*TRIGGER WARNING* miscarriage, trying to conceive and pregnancy after loss

I’ve wanted to be a mum for as long as I can remember. As a child, I’d get a giddy feeling inside if I saw a pregnant woman. I remember turning to my mum in Sainsbury’s ‘Mum, look, she’s pregnant!’ I would say. I’m the eldest sister, cousin, and the only girl in my family. I carried my youngest cousin around on my hip at 10, a practice run for the future role I knew I wanted.

Robbie and I had always planned to start a family as soon as we were married, so when our wedding got cancelled due to COVID-19 in 2020, we agreed we didn’t want to put our hopes of a baby on hold for the foreseeable future. A baby was our priority, and the wedding could wait. We moved into our first house together at the beginning of May, and two weeks later, I was pregnant. I will never forget seeing that positive test for the first time. My hands trembling, I ran out into the garden to show Rob. We cried and hugged, not believing our luck. 

On Father’s Day 2021, I drove to my parent’s house to spend the day with my dad. On the passenger seat sat a gift bag with a mug that read ‘GRANDAD’ and another with a positive pregnancy test that I would give my grandparents to share our wonderful news. I was 6 weeks pregnant and giddy with happiness. On the drive, I started to feel off. I had been experiencing period-like cramps for the last 24 hours or so but knew this could happen in pregnancy. The night before, I did another pregnancy test (I had done several over those 6 weeks because I really couldn’t believe we’d be so lucky to fall on the first try) and was reassured when those 2 dark lines showed instantly.

However, in a cruel twist of fate, I started bleeding when I arrived at my parents’ house. At first, it wasn’t heavy, but instantly, I knew where this was heading. Your gut is very rarely wrong. Still, I called 111, and they told us to go to A&E. We were still in the fallout of COVID-19, so Robbie wasn’t allowed in with me, and as it was a Sunday, they couldn’t do any scans. The nurse I saw looked at me like this was no big deal; I guess it was just another day in the office for her, and she told me to wait and see what happens and head to the early pregnancy unit in the morning for a scan. On the way home, I picked up yet another pregnancy test from the petrol station. 

Negative. 

My memory of the rest of the day is pretty blurry, but I remember coming out of the bathroom, saying, ‘It’s negative’ in a matter-of-fact, monotone voice. Those who know me know I’m emotional at best and hysterical at worst. My brother turned to me with a confused look and asked, ‘What? Why are you just like, acting okay? That’s not you.’ ‘How else am I supposed to act?’ I replied. In fact, I wasn’t okay. I was in shock. And I wouldn’t be OK for the best part of the next 18 months that followed. The irony of me entering my parent’s house holding a gift bag with a positive pregnancy test inside and a few hours later leaving with a negative one is not lost on me. I felt humiliated as I tossed them both in the bin.

Rob and I drove home in our separate cars, on the phone the entire 35-minute drive. I don’t remember what was said, a lot of nothing, probably. The days that followed were a blur of copying and pasting texts to the many people we’d already told we were expecting in excitement. It was an embarrassing task that stuck the knife in a little further each time we pressed send. Cards and flowers arrived, and people were lovely, but no amount of sympathy could make me feel any better. The physical side to it was, of course, awful, but it had no bearing in comparison to the mental toll it took on me throughout the rest of our journey to becoming parents. 

I am one of the lucky ones who hasn’t experienced much loss in my life, and this just wasn’t an experience I was prepared for. But who is? I later learned that 1 in 4 women will go through this, and 1-2% more than once, but these statistics weren’t something I had even heard before, let alone imagine I’d become a part of. I come from a family of women who all had their children young, with no history or awareness of miscarriage. I remember telling my mum we would book an early scan and actually having an argument with her as she said it was unnecessary and asked why we wouldn’t just wait until our 12-week NHS scan. ‘Because I want to know everything is okay, I just want peace of mind,’ I said. ‘Of course, it’s okay,’ she replied, ‘you’ve had multiple positive pregnancy tests, Shannon, you are pregnant. Just enjoy it.’ At the time, I thought maybe I was being OTT and letting my anxiety take over what should have been a magical experience; looking back, perhaps I had a gut feeling that I wouldn’t carry this baby. 

