MY BIRTH PARTNER was a ghost
My mum-in-law moved Heaven and Earth to meet her grandchildren. By Stacie Allensby, 39
Whenever I heard someone talk about their mother-in-law, they’d crack rude jokes and roll their eyes as though she was their enemy.
But not me.
My mother-in-law, Helen, was like a best friend. We’d clicked instantly when I’d met my husband Paul, now 40, back in 2004. We shared the same sense of humour and she was so kind and loving to me. We used any excuse to get together for a natter, whether it was going shopping or just watching TV.
But not long after Paul and I became a couple, Helen changed. She began losing weight even though she was already slender. Then she started having tests at hospital.
For weeks Helen didn’t tell us much, not wanting to worry anyone. But we could see the weight dropping off her.
Finally she told us what had been going on.
It was bad news.
‘It’s a brain tumour,’ Helen explained, tearily. ‘And it’s spread to my lung.’
I hugged her tightly. I didn’t want to let go. I’d been gifted with such an amazing mum-inlaw. Now she was ill and I faced the real possibility of losing her.
Thankfully, Helen was still well enough to come to our wedding in 2008.
As we said our vows, at a church near our home in Sutton Veny, Wiltshire, she looked so proud.
But by now, despite chemotherapy, the doctors had told her there was no more they could do. She was dying. Whenever I saw her, I hugged her a little tighter. She was getting more and more gaunt but she retained her incredible sense of humour.
Then, just two months after our wedding, I found out I was pregnant. After telling Paul, the first person I had to tell was Helen.
‘What?! I’m going to be a grandma?’ she cried, her eyes lighting up.
She hugged me and bit back happy tears.
‘I can’t believe it. I’m so excited!’ she beamed.
I was thrilled. Just seeing the look on Helen’s face gave me hope she might hang on. She was desperate to live and see her first grandchild.
The weeks passed. Whenever I had a scan, I showed Helen and gave her a copy of the pictures. Then came the exciting news: we were having a boy!
Helen took me shopping, buying us a Moses basket, a baby monitor for his room and cute little clothes.
Paul and I talked about the baby’s room. I was adamant I didn’t want it themed – until Helen arrived armed with loads of Winnie the Pooh bedroom accessories.
‘It’s Winnie the Pooh then,’ I giggled.
But as my pregnancy progressed, Helen grew weaker and had to go into a hospice. She stuck the baby’s scan pictures by her bed to cheer herself up.
‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ Helen would say from her bed, holding my hand.
Then one day when I was 28 weeks I started having contractions. Was the baby trying to get out early to meet Helen? ‘It’s too soon,’ I worried. My midwife checked me and said all was well. But the pains kept coming.
I tried to take my mind off it, starting a painting of Winnie the Pooh for the baby’s room. I was just packing away after finishing it when the phone rang.
It was Paul.
‘The hospital called. I don’t really understand what they’re saying. Can you call them?’ he asked.
He was working as a taxi driver and couldn’t call back. So I dialled the hospital and got through to a doctor. At first, I could barely take in what he was saying as he murmured,
‘So sorry… she has passed away… very sorry…’
Suddenly it hit me and I let out a cry.
Helen was dead. She’d gone just 12 weeks before the birth of her first grandchild.
She was only 46. So young.
I was bereft. Paul missed his mum but I did just as much. Helen was like a second mum
Helen began losing weight
to me. Worse still she’d missed out on seeing her grandson. Why?
Life seemed so unfair.
In time I gave birth to little Jack. He brought us joy at a dark time in our life.
‘At least we have you,’ I whispered to him.
At home, I laid him in the Moses basket Helen had bought us. For two months we kept him in our room with us, eventually moving him across the hallway when he was a bit bigger. I put the baby monitor Helen had bought next to his cot.
‘That’s from Nanny Helen,’ I whispered.
That night Paul was working late as I fell asleep, the baby monitor at my side.
Some time later, I woke with a start. Floorboards were creaking in Jack’s room.
We lived in a very old house and they always made a noise in that room when someone walked over them.
But no one else was home. Instead of feeling afraid, a feeling of peace came over me.
It’s all right… it must be Helen I told myself, beginning to drift off to sleep again.
I heard Jack whimper. Then a soft, soothing voice over the baby monitor.
‘Shhh, it’s all right, my baby, Nanny’s so proud…’
I woke fully with a start, hearing the footsteps making the floorboards creak again as though Helen was leaving.
Then nothing.
I tiptoed into Jack’s room. He was fast asleep, a faint smile on his face.
‘Helen?’ I whispered into the half-light.
Next day Helen’s partner, John, came to visit.
‘I had the strangest dream last night that Helen visited Jack,’ he said. ‘She told me she’d checked on him.’
I clapped a hand to my mouth and shivered.
‘I think she really did!’ I gasped, telling him what had happened.
After that, Helen was around often. We’d smell her perfume or feel the floorboards move like she was walking past.
Then, a year later, to our delight, I discovered I was pregnant again.
This time I didn’t know the sex as the baby kept moving on the scans.
I had to be induced so was taken into hospital.
Finally on the 6th January – two years to the day Helen had died – I began pushing.
It lasted hours and I was exhausted.
‘I can’t do it any more,’ I groaned, sweat all over my face. ‘I can’t…’
Then I heard a voice.
‘You can. Go on. One more. Hurry up! I want to meet my granddaughter!’
I opened my eyes.
‘Helen?’ I gasped.
I wasn’t sure what shocked me more – the sound of her voice or the fact she was telling me I was going to have a girl!
I suddenly felt a surge of energy. I pushed – just once – and the baby came out.
‘Is she all right?’ I asked.
The midwife looked puzzled. ‘I thought you didn’t know the gender?’ she said.
‘It’s a girl, isn’t it?’ I asked. She nodded and handed me a perfect baby girl. We named her Skye.
She’d been born on the day Helen had died. Helen had passed at 5.21 in the evening and Skye was born at 5.21 in the morning.
‘I can’t believe it,’ I whispered cradling Skye. I turned to Paul next to me. ‘Helen was here,’ I whispered. From then on, strange things often happened. I had a bottle of Helen’s perfume on the dresser and when Skye was two she took the stopper out and started spraying it.
I came in the room and smelt Helen’s scent.
‘It smells like Nanny Helen,’ Skye said, sniffing the air.
But how could a two-year-old
know that?
Now it’s been over a decade since Helen died, but it feels like she’s barely missed a day of the kids growing up. Jack’s 12 and Skye is 10, but we feel Helen’s presence all the time, especially on special occasions like birthdays and Christmas.
We have a picture of her on our wall and the children know all about her.
I will always be sad that Helen never got to meet them physically. But I no longer feel sad that she missed out completely. All the weird things that have happened prove Helen never missed out on being a grandmother after all.
A feeling of peace came over me