I WAS 30 when he died. A baby myself some might say. Well, I have never grown up so quick, so soon.
I was 19 weeks pregnant, and I can honestly say, hand on my heart, that pregnancy is the only thing that kept me here. We were married a wonderful seven months. Life was amazing, happy, exciting. Then my reality hit.
Widowed, nowhere to live, no life insurance and moving back from London to live with my parents, pregnant with our little Bubba. I have never felt a wave of darkness wash over me as quick as I did that day.
I don’t remember a huge amount from the moment I got that news: “I’m sorry we did everything we could, he didn’t make it.”
I laughed nervously. Then I passed out. I don’t remember much, apart from being surrounded by people/faces all the time, until in and around the time my waters broke, at 1am on the 11 December 2011.
My beautiful baby girl
There it was. The moment I had been waiting for, to hold our beautiful baby, the one we had made together, the reason I was still here. I had no idea how I was going to do this, but with my mum and sister by my side, she made her appearance. Our beautiful, perfect baby girl.
I felt a new wave of relief, but also devastation. She was out, (albeit 2 weeks early) she survived 19 weeks of me crying, unable to eat, unable to breathe, panic attacks. She was perfect. But he wasn’t here. Nothing could have prepared me for that bit. The pain in my heart that he would never get to meet her.
She is four years old now. And the light in my world. She knows just what to say, when to say it (sometimes a little too much!) She makes me smile and laugh in ways that I never thought I’d be able to again. She talks openly about the man she never met, her Daddy. It’s her “normal”.
It’s been a roller coaster ride since July 2011, but a journey I am proud of. I forced myself to live. I met a wonderful man in 2013, and to be honest, he deserves a Nobel peace prize for putting up with me at this stage. He’s been by my side, through all of my emotions, my tears, my frustrations. He is simply amazing. My baby girl adores him too. We are making awesome new memories, but I will always treasure my old ones.
Light at the end of the tunnel
I’m still living with my parents, still trying to save to have our own dream home, starting over, but I am doing it. There is light at the end of my once very dark, very scary tunnel.
After swearing I’d never ever meet anyone again, here I am, in love. Having said that I would never have more children, here I am, hoping some day my beautiful baby girl will get to be a big sister. After having said I couldn’t do this without him, here I am, doing it.
There is always hope. Time is a wonderful thing we all take for granted in everything we do. I have my ups and downs. I’d be lying if I said that I had never thought about how much better off everyone would be if I wasn’t around, but those thoughts pass. There are days where I really just want to curl up under a duvet and not leave the house, but I make myself, because I know that feeling will pass, I know things get better, I’m living proof.
When you hit the bottom, the ONLY way is up again.
So when you are feeling like this is it, like you can’t do this anymore, just wait… Just take your time. Take a deep breath and surround yourself with the people/things that make you feel better, that make you feel happy. Talk to people, they will want to help but they need to know you feel that way (we are scarily amazing at hiding how bad we can feel).
Do that for as long as it takes, because time will help you rebuild, it will help you feel better. That I promise you.
Sinéad Hingston is 35 years old and from Dublin. Her husband, Geoff, died suddenly in Portugal while the couple were on holidays in 2011. In sharing her story under #iamareason, Sinead wants to let people know that no matter how hard it gets, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel if you let people in to help.
This article was originally published on 3 May 2016
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