The longest third ever

CW – miscarriage talk

It’s 3am and the light of my phone is bathing my face in the otherwise dark room. My partner rolls over to look at me, bleary eyed and probably half asleep.

“Babe. You need to sleep.”

“I’m just looking up the chances of miscarriage at 11 weeks. After a clear Harmony test.” I say this tongue in cheek because I know it will annoy him, but every word of it is true.

“Oh. That’s great.” These words are breathed out in a kind of sigh, and they are blanketed so heavily in sarcasm, I know he is quite awake.

My husband thinks I have a morbid obsession with miscarriages. He’s right. He also thinks that using Google to self-diagnose, and trawling though countless forums about miscarriage experiences is basically the worst thing I could do. He’s probably right about that too. He’d be shocked if he realised the extent to which I have self-diagnosed and trawled though! Whilst I am no member of any forum, such as, I have – no joke – spent hours and hours reading thread after thread of the angst, fear, hope and joy that comes with trying to conceive, failing to conceive, conceiving but losing, and birthing. You should see my Google history.

I started experiencing anxiety after the birth of daughter a year ago. It has waxed and waned, but at the moment is hanging around 24/7. It doesn’t bring panic attacks and it doesn’t stop me from doing things. It could, but I don’t let it. It just physically annoys me and mentally drags me down, like the rock that’s sitting in my chest right now.

I know everyone thinks I should loosen up and stop worrying about miscarriage. But all those people that think that have never experienced what I, and so so many women have experienced. Ours came before our daughter, it was our first pregnancy that we lost. So our daughter is our little rainbow pocket rocket. Getting pregnant again though, now, is an anxious experience of course, but it is somewhat buffered by the existence of our sweet little girl running around me all the time. However, I just assumed that I would miscarry again. I don’t know why, I just did. I told a friend in Mother’s Group, “I just feel like miscarriage is part of my story.” What a terribly pessimistic thing for me to think! But I know I think it for the same reason that women who have lost, fight the urge to get attached to the attachment inside them. Why women don’t announce until they feel sure, so sure, that maybe this one will stick for good. For self-preservation. The friend in my Mother’s Group said that maybe it will always be a part of my story because of the effect it has had on my life, but it doesn’t necessarily leave me doomed to have more.


Stories of miscarriage can trigger a reliving of my own experience that throws me off for days. When someone close to me lost a pregnancy a year after my own miscarriage, and when I was close to popping out our rainbow, I was sucked into the black hole of grief that had taken me some time to escape. When a pregnant friend had some bleeding and messaged me, concerned, I was of course so worried about her. She was given the all clear, after a doctor offered her an ultra sound to check out what was happening. This threw me into a bizarre emotional rage that my doctor, when I had seen her about my own bleeding and cramping, did not offer me this. She did not even use a foetal doppler to check for the heartbeat… and I know there is one at the clinic! I cried at home, so full of rage and resentment at the realisation that perhaps if my doctor had have performed this simple check, I could have been made horrifically but at least immediately aware that my baby was gone. I could have had the warning. I could have had an operation. I could have avoided losing my baby in the toilet of my workplace, Friday night, sometime between 3 and 4 o’clock when most staff and thankfully all students had gone home.

This fit of regretful, sad rage only lasted twenty minutes or so. I even vowed that next time I saw my doctor I would ask her why she didn’t check my baby’s heartbeat. Did she follow protocol? Why did she just let me go home with basically a “well there’s nothing we can do, except wait and see” prognosis? There is clearly no point – no point – in pursuing this, but for those twenty minutes or so I was completely irrational and angry – I was a different person to who I actually am.

Because we lost our first baby at 10 weeks, getting to this magic number was an all consuming task for me. I counted down, day by day. I waited impatiently for the scan and DNA test we would be doing. My partner came with me on the day, with our one year old. We started the scan, and straight away were presented with a little blob on the screen, heart beating away inside. One sac, not twins, and a good looking little blob.

Then my worst nightmare, the words “Hmmm, this doesn’t look like a ten week old foetus though”. My heart dropped, I stopped breathing. And the voice in my head was saying “It’s dead. It’s gone. You’re gonna miscarry again.” Then another voice, “Stop it Jacqui – YOU CAN SEE IT ON THE SCREEN. There’s a heartbeat.”


