Only a month after finding out that she was pregnant with her first child, Nimisha Sharma's husband, 35-year-old Krunal, was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer.
What was a joyful period of expectation soon became filled with anxiety and fear, as Nimisha juggled antenatal appointments and new motherhood with support for Krunal and his treatment.
He passed away when their daughter, Siya, was just four months old.
Two and a half years on, she shares her story of strength and rebirth with Tiny Happy People. For help and support around this topic, head to the bottom of the page.
An unconventional (m)otherhood
With trembling hands, I softly pulled my husband's hands into my lap. I looked into his large, dark brown eyes. His eyes were set firmly on mine, as though they were piercing deep into my soul.
I had just one question.
"How do I be a mother without you for the rest of my life? I don't know how to do it."
The most tragic circumstances had led my husband and I to this point. We were running out of time and we knew it. He was calm, peaceful. He spoke to me softly and slowly.
"You can and you will. You have no choice. I will wait for you and Siya on the other side but until then, she needs you."
I wanted to believe him in those last moments but the fear of life without my husband left me frozen in doubt.
The reality was that the beginning of my journey as a new mother was going to also begin with the loss of my husband. They would forever be intertwined and I didn't know how to separate the two.
It all began when two, strong pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test.
I ran down the stairs to where Krunal sat working at his desk. I waved the test in front of him. “We’re pregnant, my love!” He leapt up from his chair and hugged me. We hugged for a very long time, our heartbeats syncing with the life growing inside me. We were going to be parents.
Only four weeks from this beautiful moment, our lives changed again when my husband was diagnosed with advanced cancer.
Suddenly, our world was filled with urgent scans and medical appointments, only not for myself. I raced from one hospital appointment to another, being dealt bad news after bad news - all the while staying strong for my husband and trying to grow our baby.
As time went on and my husband began chemotherapy, I found myself immersed within the world of medicine and cancer treatment. When I wasn’t arranging Krunal’s medical appointments, I was researching the best doctors. When I wasn’t maintaining my husband’s diet and nutrition, I was scheduling his routines and recovery.
Every fortnight, I drove him to chemotherapy and it broke my heart each time that I couldn’t sit with him during the session due to Covid. When I was on my own, I would put my hand on my belly and cry.
I knew my pregnancy was secondary in all this. And I had no choice but to keep going.
But what I didn’t realise at the time was how much I felt alienated from my own sense of self. See, the thing is, the cancer didn’t just happen to Krunal - it happened to us. And I was about to become a first-time mother at the same time.
Pregnancy is a formative part of your journey into motherhood. Your hormones change, your body changes to allow you to bring life into the world, and your identity begins to change. Suddenly, you have a new role to play, a new responsibility, and a new life to take care of. It is a lot to process - physically, emotionally and mentally.
But I found myself minimising all of these significant changes that were happening to me so I could focus on my husband. I rarely spoke about the pregnancy and I’d spend all my time being an advocate for support for my husband. I felt it was all on me to get my husband treated - that my love and devotion would ultimately cure him
And while this focus was right, I didn’t realise how much of an impact it would have on my mental health later in motherhood.
We didn’t have the pregnancy we always thought we’d have. I didn’t experience those blissful moments, the pregnancy yoga sessions, cravings, or the ability to practise self-care. My pregnancy was a race to save my husband.
We never even got to announce our pregnancy - we only told family and friends as a passing comment once we told them that Krunal had cancer. It felt like the cancer had cruelly snatched these precious moments away from us.
I began to feel increasingly invisible as few people asked me how I was coping with this huge life change. How was I managing a pregnancy while being the main support system to the father of my child? It felt like I was trying to save a life while trying to grow a life.
Miraculously, I gave birth to our beautiful baby girl and I became a mother.
My heart and happiness knew no bounds. She was made for me. But my motherhood was still overshadowed by the increasingly dark cloud of cancer.
After Siya was born, I don’t remember spending much time with our newborn because sadly, my husband’s health took a turn for the worse and I spent most of my time beside him, comforting him. I was in disbelief that life could be so cruel. All we’d wanted was to be a family together.
As I watched the man I loved more than life itself fade in front of my eyes, somewhere in the distance I could hear our baby crying. It was a cry that was asking for love… for her mother, for her father.
I scooped her up in my arms and wept. And wept. I cried for my baby and the father she'll never see growing up, I cried for my husband who will never see his daughter growing up. I cried for myself. I was going to have to find a way to survive this loss for the sake of my baby.
My motherhood began with me trying to process the unimaginable loss of the love of my life.
I knew that I was going to have to dig deep within myself and find that place where my strength existed. No matter how many times I wanted to crumble and give in - and there were so many times I wanted to give in - I never let myself.
Powered by my grief and adrenaline, it felt like I was moving seamlessly from day to day. With my new baby, I didn't have time to stop and mourn, I had to carry on.
There was always a feed or a nappy change needed. There was always a rhyme to sing or a book to read. She gave me routine and in return I gave her stability. We both quickly became each other’s comfort.
Amongst this, I also experienced moments of pure, visceral fear. How could I possibly do this alone? The practical responsibilities alone – sorting our home, mortgage and finances, the cost of childcare, single parenting in a world built for couples – even now, often feel crushing.
Juggling new motherhood and the life-shattering loss of my husband tested every single one of my limits. I was so sad, I was exhausted, I was overwhelmed, and I was fearful – I never expected to do this journey on my own.
There were times when, under the surface of the mundane, I've struggled to even recognise myself.
I've changed physically and mentally, with the innocence of life stripped right away from my soul. I've wondered what I can offer my daughter, whether I'll be enough for her - how will I play both mother and father? Doubt and anxiety riddled my motherhood journey.
Without my husband, I found myself so desperately craving his guidance, love and support.
With little to no support from professional medical teams, or the health care workers who knew how critically ill my husband had been, I could feel my mental health declining. I was barely out of postpartum when I lost my husband, which meant that my body hadn’t regulated and I was prone to postnatal depression. I was going to have to work hard to overcome this.
I began to write about my experiences of being a solo parent online and found a community of support there.
I received messages about loss and motherhood from people all over the world, all desperate to feel less alone. I also came across the charity, , who support young people in my situation. It all helped to feel a little less alone.
Very slowly, one day at a time, I began to trust my instincts when it came to my daughter. I learnt to drown out the background noise and all the unsolicited parenting advice and began listening to what my gut told me to do for Siya.
I also had to trust the faith Krunal had in me. He had always been my biggest advocate and when I gave birth to Siya, he said, "You are already the best wife, there is no doubt you'll be an amazing mother to our girl." These words have become my biggest driver in life.
Within myself, I've found an unwavering determination to keep going. I'm still living in the house that Krunal and I built together; a house that represented for us the beginning and end of our lives as we’d known them. I'm determined to raise our daughter as a fearless and courageous girl in a world without limits.
I've gone back to work and am building the life that Krunal and I had dreamt of, except now it’s for Siya and I.
There are still good days and bad days. Days when the laughter lines around Krunal's eyes in a framed photo still sting, and days when a shared smile with Siya feels like the legacy of his presence. She looks so much like my husband, that same familiar sparkle in her eyes. When she laughs, it feels like Krunal is right there, laughing with us.
While this isn’t the story we’d dreamt of, it will always be filled with Krunal’s love, transcending time and loss. And I know full well how lucky I am to be able to carry Krunal’s love legacy, our daughter. Siya is the force that continues to bind our love, always and forever.
Support
If you have been affected by the topics covered in this article, head to 鶹Լ Action Line, which has links for further guidance and support around bereavement.
They have free online resources and helplines for those who are struggling with grief and bereavement.
