‘Having a baby after losing a child is profoundly bittersweet’
Every year, thousands of people are affected by the death of a baby. To mark Baby Loss Awareness Week, Nicola Gaskin, 33, opens up about the painful reality…
in the middle of the night, when I sit breastfeeding my one-year-old daughter, Raven, I sometimes feel an unbearable wave of grief seep over me. As she clutches my finger, I can’t help but think of the child who I can’t feed or swaddle in love because he’s no longer here.
Having a baby is supposed to be one of the most joyful moments of your life. But when I gave birth to Raven last year, I was overcome with grief for my first child – Winter Wolfe – who died in 2015, just a day after he was born because of fluid on his lungs. It goes without saying that I love Raven deeply; she’s my world and brings so much joy to my husband Dean and me. But having a baby after losing a child is profoundly bittersweet.
For me, it has brought to life in stark reality all the things Winter has missed out on. When your child is young, everything becomes a celebration: their first smile, first word, first tooth. For each of Raven’s moments I think – what would Winter be like now? He’s there for each of Raven’s milestones – not overshadowing them, but sharing them alongside her in my mind.
I dress her in clothes I’d bought for Winter. They’re strangely familiar to me because, after his death, I’d spend months in his nursery touching the empty babygrows while imagining patting a padded nappy bum in them. Now, as I lift Raven from her cot, I weep with joy and sadness that I don’t have to imagine any more.
I was terrified throughout my pregnancy with Raven, never letting myself believe I’d be able to bring her home to the new nursery that Dean and I put off decorating so as not to tempt fate. When I went into labour, I took a photo of Winter with me. And when Raven was placed on my chest after she was born, just as Winter had been, I cried like I’ve never cried before.
They were tears of relief and happiness that she was safe. But they were also tears of pain as I relived that exact moment I’d had with Winter – just before he was whisked away by worried-looking nurses and our world changed forever. Raven’s birth was relatively quick and I feel like it was because Winter was there with me. I took Raven’s tiny finger and said out loud, ‘ Thank you, Winter,’ because she honestly feels like a gift from him.
We stayed in the hospital an extra night while they did checks on Raven. When I woke the next morning, I cuddled her close and told her she was older than her big brother now. We chose the name Raven because Winter’s middle name was Wolfe, and wolves and ravens have a special relationship where they play together in the wild. Her middle name is Rain – a nod to her being a rainbow baby ( born after a sibling who has died).
At first I believed that when Raven arrived I’d enjoy every single moment, considering what we’d been through. But it’s hard work and the days are long. Dean works late and sometimes I find myself watching the clock. I’ve felt exhausted, overwhelmed and emotional, and sometimes I wonder – do all mums feel the same way?
I’ve grown very familiar with the rise and fall of grief; I can go weeks without having a cry but then the most random moments can detonate it out of nowhere. Winter was born on 23 October, so this time of year reminds me of being heavily pregnant and him being born. I put my fleece bathrobe on for the first time the other day and sat silently thinking about him afterwards. The shift in weather; wearing slippers again; the nights drawing in; seeing kids going back to school; they all make me think about him.
My latest influx of pain was caused by something as mundane as wallpaper. When we moved house – just over a year ago, right before Raven arrived – we had to leave behind the nursery we’d drenched in pure love before Winter was born. Dean had taken the week off work to prepare it and I’d wander in with my bump and get
I’ve grown very familiar with the rise and fall of grief
excited looking at the teddies and clothes.
In the weeks following Winter’s death, this room was filled with flowers and tears. I felt closer to him in there and cried so much even the furniture seemed to grieve. Leaving that nursery behind was very painful but I found solace in the fact we had left the wallpaper up. It connected us to him. But I recently heard from an old neighbour that the new occupants tore it down and my heart discovered a fresh layer of pain – she saw it in their bin and took a piece for me. When an adult dies, there is so much connected to them. When a baby dies, those things are few and far between, so we claw at anything that is traceable to them. For me it was that wallpaper.
Raven will grow up knowing her big brother didn’t ‘go to sleep’, he died. We’ve got pictures of them both in every room and his ashes are in a little heart urn next to our bed. Each night, Raven waves to a picture of Winter next to her cot and we say goodnight to him.
When she’s older, I hope Raven will think of Winter as the person who taught us all to consider the bigger picture. How the small stuff doesn’t matter when you think how short life can be. Losing a baby will never stop being painful, but Raven has made me realise that life changes and evolves, and it’s not unmanageable forever. Nicola’s book, ‘ Life After Baby Loss’ , (£9.99, Penguin) is out now