Hello, I start writing eight weeks after my daughter was born. I should be knee deep in laundry and desperate for 15 minutes to wash my hair. But, I’m not. Astrid was born unexpectedly unwell and sadly died at nine days old. The grief felt of having a poorly baby who later died is indescribable and we will miss her beyond measure. We decided that our daughter Astrid needed to always be celebrated and shared as part of our family, and this is something I take great solace in. We will cherish and share our sweet girl, but I was left with a gaping baby-shaped hole in not only my heart, but my life. 

I longed to be exhausted from night feeds and working out how on earth to fold up tiny sleepsuits (if they were clean for long enough to be put away). Instead, I was learning how to plan a funeral and now part of the club that no one wants to be in.

I had separated very early on that the Astrid-shaped hole in my life would always be there, but that the immediate longing to be a mother was something raw and immediate in its pain. There were two losses here; my baby that I loved no longer being with us, and the opportunity to mother and nurture. 

I know I will always be Astrid’s mother and I will have the chance to care for, and raise her one day. This I can be sure of. The wilderness I now face without the same certainty and hope is how I approach the time in between. I have years of love built up ready to give, without a little one in sight. 

I took reassurance in the knowledge that so many mothers, with a fresh newborn in their arms lovingly whisper, ‘I want another one’. I joined that same chorus, with the newfound ability in my heart to love a little thing more than I could describe, yet see how there was somehow still room for more. The cliches are true, who knew?

With the knowledge that it was okay to love and cherish my firstborn, even though she was now longer physically with us, and yet still wish for another, my sights were planted firmly on the future. I just needed a baby to care for and that part of my pain I felt would be healed. If only it were that simple. 

My pregnancy was normal, low risk and uneventful in the most part, until at 39 weeks when it wasn’t. We learnt that our seemingly healthy baby was frightfully unwell, and no one knew why. As I write this, we still don’t know and we may not know exactly what happened or why no one knew until an unexpected scan showed us all. What was clear was that she needed to be born right away, meaning an ambulance transfer to a specialist hospital and emergency cesarean became our Friday night plans. 

Early in the hours of Saturday morning, our lovely daughter arrived and was immediately taken for wonderful care in NICU. I was told after my surgery that I should not get pregnant for one year. Another pregnancy was the last thing on my mind! In the coming weeks, those words echoed louder and louder, how could I possibly wait that long for a baby. Surely there was a healing-from-major-surgery-loophole for bereaved mothers? I was consumed with the longing to love and look after a baby, after all, I had already started my maternity leave and bought the nappies. I could not see past a year.

A pregnancy after loss would be hard enough, especially with still so many medical unknowns and the false sense of security my previous ‘low-risk’ status lured me into. Even if I became pregnant immediately after the one year mark, there was still such a long time between holding my babies. For now I accepted my fate. I would simply need to wait. But then the question became apparent, how to fill the expanse of time that was laid out before me?

As luck would have it, I came across an old proverb; ‘When fishermen cannot go to sea, they mend their nets’. 

I would mend my nets. 

This is me, navigating how, during the longing for motherhood (in its practical and myopic form) I would finesse my craft, be even more prepared and fill a little bit of time while stormy weather prevented me from going to sea.