I HAVE ALWAYS wanted children.

I wanted five or six, to have a big family like the one I’d been raised in, but even one would be enough for me.

My love life went didn’t work out the way that I thought it would, though.

My early thirties came and went, with no-one significant entering my life. I told myself that it would happen for me eventually.

I began to panic in my mid-thirties. Articles appeared everywhere, screaming at me that ‘women should start to have kids before they are 35 years old’.

I wanted kids so badly, but with the right person. I couldn’t force myself to fall in love.

Then one day, at a friend’s wedding, I met him.

We moved in together pretty quickly, and life was great. Instead of saving for a house we went on holidays and had fun.

At 36 years old, and after 18 months of dating, we began to discuss the topic of kids. I wanted them. He wanted them.

Trying to conceive

We tried, and tried, and tried. Nothing happened. Over a year went by and every month I would look down at the lonely single line in my bathroom.

We knew something had to be wrong, and it was.

After consultants visits, blood tests, MRIs and surgery, I found out I was the ‘problem’, but it could be fixed. Once everything was sorted, we tried again.

Two months later I was sitting at my desk at work and had the sudden urge to do a pregnancy test. I was late.

I left work in the middle of the day to run and buy the test, before going to the nearest loo in the shopping centre.

I saw the usual line, but then suddenly the faintest of lines appeared in the other window. That had never happened before. My heart was racing.

I went back to the chemist and bought one of the expensive tests, the kind that spells out the words to you. I grabbed a bottle of water and ran back to the loo.

Then the word appeared – pregnant.

I wept silently in the cubicle. I was 37 and a half, and finally pregnant.

Happiness

I told my partner, and he could barely believe it. He was ecstatic.

Then, because I am a natural worrier, the nerve took over. My partner tried to calm me down, but we still went for an early scan.

We saw the little blob, all six weeks of it. The heartbeat was good but had to go back in two weeks as the blob was slightly smaller than expected.

We went back again, and this time the blob was bigger and growing, with a stronger heartbeat. We cried happy tears.

A couple of weeks later we told family and friends. It was just easier as I like my wine, and the next social occasion would have been a giveaway. Everyone was delighted. They knew the struggles we’d had.

Something was wrong

Two days before I was due to go for my three-month scan, there was some brownish blood when I went to the toilet. I panicked.

I called my partner, and he calmed me down.

That night, when I went to college, I had cramps. I tried to remain calm. But when I went to the loo there was bright red blood.

I knew.

The next few hours were spent on the phone to the hospital, my mum and my sisters. I was searching for someone to tell me it would be OK; that it was normal.

My cramps got worse, and the hospital told me to come in.

We waited, and waited while I bled. My eyes were stinging from tears. There was no chance of calming me down. My partner just hugged me.

We finally saw a doctor, but she got called away to do a c-section before she could scan me.

We kept waiting. There was a scanner beside me, and I just wanted someone to tell me what I already knew to be true.

The doctor finally came back. She did the scan and left silently, saying she didn’t think she was using the machine correctly.

She came back with the registrar and scanned me again, with him looking over his shoulder. He confirmed what I had known for hours – there was no heartbeat.

Trying to get back to ‘normal’

The next couple of days were a blur of the worst pain I have ever felt, physically and emotionally. I didn’t know my heart could hurt so much.

My family and friends rushed to me. They have made this hell slightly more bearable.

My lovely man proposed while we were away a few weeks later. It was the first day I didn’t cry.

Now, I am waiting for things to return to ‘normal’ as my 38th birthday knocks silently on the door.

I thought I would have kids by now. Kids and a house with a garden. But life does not always work out the way you want it too.

I always thought that my life was harder than other people’s. That’s nonsense – you make your own luck. I believe that.

I am one of many women to suffer a miscarriage. One in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage. It’s too common and not spoken about enough.

My heart aches when I see a mum out with her newborn, but I know that their story before that baby came along might have been one of heartache and sadness. I see how happy they are now, and I hope to have that happiness.

One day I hope I will have my happy ending. I hope that every woman who reads this and can relate to this story has their happy ending too because we deserve it.

The writer has chosen to remain anonymous.

This article was originally published on 18 September 2016 

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