Womb with a view: ‘I gave birth as a widow’

Every week, a woman reflects on motherhood – whether she has children or not Widowed late in her pregnancy, Kate Ainslie, 33, explains how being a new mum saved her from grief

ifelt our baby kick as the doctors explained that my husband had just days to live. It was hard to imagine a more tragic situation. But that is what I faced last January, when my husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and died 12 days later. He was 34 years old.

At that appointment, my son Archie was 21 months old and I was 32 weeks pregnant with our daughter Grace. When people ask how I’ve coped, giving birth as a widow and raising two young children on my own, I say I haven’t coped, I’ve lived.

As a mother, it’s not enough to just ‘get through’ the day. Of course, there have been mornings when I’ve wanted to pull the duvet over my head and block out the world, but I know I can’t. When you’re widowed with children you realise not only that life must go on, but it should too. I saw fatherhood snatched away from Darren in a matter of days, so I’ll never take motherhood for granted. Every single moment counts.

That’s why I threw Archie a big second birthday party just three months after his dad died (to the surprise of friends and family), complete with a bouncy castle, a tractor-shaped birthday cake, and all his little friends running around. So much had changed for Archie, his life had been turned upside-down without him being able to truly understand where his dad had gone.

What would have been achieved by not marking his birthday? Not only did he deserve a special day, but I didn’t feel I should have to deny myself that milestone as his mother. I’m widowed but I’m still allowed to find joy in my life and celebrate my children. Seeing Archie’s face light up as family and friends sang Happy Birthday to him, his happiness was the perfect antidote to my private sadness that Darren wasn’t there.

And when Christmas came along, just under a year since Darren’s death, while I felt anxious about how I’d feel wrapping presents without him or waking up on Christmas morning in our bed alone, when the day dawned it was filled with love and laughter. Both our families together revelled in Archie and Grace’s excitement. I went to bed that night overwhelmed with gratitude at being able to make these memories.

When I look back, it’s still hard to take in how quickly everything unravelled. In early January 2017, Darren was diagnosed with terminal cancer, which had spread to his liver, lungs, spleen and adrenal glands. The only symptoms had been a recurring cough, exhaustion and loss of appetite over the previous three months. Chemotherapy to prolong his life wasn’t an option, as the disease was too advanced, so the doctors spoke in weeks, not months.

Just days before, we’d seen in the New Year – both of us so excited about completing our family by welcoming our baby daughter in a few months. There aren’t words to describe our devastation as we sat in that private room with the oncologist. What we were being told was just inconceivable.

It would have been easy to fall to pieces, but after Darren was admitted to the specialist cancer unit for palliative care, we had a conversation spanning several hours. We both knew he wasn’t going to be alive when Grace was born, so together we chose her name and wrote my birth plan so I could feel he’d been a part of it. I asked him how he wanted me to bring up our children, and he said, ‘I want them, and you, to be happy.’ He planned his funeral, gave me as much information as he could about his part of our finances, and even asked me what I’d do if the car broke down.

It felt completely surreal to be discussing a life without him in such a practical way, but we realised time was running out and we needed to do this. That conversation took place about a week after he’d been diagnosed, and already I could see him deteriorating by the hour, growing weaker and more distant.

As family and friends reeled with shock, and looked after Archie at our home, Darren and I were in our own bubble in hospital. He slept a lot and I had a camp bed next to him, returning home briefly every day to see Archie.

The day before he died, I had to leave him to have a growth scan in the maternity

together we chose her name and wrote my birth plan so he’d be part of it

unit. I felt guilty that I’d barely thought about my pregnancy, not eating properly, exhausted from days and nights at Darren’s bedside. Seeing Grace on the screen, I just couldn’t believe this little girl was never going to meet her dad.

In the early hours of 17 January 2017, Darren passed away peacefully in my arms. A terminal diagnosis can’t prepare you for losing someone, it’s still shocking. Sitting with him as dawn broke, he could have been asleep. I couldn’t believe that he’d gone.

Grace was born eight weeks after Darren died. My mum and sister were my birthing partners, but throughout the labour I felt Darren was there with me. When I closed my eyes just as Grace came into the world, I could see him clearly in my mind.

In the weeks before her birth I’d struggled with fears about how l’d feel when she was born, terrified of plunging into post-natal depression. But holding her in my arms I felt an incredible sense of joy and gratitude wash over me. She and Archie were gifts from Darren, a piece of him he’d left behind to help me.

It’s that appreciation for all that I do have, rather than dwelling on all I’ve lost, which is what has got me through the past 18 months. Yes, there are nights when I sit alone in the ‘forever home’ we bought together, the children asleep, and I cry with anger because I miss him so much. But there’s a lot of laughter and happiness, too.

I dream about Darren sometimes. He tells me, ‘ You’ve got this, Kate,’ and I hope it’s his way of letting me know that we’re doing OK. I owe it to Archie and Grace, and to Darren, to carry on living my life, and find joy whenever I can.

Their innocence and happiness, in the face of such a desperate situation, is so soothing and healing. And I know that being a mother is the only thing that has saved me from a grief which might otherwise have destroyed me. As told to Eimear O’ Hagen