Travels With My Son

This is for the parents who are walking the unbearable path of life without their children, whilst struggling with wanting to grow their families. If this is you, I am so sorry that you’re here, but hope these words might help you feel less alone.

It was a few hours after I had given birth to my beautiful son Stewie, who we had known would be born silent. Having been given time and space to try to absorb this unfathomable information and prepare ourselves to go back into hospital knowing that we wouldn’t be bringing him home (hideous as that reality was) is something I will be eternally grateful for. This also meant that Adam had prepared a playlist of music that continued without break for our three (or four, I lose track) days and nights in hospital – or certainly for the days and nights we spent in the delivery room after we had moved from the bereavement suite. Music is so comforting, and in these circumstances invaluable to help mask the silence that shouldn’t exist. 

So there I was, sat in our delivery room with gentle music in the background and tears pouring quietly down my face as Adam had stepped out for a call (that he very much did not want to have at this moment), and I was wondering if I was a complete lunatic, a sociopath, somebody who was unable to register reality or normal human feelings. 

The reason I felt this way was that despite the fact my beautiful son had tragically died and then only just been born, two indescribable and incomparable life events that had just happened within the space of a few days, I was utterly desperate to be pregnant again. It was a primal, magnetic, all consuming feeling, and it continued for several weeks, only simmering down after a couple of months. 

Of course I wanted to be pregnant with Stewie again, I wanted a do-over, a chance for him to not die. Particularly when we found out a few months later that he had been absolutely wonderfully healthy and perfect, and what had actually transpired, to the best of our understanding, was a perfect storm after our last 36 week scan only a couple of weeks before he died – a placenta deficiency (delayed villous maturation) and then a horrendous cord accident that could not have been predicted nor prevented. But I didn’t know any of that at the time. 

Despite my state of exhaustion, grief and trauma, which I’m grateful had been reduced as much as possible by my wonderful husband and the incredible, angelic (and thankfully for us also sensitively funny) bereavement trained midwives who had cared for us, I was sufficiently in touch with reality to accept that time machines do not exist, and sadly there was no chance for a do-over.

What I wanted was a new pregnancy. Right now. Of course I was deeply grieving for my son and would continue to do so for the rest of my life, but I just wanted more than anything to be pregnant. 

I was so confused, upset and guilty until my marvellous bereavement midwife settled my anxieties. 

“Of course you want to be pregnant again.”

What?

Her explanation that followed just made so much sense, and so I want to share a version of it for anybody who is feeling confused, guilty, sad or anything else about potentially wanting to be pregnant again. 

When we’re pregnant our body is absolutely full of hormones. We are physically, emotionally, mentally, logistically, and financially preparing to bring a baby into the world, to take care of them and keep them safe. Perhaps, like us, a nursery is already set up and all the accoutrements a baby could ever need are ready to go, or maybe you were much earlier in your pregnancy. Either way, every part of our world becomes focused on being a parent. But when our babies die, our hormones don’t get the memo, and so suddenly having empty arms just doesn’t fit the plan. The only ‘logical’ way to deal with this is to be pregnant again. It’s what every fibre of our beings have been programmed for. 

For this reason, it makes absolute sense if our earliest instinct is to want to be pregnant again. 

This is not us dismissing or forgetting our babies who have died. We are not callous or unfeeling sociopaths. And babies absolutely do not and never will replace babies. This is simply nature. 

Unfortunately, desire alone is not enough to make our wishes come true, and nature is difficult to control. Whilst I would have loved to be pregnant straight away, by Christmas, by my birthday, the passing of time and stabilisation of my hormones has made me a bit more accepting (but not completely) that our bodies and minds need space to really heal and be well cared for, and that frankly the biology of pregnancy is so miraculous that, try as we might to control everything, this is one area where we really have to try to let go of control. 

As my mum put it, if I had gotten pregnant again as quickly as I wanted, I likely wouldn’t have been equipped to manage the anxieties that come with pregnancy after loss (this really applies to me personally as I know everybody is different). Whilst there’s nothing that can completely prepare anyone for that experience, and I have seen many people bravely share just how difficult it is, as always my mum’s wisdom feels right.

At the very least, this gives more time to try to build our resilience, develop our coping strategies, and repair and prepare ourselves physically and emotionally, whether that’s for another pregnancy, or for a different path altogether. 

If this is the path you are on or thinking about, I wish the very very best for you, and know that your babies will always be remembered, celebrated and loved, no matter what the future looks like.

*I thought I would add a disclaimer that I recognise that this experience won’t be universal, but I wanted to address the difficult feelings some people have around wanting to get pregnant soon after losing their baby – and also just really wanted to get my feelings out in the open. For anybody out there who has been struggling with this or anything similar, please know you are not alone.