It was 8 and a half weeks. But it was fine. My dates were wrong, with an incredibly long cycle and an astoundingly late ovulation. The receptionist cracked what she thought was a joke, “A week a half early!? Whose fault was that?” I think I muttered something like, “Um, my body’s?”.

We discussed what date to return for the blood test, as we couldn’t do it until I was actually 10 weeks. I stared at the calendar on my phone but didn’t really see it. Tears welled up and my partner whispered to me, “Hey – it’s okay, we just wait a little longer.” I looked him in the eyes which made me tear up even more, “It just took so much for me to get to this week, and now we are being rewound…”

I realised that my entire being of energy had gone into making it to the day we would see our little bean on the screen, see the heartbeat, and see that everything was looking okay. My whole mental and physical capacity had been used up, to get to this moment, and now I was deflated and forlorn.

But everything was fine, I had to keep telling myself, so there really wasn’t anything to be upset about.

And so we went back to 8 and half weeks. I let the weeks pass trying not to dwell too much on the time frame involved. I continued to feel my anxiety constantly, with no let up. All the time. I mentioned to my partner that maybe I should go to the doc, and see if I needed to take something. He pointed out that maybe it would disappear after the 12 scan, that my body was subconsciously on edge, even if I felt like I wasn’t stressing. I went for the 10 week blood test, and had a very, very anxious wait until the results came back a week later regarding Chromosome issues – all clear. Then there was just a week left until the 12 week scan, right in the midst of my family’s December Christmas celebrations. We told everyone that we were expecting, always with the caveat of “So far all looks good, but we are just waiting to see the baby again at the scan in a few days.”

Before the scan, my partner asked if I was nervous. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t. Maybe because I had had shocking nausea for weeks, and so I was pretty reassured that the hormones were still kicking around, and so was baby. I also think that with the extra week and a half, I had fallen into a sort of resignation. Whatever would happen, would happen, and I’d find out very soon.

The doc silently scanned away, checking the screen and taking screen shots and measurements. Just as I was about to ask (probably with some frustration) how everything was looking, she said all the things you want to hear. “Great measurements, looks perfectly normal, healthy looking baby” etc, etc.

And so here we are. We have made it to 14 weeks today. And my anxiety did peel away with the celebrations with family, and a slow and relaxing post-Christmas break of doing not much, and being away from home.

And today is therefore the beginning of the second trimester, and the end of the longest pregnancy third I’ve ever experienced. I’m still scared, but I’m feeling good. How lucky are we to have another little human on the way? So, so lucky.

Why did I write this blog? Not really sure, just a shout out to those who endure a tough time when pregnancy comes around again but you have lost before. I am fully aware that I wrote a very similar story last time, with my rainbow pregnancy, but I guess this is a pain that doesn’t really ever fix itself.


Best of times/Worst of times

Dear mother expecting a Rainbow baby,

You will be okay. You will make it. But – yes, it’s hard.

It’s okay to feel confused when you know you are pregnant again. It’s okay to feel scared. It’s okay not to be excited until you feel that it’s right to feel excited. It’s okay to cry.

If you just live day to day, that’s fine. Don’t book shit in. Don’t mark each week in your calendar. Not until you are ready. Protect yourself. When people say “This time will be it!”, just smile and nod. But don’t feel – if you don’t want to. People just love you, and might not understand the leap of faith that actually believing those words requires you to take.

It’s okay if it’s one of those days where you find yourself sitting at the end of the bed crying, with no idea why. It might not even be that day you read a Guardian article about a woman who lost her baby at 15 weeks (don’t click on that shit!). Or not that time that your friend thought you strong enough to hear a story about her colleague who was bleeding, and lost. Not even that time you realise you haven’t deleted all the weeks marked on your computer calendar… and you get an alert saying “30 weeks today!” It might not even be one of those days.

You are just crying because it’s bloody scary! And that’s okay.

When you reach the week when you feel safe (if you ever do), it’s okay to still feel confused. Are you excited yet? Should you allow yourself to be? Do you feel happy? Is it wrong to feel happy? Don’t be hard on yourself. You might start to tell people. It’s okay to make a previous miscarriage part of your pregnancy announcement.

