Twelve weeks into my first pregnancy and I was on a high. Then the spotting started; only a tiny bit at first, but an hour later, there was more blood and I tasted the paranoia that would come to dominate my life. The community midwife advised me to take it easy and see how things were in the morning. That night felt like hell. The spotting stopped, only to start again the next evening. By then, my husband could read in my face that something was wrong. We shut each other out so as not to admit we both thought something bad was going to happen.
A scan the following day was inconclusive, so we were sent home, with the promise of clearer news in a few days, but basically not knowing if our baby was alive. Within hours, things started to happen. Strong period pains turned to stomach cramps — which I now know were contractions. We retreated to the bathroom, Aydin holding my hand as we sat on the edge of the bath. Then everything just came out. It was frightening; we were both in tears. An awful lot of blood flowed out, with large clots, which were probably part of the foetus. Weeks later, I felt guilty, as I imagined I had flushed my baby down the toilet. We just didn’t know what to do. We should have retained something to be examined, but it all happened so quickly.
I refused to speak to anyone and sat at home for a couple of weeks. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, so I still read pregnancy magazines. I had felt comfortable being in that special club, and I would look for reassurance that I was still a member, hoping they would be talking about what I was going through. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to being a young, childless, married woman, as something had changed inside me.
Getting pregnant again became an obsession. It felt like a race; I don’t know who with. This sense of need and urgency repeated itself every time I lost a baby. There was always a silent agreement between Aydin and me that we would try for another baby to end the torture.
Making love for the first time after the miscarriage was emotional and tearful. It didn’t feel right, but it was a way of getting through everything. Later on in our journey, sex became a means of comforting each other in a way we couldn’t in other aspects of our day-to-day life. It was important to keep our relationship strong. It was also a way to help us fight back. When things go wrong, we tend to pull together, but in the uncertain period before, he tries to hold in his emotions, to protect me, whereas I want him to open up. I know that as well as suffering himself, he felt helpless watching my suffering.
I’ve never had a problem getting pregnant. The second time was not long after losing our first baby. I did nine pregnancy tests before I believed the results — it felt too good to be true. Since losing my first child, I’ve never been able to enjoy being pregnant. I’m petrified. Imagine being afraid of heights, but having to keep jumping off cliffs. I just wanted to get through it and hold my baby. Then the worry would dominate, and I would check obsessively for spotting, even in the middle of the night. As my pregnancies went wrong at different stages, there was never a point we could reach and then relax. It became a case of getting through one week at a time.
Losing my second baby, Ella, was agonising. At 34 weeks, we were worried about her lack of movement, but a series of tests, and a furious stomach-rippling, wriggling session one night that made us laugh out loud, reassured us. However, the following morning, when we had finished decorating her nursery, I lay in the bath and knew something wasn’t right. I hadn’t felt any movement for hours, and my stomach looked different and felt softer.
When Ella’s heartbeat didn’t show up on the hospital scan, Aydin smacked his fist against the wall and cried out. Knowing I would have to give birth naturally, for the sake of my health, I just screamed, “This is cruel, you can’t make me do this.” I didn’t want to deliver Ella — I didn’t want to let go of her. I was also terrified of how she might look. But she was perfect, save for the cord wrapped round her neck four times. Once this was removed, some colour returned to her face and, for a second, I thought she was fine, just asleep in my arms. We describe Ella as coming into the world asleep — I don’t like the term stillbirth.
Though it was one of the worst days of my life, it was also one of the most precious. We shared an important time with Ella. We took turns holding her. We have her photograph, the imprints of her hands and feet and a lock of her hair. Before the funeral, we visited her every day. She looked like she did when she was born; her skin was still soft, but she felt cold. It was surreal, as I kept expecting her to open her eyes. When I delivered her, I had screamed out, “Why won’t you cry?” We still visit her grave every day.
Three months after Ella was born, I was pregnant again. Despite close monitoring and hormone injections to strengthen the work of the placenta, when I turned up for my 10-week scan there was no sign of life. We have precious memories of our time with Ella, but our miscarried babies are just as real to us. I think of their little hearts beating for that short time. This time, the initial shock turned to resignation as I just expected the next blow.
When we conceived for the fourth time, there was momentary joy, but then the hard thud of the uncertainty we faced. I took aspirin daily to increase the blood flow to my womb and was given hormone injections. Our consultant carried out a scan every week. At 34 weeks, my husband and I lay in bed waiting for a movement that never came. By the time we reached the hospital, I was hyperventilating, and my unborn son, Samuel, was showing signs of distress. I was admitted for an emergency caesarean. Then I began to panic — what if, after all this, I was not going to be a good mum? When they wheeled me up to see Samuel in the special care unit, I kept thinking, “How do I know he’s mine?” It also felt amazing. But a month after he was born, I got really low, assuming something bad would happen to him, as it had to all my other babies.
Seven months later, we had an “immaculate conception”. That’s what my husband calls it, as he doesn’t remember a thing from that fog of new baby exhaustion. My feelings were mixed: we wanted more children, but I felt I owed Samuel my time, and didn’t want him to suffer our anxiety. This made me feel guilty; I should have been grateful.
