The grief of your last child
And knowing that your family is now complete...
At around 4am this morning, as I held my six month old to my chest and instinctively began to sway back and forth—I felt a lump form in my throat at the sudden realisation that I would never have another baby.
I mean, I could—biologically speaking—have another baby. But my husband and I have only ever really wanted two. And after enduring one heartbreaking miscarriage and what can only be described as two of the most hellish pregnancies known to man, I know that there is absolutely no way I could willingly put my body through that kind of trauma again. Had I been one of those lovely glowing women who seemingly remain completely unaware that they are, in fact, pregnant—then perhaps I would feel differently. Or, perhaps not. But experiencing HG (hyperemesis gravidarum) for basically the full depth and breadth of pregnancy is akin to torture. And while it’s horrendous for the individual living with it day in, day out—it also puts tremendous pressure on those around you who have to pick up the slack in every respect until your baby arrives earth-side. It’s a lot to cope with and it can certainly break a family.
But as I stood in the darkness this morning—my little girl’s downy hairs tickling my chin—I inhaled her milky scent and felt a deep and heavy grief. The innate knowing that she is my last baby and the sheer speed at which the days, weeks and months have begun to fly by have suddenly left me in despair.
Too often I find myself staring at her as she smiles up at me, wondering where on earth the last six months have gone? And despite every bone, muscle and fibre of my being aching when she cries out in the night—I’m trying to remind myself that soon enough, she’ll sleep through and then, I’m sure, I will feel another swell of grief enter my chest knowing that these dark sacred moments shared between the two of us, have ended.
Before giving birth a second time, I hadn’t considered that I would perhaps feel grief after having my last child—but after researching and reading the experiences of other women, I’ve discovered that it’s far more common than we may think. There is certainly a prevailing narrative that at some point you just ‘know’ your family is complete. And in many respects, I can relate. I do feel like our family is complete and I’m immensely grateful to have two healthy children to nurture (even if my three year old continues to drive me round the bend regularly). But equally, I can’t seem to shake the many conflicting emotions that continue to bubble up… joy for the family we have built; relief for the newfound freedom I feel as my children slowly become less reliant on me; nostalgia as I begin to give away the now outgrown newborn clothes; sadness for the realisation that I will never experience this exact moment again; fear that I’m messing it all up; as well as hope that maybe I’m doing it right.
I’m not sure what the future holds for our little family—if anything, the last few years have taught me that you never quite know what’s just around the corner. But for now, I’m trying to do my best just to soak up this season of life, acknowledging its fleeting nature—whilst also being kind to myself as I grieve, quietly in the darkness.