Say whatever you feel like saying – because if it makes others feel uncomfortable then that’s their diff. Miscarriage happens. So if you want to say “We are super excited to be pregnant, because we lost one last year,” then say it. If you want to say “I’m pregnant again” then say it. Your previous pregnancies happened. When people ask you how you are feeling, being pregnant, it’s okay to say “Actually I’ve been pregnant before” but if you don’t want to – don’t. Just smile and say “Great!”


People will react in different ways. And some reactions will be stupid, or hurtful. But forgive these people, they just don’t get it. Someone who you adore will ask you, like a grown up to a child, “But Jac… how far along are you?” as if you would be telling him before you felt ready, or when it was very early, or when there was a good chance that you might lose your baby again… sigh. Another friend will say “But wasn’t it fun trying to get pregnant, hey? Hey?” Wink wink nudge nudge. As if the fun of sex would make trying again after a loss a fun filled journey.

Sigh. Just smile and nod.

Women will share their stories of loss – so many will whisper this quietly like a dirty secret. That’s their choice. And you might wish that they spoke it louder, so that miscarriage could be spoken of more. You might wish that they would grab your hand and say, yes, yes I know what you have been through! Loudly, proudly. So the young woman across the staff table will hear and in the future, when someone she knows goes through this ordeal, she will comfort them with the words “so many women feel what you are going through, let’s get through this together.”

You might wish this. So women will feel more supported. So women will feel less alone.

But that is their choice.


[This is where I wrote to, back last year when I was pregnant with my rainbow baby. I continued to ride the roller coaster of anxious moments up until the birth of my daughter. The last week was one of the worst, as I had one day where she moved a lot less, and then the day when the doctor suggested that she wasn’t growing. We got induced that night – without leaving the hospital from the 40 week appointment, and had our baby at 3pm the next day. She came on her due date and was a perfectly healthy 8 pounds.]


Now that I have my rainbow baby, I don’t often think about my miscarriage – not like I used to. But when I do think about it… I know how lucky I am. I know that, had we not fallen pregnant again, I would be still struggling. And hoping.

I also have no doubt that should we become pregnant again – I will still be a walking anxiety zombie until that 12 week scan. A friend put it so well – that after you lose that first pregnancy, you will never truly have that glowing excitement that you had for that first time. You lose your innocence. Even with nothing to suggest that we will lose more pregnancies, knowing the reality of miscarriage and its 1 in 4 pregnancy occurrence, I sure as hell don’t want to waste any time trying to conceive. As soon as we are ready, I am sure we will try again.

Stay strong, mother expecting a rainbow baby. You are not alone in your strange excitement that is mixed with grief and worry – reach out for help whenever you need – and I wish you a life of sunshine, as well as rainbows.

And then a Rainbow appeared (in the form of two pink lines)

TW a bit of loss, not much

I found out that a baby born after a loss is called a Rainbow Baby… I love it! I love rainbows. I love sunshine amidst rain, the fracturing of light, all the colours, diversity and gay pride – all the best things!



In December, my partner and I will bring a rainbow baby into the world, if all goes well – which I feel it will. This little human is truly coming out from behind the darkest clouds to light up our lives.

It has been a hard road, and with this unbelievably wonderful development comes a strange sort of guilt. We didn’t have to wait too long. Only about 6 months after we lost our 10 week bean, I was able to see those crazy little double pink lines on the test. I left it sitting on the bathroom sink and watched my partner from the shower as he looked at it. Furrowed his brow and looked at it some more. And then looked at me. His expression was priceless. I had been waiting to see those lines for months; picturing them, hoping for them – even imagining them – but for him, he wasn’t completely sure of what he was looking at.

“It’s happening,” I said.

Our immediate reaction to this was so different from our first pregnancy. Surely the first trimester is the hardest time for a couple who have suffered a miscarriage or still birth. For us, there was no reason to believe that we would miscarry again – except the fact that we had miscarried previously. The stats do show that miscarriage is more likely to happen when there’s been one already (but I can see how this number might be affected by fertility or medical issues that reoccur with each pregnancy).

Up until about 8 weeks, I felt hopeful but overall pretty neutral. Just sort of going through the motions of life. The family members that we told would ask about the due date and we would quickly say “December, but we won’t talk about due dates yet, let’s just get to the ‘safe zone’…” And my beautiful sister would say “ooh I’ve got such-and-such to give you” and I would say, “Okay, okay, yes that would be great – but let’s just get to 12 weeks first.”