While we were only pregnant for six short weeks, we’d spent that time imagining our baby and the new life we would build around them. We discussed names, nursery paint colours, how we’d have someone else with us for Christmas and how magical that would feel. We talked about rearranging the house to fit all the stuff we’d need, booking a family-friendly holiday the following year, and needing a bigger car. We imagined the days spent kissing their little feet and taking in that smell everyone talks about. We discussed what kind of parents we’d be, and I put cute little gender-neutral baby clothes in my saved items. It didn’t matter that this little life only existed for 6 weeks because, to us, it was about to become our whole world forever. 

When we learnt that we wouldn’t have that baby, it was like the rug had been ripped beneath our feet. I can’t speak for Rob, but I felt so stupid. I told myself I was ridiculous for letting myself get so carried away, for thinking that this would all be smooth sailing. That we could just get pregnant on the first try and hold a perfect little baby in our arms 10 months later. I tortured myself. How could I be so confident? Why did I tell so many people? Why did I let myself get so carried away? How could I be such a fucking idiot?

People would say to me, with the best intentions, that my time would come, that everything happens for a reason, that I had to trust the process, and that I should ‘just relax’ because so and so’s friend’s sister had a miscarriage and then she ‘just relaxed’ and got pregnant. Others would say, ‘at least it was early’, or ‘at least you didn’t need a D&C’, or ‘at least you know you can get pregnant’. Please, if someone close to you goes through this, never tell them ‘at least’ anything. There is no silver lining to miscarriage. There is real, visceral, gut-wrenching grief. As of this month, this grief has finally been recognised by the UK government and Under the Employment Rights Bill, parents who have suffered a miscarriage under 24 weeks will now be entitled to bereavement leave of two weeks, fully paid. It’s a small win for people going through huge turmoil.

Following my first miscarriage, getting pregnant didn’t only become my project; it felt like it was my sole purpose. I was completely and utterly obsessed. Ironically, though, when you’ve just lost a baby, the last thing you feel like doing is having sex. And the ‘trying’ that follows becomes a scheduled, regimented and pressurised experience. I became hyper-aware of my body and when I was ovulating, and in the two-week wait between ovulation and my period (which should be re-coined to the two-week torture window), I would be over-analysing every single symptom and whether it meant my period was coming or not. And then, when it did arrive, it was a sucker punch to the gut that I allowed myself a few days to feel before I’d focus on starting this brain-fucking monthly circus all over again. 

I had the apps, read the books, and scoured the internet forums. I did the ovulation sticks, the cheap ones and the digital ones; I did pregnancy tests from 6 days before my period was due – I dread to think of the small fortune I spent on Amazon Prime. Getting pregnant became my whole personality, and each month that ensued, when my period arrived, I’d frantically go back to Dr Google (my other partner in Project Pregnant) and look up methods or remedies to give myself the best shot at getting pregnant again. We tried them all. And still continued to get negative tests. 

Those six months felt like six years. Six months is incredibly short in the grand scheme of things, especially fertility. But with loss and grief on my tail, I was going into this in desperation, longing for that feeling we had for those short weeks we had them. I became a shell of myself, consumed with trying to conceive. I’d put on a brave face and tell those who asked that we were fine, but my mind went to such low places, and I lived in fear that I would never become a mum. I thought about IVF if we needed it, and we discussed our feelings on adoption should it come to it. In honesty, inside, I was best described as manic. But on the surface, maybe mildly anxious.

January 2021, I had the exact same feelings I’d had before my previous pregnancy, and I knew. I’ve known way before the test showed positive every time I’ve been pregnant; to me, it’s an indescribable feeling that something is just different. Though I can’t quite put my finger on what. I peed on the stick, and the test revealed the faintest positive. Almost too faint to believe. But I’d peed on enough sticks the last year to know what was a faint line and what was a stark white ‘fuck you’. 

Although I had been absolutely desperate to see those lines, this time, no excitement came. It was a let’s watch and wait situation. I didn’t tell Rob. I peed on 6, maybe 7 more sticks throughout the week, all lines, albeit faint ones. I wouldn’t tell Rob or believe it until I got the words ‘pregnant’ on a test. From my extensive research, I knew those digital tests needed a higher level of the HCG hormone to read positive, so if I were to get one, the pregnancy hormone should be strong. And there’s something a bit more definitive about reading those words. So, Sunday night, the day my period was due, I crossed my fingers and cracked open the ClearBlue digital. 

Pregnant. 

