completely changed our holiday season,” said Carolyn Morrison, Jennifer’s mother. “We planned to get baby things as gifts and we had to come up with new Christmas presents. We did whatever we could to take their minds off of it.”

Jennifer felt sick throughout the holiday season, so the couple went back to the doctor a couple months later and were told to get another ultrasound.

“The tech just looked at me and said, ‘Is there a chance you’re 18 weeks pregnant?’” Jennifer remembered of the second ultrasound. “He was miraculously there and we heard his heartbeat. He was our miracle baby.”

They felt like their prayers were answered, Bobby said, so they didn’t allow themselves to linger on what happened. They’re still not sure what went wrong.

After the shock and elation wore off, Jennifer’s mind went straight to one place: the bare closet.

She immediately plotted her thrift store and garage sale routes to start buying baby costumes.

“It was our plan to get into cosplay as a family and dress him up in all of these themed costumes,” she said. “By the time I was done collecting, he had a closet full of bears, monsters, bumble bees and, of course, superheroes.”

* * *

When finalizing the details of William’s services, Jennifer didn’t think twice about what her baby’s “forever outfit” would be: a batman onesie complete with cape.

In his coffin, she placed two fist-sized plush dolls, one Superman, the other Batman. They were his guardian angels, she said.

An introvert, Jennifer uses cosplay to break out of her shell, she said. As a child she wore costumes to deliver school presentations and, later, started donning an elf costume to work at the Jordan Creek Aeropostale clothing store during the holidays.

“When I’m wearing a costume I’m a little bolder and a little bit more outgoing than I normally am,” she said.

Many local and national cosplayers agree that costumes allow them to cast aside their fears and anxieties.

“Once the mask goes on, I’m not me anymore,” said Larry Crane, a local cosplayer. “I become lighthearted and more playful and less cynical. It’s a really strange weight off my shoulders to embrace the pure good that comes from being a superhero.”

* * *

Bobby’s mother, also named Carolyn, sat in front of William’s tiny coffin during the graveside service, where the motley crew of superheroes and clowns and an Easter Bunny had adjourned after the funeral. As the pastor began speaking, she cried and grabbed the glove of the cosplayer dressed as Batman, squeezing so hard her hand turned white.

After Jennifer’s first scare, she had a normal pregnancy, the couple said. But by 10 a.m. on her due date, Jennifer didn't feel William moving and her midwives couldn't hear fetal tones, so she was rushed to the hospital.

Doctors told the Leonhards William died in the womb and any further explanation for what happened would take months.

After so many miscarriages, Jennifer decided to give birth despite the likely outcome. She wanted to prove she could do it, she said, and held out hope the doctors could be wrong a second time.

“Jenny kept saying God restored him once, he’ll do it again,” her mother remembered. “Part of my mind, the logical, analytical part, knew it had been too long. That it was not feasible to bring him back. But the faith side thought there is no miracle too big for God.”

When the pushing was over and there was no cry, Jennifer and Bobby confronted their new reality: Their miracle child had died.

“You don’t want to face it, but you have to,” Bobby said. “It was the worst moment of my life, but also one of the better ones because I got to hold our child and see his fingers and his toes.”

Getting to rock their baby was worth the pain and horror of William’s stillbirth, the Leonhards said. By carrying him to term, they’d seen little glimpses of William’s personality. He kicked when Jennifer danced or the couple’s dog barked or Bobby tapped her stomach.

“I made a lifetime of memories in those few months,” Bobby said. “I don’t think people know how much character a baby has, but there’s a little person in there.”

Jennifer and Bobby say they plan to try again and will work with doctors to right what went wrong. The couple is on a long path to emotional recovery, they said, but talking about what happened to William and infertility has been “extremely therapeutic.”

“This is a success story,” Jennifer said. “We got so much further, we got to hold him and talk to him. This has only solidified our determination and our hope.”

As the graveside service came to an end, the pastor asked attendees to sprinkle dirt on William’s casket. Bobby went first, followed by Batman. As the Caped Crusader’s soil hit the coffin Jennifer clutched a Batman doll — a mirror image of the one with William — as tears rolled down her cheeks and she struggled to breath through sobs.

Those were tears of mixed emotions, she said: sadness, yes, but also a deep sense of peace and serenity.

These services had been, she said as Robin and the Easter Bunny passed by William’s coffin, exactly what she dreamed of for her miracle baby.