At 7 weeks and 2 days we had the optional dating scan. My dates were spot on. I wanted the early scan so I could ease my mind… last time we had two foetal sacks but only one foetus had a heartbeat. The other would probably vanish later on. It was complex last time – not dangerous, just complex. So at 7 weeks this time we were able to be reassured that we had one normal looking little bean. Not complex. But I still didn’t let myself get excited. We saw a heartbeat last time too.

Once I got to 8 weeks, I hit peak anxiety mode. I tried to keep busy, but I was feeling so exhausted and sick. Every time someone asked about the sickness I would say “yeah, it’s bad – but I’ll take it! It means everything’s still happening!” I lay awake at night – something I’ve done since my last pregnancy pretty regularly. I dreaded blood every time I went to the toilet. I almost expected it. When I felt cramps I would freak out. When I didn’t feel nauseous, I would freak out, until it returned. (A lot of my fear around this time was that I believed I had come far enough for a miscarriage to be very painful. Like the point of no return. It was either going to be great, or it was going to be really bad.)

I understand my loved ones saying “You have to be positive”, “It’s not going to happen again”, or “It will all work out when it’s meant to” but these phrases are just words that could not in any way ease the pain or the stress that I was feeling. Yes I needed to be positive – but I wanted to protect myself. No – you can’t tell me it’s not going to happen again! Because, well it might. Yes, miscarriages happen for reasons, I got that, but that didn’t make me feel better because I SURE AS HELL was not ready to go through another one.

The 9th, 10th and 11th weeks were just a sick, stressed, grumpy string of days. I had marked in my calendar each week milestone up to 12 weeks. From about a month out, I even marked in countdown days. 12 more days and we are safe, 11 more days, 10 more days, 9 more days… The ‘safe zone’ of course, is just a thing we say. Some say you need to get to the END of the 12th week, others the 13th. But to me it was all about the scan that we had booked for our last pregnancy, but hadn’t made it to. The 12 week scan.

I couldn’t actually believe it when we got to 12 weeks. I mean, I had only dreamt of getting there and when we did I wasn’t sure what to do! We had the scan and saw our baby moving around, drinking, waving… We left the clinic stunned, buoyed, and amazingly grateful.


It rained all the way home from our scan. Then the sun peeked out through the darkness, and a small, colourful rainbow appeared.


(I totally just made that last bit up, but hey, it’s my story.)

sunshower and rainbows




TTC after miscarriage

TW miscarriage


It’s not as if I thought it would be easy, trying to conceive after our miscarriage. And the void and sadness I have felt since we lost our 11 week bean is not going to be filled by a new baby. But – it’s more about the ‘moving on’ element. One baby will not replace another – but when a pregnancy is ended prematurely, it’s like a giant earth-mover has swept down and scooped out a chunk of your life. Not just the immediate weeks or few months, but the entire future you had planned: changing your lifestyle, wearing different clothes, ending work, having a baby, having a child in your life. When this is taken from you, the next year or so that you had mentally, and sometimes physically, begun planning for, is altered and I guess ultimately, delayed.

So, when we see those two lines on the pregnancy test it will be fantastic, but terrifying. It won’t fix the sadness or the loss. It won’t be as if the previous pregnancy didn’t exist. But I certainly feel that I will be able to sort of re-enter the life I had temporarily been beginning to live.

I imagine me freaking out at the 10 week mark and staying home from work for 2 weeks. Just so we can get to the ‘safe-zone’. I picture myself having a panic attack just randomly, in the kitchen, in a meeting, at the shops. Just around that time between 10 and 12 weeks. How am I going to survive those weeks when you know that you’re far enough along for it to be extremely painful, but you are just SO CLOSE to almost being there.

Because there’s just nothing you can do. When I went to my doctor and was like, so, I’m bleeding, she very honestly said, look, if it happens, it’s just going to happen and there’s nothing you can do. And that was pretty much the right thing to say.

At least, I guess I know now how it will happen. I didn’t before. If I know the process, will it be easier? I’ll bleed, the cramps will escalate, and I’ll lose my baby in the work toilet. I don’t think I can go through that again. But if I want to get pregnant, I need to be open to the fact that it MAY happen. But what can I do? Nothing basically. I could wait until I’m more mentally healthy. But I’ve never been good at waiting. I want to be pregnant, pregnancy will bring anxiety, but if I want a baby – then I will deal with it. I can’t have a baby without being pregnant!