Well, there you have it. I told Rob as he came in from work, ‘Okay. Let’s see,’ he said. Again, no excitement, just a glimmer of hope written across his face. The next day, I started bleeding. 

This one didn’t hit me as hard. If I hadn’t tested early, I probably wouldn’t have even known I had been pregnant. It’s what is known as a chemical pregnancy, in which an embryo forms and implants in your uterine lining, but then it stops developing. I was glad I got pregnant again. But I now thought that maybe getting pregnant wasn’t the problem. 

I booked a GP appointment. A whole new set of questions swirled in my mind. How could I have had 2 miscarriages? What is wrong with me? Why couldn’t my body do what it was made to do? Was there something more going on inside that was stopping these babies from sticking? I suppose I was looking for reasons to blame myself. The thing with miscarriage is you’re always looking for an answer or an explanation or maybe something or someone to blame. But most often, there isn’t one. 

I was sent for blood tests to test my hormone levels, one on the 28th day of my cycle and one on the 3rd day of my period. I did the first and waited for my period to come so I could get the results I needed to have a complete picture. My period was late. What? Could I be? No. This feels too soon. And too lucky, given it took me 6 months to get pregnant for the second time, let alone a third? I didn’t believe it was an option, but I was indeed pregnant for a third time in 8 months.

This time, I didn’t believe the tests, not even the digitals. I wouldn’t truly believe it until I had an Ultrasound scan, and even then, I didn’t think it would last. There were no big reveals to family or friends, and when we did tell them, over text, we’d get replies like ‘fingers crossed x’ or ‘got a good feeling this time’. Like us, our loved ones couldn’t get their hopes up just yet. 

We had a scan at 7 weeks, done at home by the amazing Lyss at Pure Scan. She was the kindest, calmest, most understanding, and reassuring presence we could have hoped for. She talked us through every minute of the ultrasound. ‘Everything looks great with baby right now. I think you’re going to be okay,’ she said. 

That baby was Ren.

We went on to have our 12-week NHS scan, where we were told our baby looked perfectly healthy, and another with Lyss at 16 weeks, where we learned we were having a boy, and she checked all of his anatomy for any anomalies. I was shaking like a leaf before she arrived, and I remember her telling me to remember to breathe as we went through it. When she left, I completely broke down in relief, a pile on the sofa as Rob hugged me. ‘I think we might actually have this baby, Rob.’ I said through sobs. 

The cruel thing about pregnancy after loss is that you finally get the thing you have hoped and waited for so desperately, but you feel so utterly terrified that you can’t let yourself fully enjoy it. You’re always waiting for the moment that rug gets ripped beneath you again. As time went on, and with each ultrasound and midwife appointment, it got a little easier, and I became a little less anxious. We let ourselves talk about names again. We picked out wallpaper for the nursery. We checked out the clothes in our saved items. Each time, a pang of anxiety would form in the pit of my stomach, but I would tell myself that I had dreamed about these moments for so long, and I wouldn’t let our previous experiences rob us of this present one. 

In October 2021, Ren was placed on my chest after 42 hours of labour. And for the first time since June 2020, I exhaled. 

I know that we are the lucky ones. And I write this now from a place of enormous privilege, to not only have carried one healthy child to term and into the world safely but now, two. I can’t help but feel a little guilty that our story has this beautiful, happy ending when I know not everyone’s journey to holding their babies looks like this. When it came to trying for another baby, my feelings were worlds apart from those I had before Ren. I wasn’t embarking on it in fear, instead, with just hope. This shift was because I was already a mum, and I knew how incredibly lucky I was to hold that title. It’s one I don’t take lightly or for granted. I no longer had all of those questions about whether I could fall and stay pregnant, carry a healthy baby and give birth safely. But I still didn’t feel our family was complete – I felt a seat was missing at our table. I approached it with a different mindset this time because I had the privilege to. I knew it would be an incredible blessing if we were lucky enough to grow our family, but I never felt it was guaranteed. Perhaps, if I had experienced a miscarriage before Nova, or it had taken longer to fall pregnant with her, I would have been transported back to that place of obsession and desperation. I count myself extremely lucky that I didn’t have to.

I know that in the end, our story was pretty straightforward compared to many, but it’s still a story weaved with hope, loss, grief and joy – one I hope that, in sharing, will make others trying to conceive or experiencing miscarriage feel less alone. 

I promise you aren’t.