An Orphan, a Widow, and a Soon-to-Be Mother

We sat in the hospital café, sipping horrible teas and coffees from paper cups, simply gazing at one another, lost for words.

‘I simply don’t understand it!’

And everyone’s new favorite term. ‘Why?!’

I loathe such places. No one sits in them to enjoy a leisurely catch-up over breakfast with their buddies. They’re full of individuals who are sad following a traumatic visit to a loved one, people impatiently waiting for results, or people distressed from hearing terrible news. And us—a tiny sampling of the people in my husband’s life: his wife, his parents, his employer, and two of the people closest to me who had come to offer me their support. Each of us sat with tears streaming down our faces, horrified by the situation and confronted with the undeniable evidence that it was real: him lying there in the hospital’s chapel of rest, his beautifully familiar face—the one that had kissed me so recently on our wedding day—now expressionless and devoid of life. The perplexity of how on Earth he had brought himself to this place.

My best buddy came home with me for a week following that day. I’m so eternally thankful for the folks that did this for me. Taking time away from their own families, lives, houses, and careers, abandoning everything simply to be with me and make sure I was alright. They did my hoovering and cleaning, brought me countless cups of tea, got takeout, and simply sat by my side while I grieved. They were instantly there, consoling me when I awakened from nightmares where I felt like I was suffocating, calming my pain. No one knew what to say, but their presence was a safety net; their compassion filled my worst days with optimism.

‘More cards!’ I’d complain as I heard the mounds of mail drop on the doorstep in the hall of a morning, my head laying on my friend’s shoulder as she caressed my hair and wiped my tears.

The condolence cards and notes began flooding in thick and fast, almost instantaneously. I loathed them. Not to seem ungrateful—I had gotten plenty in my time—but these are the cards no one ever wants to receive. Try finding one that fits a 36-year-old lady, particularly when the death is by suicide. They’re all full of flowers, doves, feathers, and angel wings with clichéd phrases written in horrible typefaces. The phrase'sympathy’ infuriated me too. I didn’t want people’s pity—to feel like some sort of victim. There were so many flowers, all placed on the windowsills, mantelpiece, and every other flat surface in our house, seeming like it must be some sort of subdued large birthday party until you took a closer look. It just seems like five minutes ago when our house was stuffed to the brim with wedding cards. They did nothing except serve as a harsh reminder that I was much too young to be in this circumstance and that everyone felt sorry for me.

And don’t even get me started on the flowers. They were everywhere.

‘Where does anybody genuinely expect me to put these?’ I’d yell ungratefully as I placed another bouquet on the kitchen counter. Waiting for them to slowly die, when I’d experienced quite enough death for a lifetime.

Despite all the goodwill, there are still individuals who say some of the worst things while you’re mourning. So many people manage to get it incredibly wrong. It’s not their fault. We humans are predisposed to try and cheer someone up, to stop the tears, intending well. But we don’t want to effectively be encouraged to ‘look on the bright side’ at moments like this, and I know I felt like a horrible person for not being able to find one.

I had so many ‘at leasts’ following the deaths of my parents.

’At least they’re rid of pain.’

‘At least they’re back together.’

‘At least they’re at peace.’

I felt this was grasping at straws, given they were only 46 and 54, but after hard bouts with cancer, it appeared to simply be something people like to say. I didn’t imagine anybody would have a ‘least’ for the suicide of a 34-year-old guy—my husband, who had the world at his feet. But oh, they did!

‘AT LEAST YOU HAVE THE BABY.’

Being pregnant was the worst part about it for me. My alternatives for fight or flight were significantly reduced, and flight was the only survival strategy I cared about at that time. I wanted to drink as much alcohol as I could to dull the horrible anguish I was experiencing. To plan a one-way solo vacation to some far-flung, exotic spot to ‘find myself’ on a beach, away from the misery of home. To try whatever I could to create some sort of useless escape. I felt stuck.

And afraid.

Leading up to our twenty-week ultrasound, my husband and I had some heated arguments regarding finding out the baby’s sex. I wanted a surprise, and of course, I won the fight. But two days after he died, I instantly phoned up a private clinic to schedule myself in for a gender scan, and, after explaining my predicament, they very graciously booked me in for the following day.

I wanted to have things clear in my mind, to be able to make plans and have some type of clarity about at least what my future was holding. I hoped that being able to give my baby a name and to know a little bit more about who they were might help me to bond with them more effectively and go some way in trying to clear up some of the rapidly growing resentment I was starting to feel towards the tiny person who was stopping me from running away.

We all felt that going for the scan was precisely what we needed. Our new baby, my husband’s kid, is shining a light of hope for everyone. The tiny bit of excitement and delight of finding out more about them and their identity was going to be a nice piece of positive for us all to savor in the wake of our recent feast of awful news. I was delighted; this was going to help so much.

I walked to the counter of the clinic, and the extremely polite receptionist gave me some paperwork to fill out to register my data, and a very basic question screaming out from the page in front of me shocked me.

‘Next of Kin.’

I gazed at the words, my heart sinking. I didn’t have a clue.

It dawned on me that I was presently a pregnant, widowed orphan. Those three words don’t seem particularly attractive, no matter what order you attempt to place them in. Not one for your casual social media bio. For me, they’ve always generated an image of a sad, hopeless Dickensian person, condemned to a lifetime of sorrow and despair. I could also put ‘Only Child’ into the mix for good measure.

Bleak, to say the very least.

This much-revered session, in which they tossed in a free baby blue fluffy teddy (it’s a boy!) that plays the baby’s heartbeat when you squeeze its tummy (again, very nice of them), was designed to bring optimism and clarity for the future. But it was undone in an instant—a simple form field acting as a sobering reminder of how alone I thought I was in the world.

In the weeks that followed, that question—Next of Kin—continued to resonate in my thoughts. It symbolized not simply the horrific losses I’d faced but also the new life I was carrying. Grief and optimism were interwoven in ways I never believed imaginable. As much as I felt alone, I came to recognize I wasn’t. My friends, my kid, and even the goodwill of strangers were the strands keeping me together. And maybe, in that twisted mass of sorrow, love, and uncertainty, I might start to perceive the slightest glimmers of light. In fact, I could feel them as my son’s kicks became stronger, and I purchased him some garments. Imagining the love that was horribly bottled up inside of me flowing right out into him the first moment I held him in my arms.

Looking back now, I realize he was the opposite of someone trapping me. He saved my life. And I can’t wait to tell him that one day.

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