After we started trying again, maybe 2 months in, I got my period. I was devastated. AS I SAT DOWN and said to my friend, DAMMIT I JUST GOT MY PERIOD, someone LITERALLY WALKED IN AT THAT MOMENT, slumped down in front of us and declared “Oh my god I’m so nauseous, I think I’m 6 weeks pregnant. I know it’s early but if something happened, I would totally advocate for talking about that sort of thing.”

I felt like I had been stabbed in the heart.

I don’t blame her for being pregnant! And I don’t blame her for telling us so early (I told shitloads of people last time!). It was the sort of… flippant way that she said it that hurt me. Because in that one sentence I relived in my mind everything I had been through and how painful it was to deal with it, tell people, and try to move on with life. When you have not experienced it, you just don’t know what you are talking about. And so when I saw this girl saying that you know, if anything happened, she would just deal with it… well, I saw myself I guess. Before I had any clue what losing a pregnancy would be like.

I shut down. I didn’t even mean to. I just… turned off. I let my friend talk to her about her surprise pregnancy and I actually plugged my ear phones in and looked interested in my phone. I was so rude! But I just didn’t know how to deal! Every so often I turned and smiled as if I was still half listening. But I wasn’t. I was blasting my brain out with Regina Spektor.

(Since then, I have seen this girl and made a point of asking how she was going. I feel terrible that I didn’t engage properly in that conversation!)

Everyone goes through shit. And no one can really know how anyone feels until we live their experience. There are so many things I don’t understand. I’ve never had a close family member go through cancer. I’ve never experienced war. I’ve never been abused or assaulted. There are so many stories I cannot claim to understand, and so I do not blame anyone for not understanding mine.

But I don’t apologise for banging on about my one miscarriage. It’s how I deal with it. Since I have posted about it, I have received messages from friends all over: a whole heap of lovely messages offering support, and a whole heap of people reaching out to share their own stories. So many! Most importantly, people asking me how they can support friends who have also miscarried. (I don’t have the answer to this obviously, but I can say what I needed at the time and after.)

So anyways, just a shout out to all the ladies and their partners who have lost. Keep trudging through life. And if you need to talk about your loss, talk about it. Write about it, sing about it, scream about it. It’s hard, but you can survive. I have just got through all the births of the people who were pregnant at the same time as me, as our due date is nearly here. So maybe even just some time will heal you a little.

In a bizarre way I am actually thankful for my miscarriage and the strength it has brought out in me.

Stay strong. One day life will be better than it is now and I wish all the best for every one else going through the same struggles.

What my Miscarriage taught me about Pain, Death and Community.

TW – loss and blood talk

Disclaimer – this is my experience, I cannot pretend to understand all stories, especially not those of couples who have lost more further along pregnancies 😦


Sometimes I joke about my miscarriage. In fact I was joking before my miscarriage (Nurse on call asked if I had back pain and I replied “Well, I do, but I just vacuumed!) and during it (“Tell the boss I won’t make the interview I’m meant to be having now!”), and sometimes that shocks people. But what else can I do? Break down in tears? Blame and hate myself? Humour is a means of dealing with stuff for me, as is sharing my story.

Please understand I am not writing this to garner sympathy or pity. I am sharing to work through what is the most confusingly painful thing I have ever had to deal with, and share for others who have also experienced or are experiencing miscarriage. Perhaps loved ones might better understand how miscarriage might have affected those close to them.

I would also like to at this point admit that having not been pregnant before, and not experienced this, I previously had no idea what this would be like for others. I had no idea. I have previously been completely unaware of the pain and loss involved and have, I am sure, said totally the wrong thing in the past and certainly had a very uneducated view on how this could feel.


Surprisingly large amounts of people are unaware (I certainly was) that early miscarriage can be so painful. I think they think you go to the toilet and see blood and go ‘oh!’ I was bleeding for 2 days before, and was not in pain until cramps set in and progressively worsened. When the real pain hit 15 minutes before school ended on a Friday, I knew that it was happening. That morning I had gone to a job interview in the city before heading to my school. I had another interview lined up at the other campus principal after school at 3:15. I was lucky to be team teaching at the time and told my colleague (who knew I was pregnant, and knew I was bleeding – yeah, we’re close) “I think it’s happening” and ran out of the classroom.

