Parenting a living child after baby loss
Recently, I attended a child's birthday party. After about an hour and a half, the obligatory surface-level chatter started to morph into something more meaningful.
Out of nowhere, one of the mothers shared her journey through parenthood and baby loss. They had a son, now nearly seven years old, following a spontaneous and uncomplicated pregnancy. But a few years later, they suffered the immeasurable loss of twin daughters. Their lives spiralled into despair. They tried to conceive again for years and eventually started IVF. After a few gruelling rounds, they were successful in conceiving a baby, now nearly 12 months old. She was pregnant with a third baby on the way. While she spoke of her excitement about this next baby, her eyes told the tale of her loss.
Her eldest son had been on the journey of loss too, and held his own struggles with grief and adjustment. In the depths of their despair, the couple leaned into the joy of their living son. They followed his interests, found joy in offering him as many amazing experiences as they could, and said yes with abandon. Now, with a younger sibling and another on the way, their son felt the divide: their attention, their time, their resources, and the life he had lived before needing to share his parents with living siblings.
I leaned forward in my chair, listening intently. It was as though she was retelling my own story. Of course, many of the details were different, but the terrain was familiar.
When Tommy died, our daughter was old enough to know that her promised baby brother was supposed to come home. She felt the vibrations of grief ripple through our family, and she was moved by them.
I can’t say whether it is better or worse to lose a baby if you have living children or not. Our daughter's existence offered us gifts after loss. She forced me to get out of bed and face the day. Over time, we leaned into the joy of her magical childhood. She offered us purpose and strength when I could have easily fallen into the abyss. And parenting through the trenches of raw grief can feel impossible. I felt suffocated by the tension between needing to grieve my dead baby and needing to parent my living child. There were times when I perhaps needed to fall into the abyss for a while, but couldn't.
Parenting is hard. Children sense our emotional temperature. They have a knack for finding our buttons and pressing them. They force us to confront parts of ourselves that we would rather deny and avoid. The reflection they offer is not always complimentary. Parenting after baby loss is its own world of hard. Whether our child is born before or after our loss, our parenthood journey is irrevocably changed.
At times, I found myself more anxious about her safety. Our exposure to death made me more aware of the vulnerability of life. At other times, I felt disconnected from the world, lost in my own grief. I’m sure she felt it. Despite trying my best, this tug-of-war between anxious protection and withdrawal was probably deeply unsettling for a young child. My grief collided with her naturally sensitive temperament to make for some messy parenting moments.
When Tommy's younger brother was born, my anxiety intensified. His physicality was a stark reminder of my baby boy who had died. I struggled to put him down, both terrified and in awe of his existence. As he grew, the sting changed form. I couldn't help but wonder how Tommy would have grown and about his siblinghood with his older sister. Our daughter struggled to reconcile the space she needed to afford this new sibling compared to her past experience of a sibling who died. Even though it looked different, our family's journey with loss and life continued.
I don’t think we talk about this struggle enough. There are plenty of resources that (rightly so) speak to the anxiety we may feel when pregnant after loss. But the journey of parenthood and loss doesn’t stop if our baby is born living. We have also lost our innocence. We don't suddenly step back into the blissfully naïve version of ourselves who assumes everything will be OK now. The shroud has been forever lifted, and that changes how we relate to our living children.
I am saddened to think of how Tommy’s death shook our family during our daughter’s early years, and how she still holds this grief at such a young age. Just this morning, she lost her school hat. I reassured her that “it's not the end of the world.” She paused and then said, “Yes, for you, the end of the world was your child dying.” She couldn't be more accurate. A lost hat just doesn't compare. And yet, by rights, a seven-year-old shouldn’t know that distinction.
My parenthood has been forever changed by loss, but it’s not all grim. Having been to the end of the world, my eyes have been opened to my blessings. Tommy has gifted his siblings through his memory. He encourages me to be the best mother I can, for him and for them. I am more grateful for my living children and pause to sink into their smiles. I am more patient and committed to ensuring they know how treasured they are. My wonderment of their personhood is so much more powerful because of our loss.
I’m not perfect. Sometimes I get caught up in the stress of daily life. Sometimes I get it wrong. But then I wake up to a new day and try again.
Tommy's Mum x