What ensued was the worst pain I have ever experienced. The first contractions went about 30 or 40 minutes. Possibly more or less, I don’t really know. A colleague called my husband and told him how to get to school (once again, I joked through my tears “he’s never been here, look for a tall man with a bright red beard!”) and as my principal was guiding the paramedics over the phone he learnt that I was 11 weeks pregnant. Poor guy, that was awkward.

I have had migraines that have made me bang the heel of my hand into my head so hard, hoping that a different pain would take the migraine away. In terms of a pain threshold, I thought I was pretty strong. The contractions were full on. Not like a ‘bad period’. Much worse. When I have migraines I know it’s bad if every so often my feet kick involuntarily. During this, I had to consciously stop both my legs from thrashing out every minute or so. A colleague sourced a heat bag for me. After a certain amount of time, the paramedic said “do you want to come and sit on the toilet now?” She was calm and supportive, and amazing that she knew just then that the time had come. I passed blood and tissue, and would pass more at home later. This woman talked me through it all, and was there to check whether I was having any abnormal bleeding or symptoms.

The other night, when my partner thought I was asleep, and I should have been – I said with a start – “Maybe the paramedic lady asked to check the blood so that she would flush the toilet and not me?!” Hubby was just like “…what are you talking about?” I just had realised that in that act she had saved me from flushing my future baby down the toilet. The toilet I would continue to frequent during my working life. I actually don’t remember if she did flush or if I did, but I can’t remember doing it, so maybe she did. And doing that I think, was a really thoughtful thing.

The next day I actually felt relieved. I felt like the weight had been lifted as the anxiety of unexplained bleeding had ceased. We had good friends around. I drank Gin. I felt great (although I did cry later I think, drunk). I was in a sort of rebound high post pregnancy. I sent out an email to every colleague I had told and let them know what had happened so that they wouldn’t feel awkward later asking me about my pregnancy. I stopped bleeding very quickly. I congratulated myself on the efficiency of my uterus, so quick to dispel every part of the obviously faulty pregnancy.

I won’t go into it too much, but there was an interesting day where my hormones and post trauma brain led me on a thought excursion that can only be described as delusional. The doctor noted that a blood test to ensure my hormone levels were dropping might be in order due to the fact that there had been two foetuses in there originally. With my breasts and belly still feeling big, a sick day at home allowed me the chance to cook up the craziest belief that one had survived. The internet willingly confirmed the possibility of this. I knew it was crazy but I still indulged my damaged brain. (When the Doc mentioned the possibility of one of the beans surviving, I said “well, it might be soaked in Gin!” – seriously what’s wrong with me!?) The next day my body deflated and I looked back at my mind’s workings the day before with amazement.


The good friends checked in via text message every few days to check that I was ok. Many colleagues shared their own stories with me. Immediately, so many women and men came and shared their experiences. Most of my workmates would just give me a little squeeze on my arm as they passed, or a sympathetic ‘you ok?’ half smile. This was the best. The office ladies left a cute orchid on my desk. The librarian freaked out when I asked for the key to the toilet there, “Is every thing ok!?” which was cute. The worst thing that people could do was bail me up in a corner and ask me very pointedly, HOW ARE YOU? ARE YOU OKAY? I found myself in the photocopy room with my two principals who (wanting to be supportive) proceeded to very caringly interrogate me with their thoughtful words. I sacrificed my photocopying and got out of there pretty quickly.

The best thing someone said to me was that one day I would be able to offer support and love to another woman who was feeling how I was feeling. And I know she is right. The colleague who happened to be next to me in the toilets (I could hear her always jingling bangles) when I said “Hey _____, I think I’m miscarrying, can you help me?” was able to support me and help me through the experience until the paramedics arrived because she had also miscarried before.

The worst thing someone said to me (which honestly, I had probably said something similar myself when I had no clue) was “11 weeks. So still pretty early.” That is like a punch in the guts. How dare we minimise the potential new life and family member to a timeline of dates and landmark developments? I don’t feel like I lost a child. But I feel the greatest loss I have ever felt. It is the loss of what could have been. Saying, “You’ll get pregnant again” (again, something I have thought or said myself) is a useless statement. I am not pining for a baby. I am dealing with a loss. If a family member or friend died, you would not imply that they could be replaced. No, all you need to understand about how I am feeling now, is great loss.

I kept hearing “It’s very common”, “1 in 4 pregnancies”, but I didn’t know anyone in my family who had had a miscarriage. If it is so common, how come it is not talked of more? Once the heartbeat was seen on the 8 week ultra sound, I lived by the mantra “once you see the heartbeat, the chance of miscarriage drastically drops”. I will not do that again, nor will I tell so many people so early. But – I do not regret that I did.

However, at the moment the thought of pregnancy is a highly anxious point with me. I find myself saying the word ‘anxious’ a lot at the moment. The smell of the toilet where it happened gives me an anxious jump, menstrual bleeding brings with it a deep anxiety and I have had many sleepless nights kept awake by my active mind. Sometimes I am reliving the event, and other times ‘pre-living’ me being pregnant again. That brings an actually quite hilarious situation of me being anxious, about being anxious. I stress about finding out, feeling pregnant, going through that first trimester where I will be always, always vexed about the possibility of experiencing what I did, again. I picture myself breaking down at the 10 week mark, or spending the entire first trimester in a hole, not seeing anyone, and not even moving unless I have to.

This does not necessarily mean we should wait before trying again – whenever we reach this point again I will have to deal with these emotions. And yes, I know that one miscarriage does not necessarily mean more.

Some nights I have lain awake asking myself every WHAT IF and WHY question I could. WAS IT BECAUSE I went on water slides, WAS IT BECAUSE we had two in there and the loss of the unviable (urgh, I hate that word!) twin brought about the end of the healthy one? Was it because we got pregnant super quick and maybe my body allows ‘bad’ eggs to be fertilised? Was it because I unknowingly exposed myself to the Slap Cheek virus that was around in my family? Was it because my partner and I are genetically incompatible? Was it because I don’t eat meat or much dairy? Was it because I lifted all those school books or that big bag of dog food those times…?

In the end, whatever reason our little bean decided to depart was due to something I most likely could not have prevented. More importantly, there is nothing good that is brought on by considering all these questions.


I do not in any way apologise for making people feel uncomfortable when I tell them that we miscarried. Especially when people (often good friends) ask when we are going to have children. Are we planning to have kids? Is there any news? If they ask this, we either smile and nod and say “Yeah, hope so soon!” or (depending how I am feeling) I tell them (poor hubby, I don’t often give him a choice, but he said that if writing or talking about it helps me, then he is okay with it – dammit I love him!). Often people respond by telling me their own miscarriage story and I wonder why they would feel that it was right to ask the question then! Have they forgotten the pain they felt?

We need to talk about miscarriage as a death that has been experienced. It is a death of a dream and the loss of a life that was yet to be validated in the way that being brought into the world makes us ‘alive’ and human, even though couples who lose further along pregnancies of course know that the little one inside them is alive and literally kicking. It is a death. It should be respected. But it is a hard death to mourn, and a type of mourning that is hard to understand from the outside looking in.

I am glad that people knew that I was pregnant and knew about the loss. I felt supported and loved. In your first trimester you are feeling sick, tired, and experiencing a weird and wonderful event inside your body. Losing that, I felt empty, fat, and tired. And people around me understood this. I have suffered physically since then with pain that has rendered me sluggish and sore, unable to exercise, and emotionally deflated and sad.

And how can I expect people to always be sensitive to what we have felt? People will always, of course, talk about babies. You will be shown pictures of their kids, you will see pregnant ladies walking down the street, and Facebook will inundate you with ultra sounds, announcements and #nesting and #eatingfortwo. I can’t expect people to stop doing this, and I don’t want them to. I can always walk away from the screen, or people talking. Just the other day I listened as women chatted away in front of me about how horrible being pregnant in summer would be. I would have been at the end of my second trimester then! In that situation, I just moved away.

I am sensitive, and good friends recognise this. At work in the days following the miscarriage a “Kid’s Party” themed morning tea was held by the English team. Replete with a musical performance of that Wiggles song that you sing your kids when you are trying to get them to sleep. This was followed by the coincidental announcement that the AP was leaving because his baby was being born… A beautiful friend at work texted me the night before, telling me he could get the whole theme changed… Hell no, I said. All good. Yes, it wasn’t easy. Yes, many awkward eyes darted at me throughout the song, and the announcement. But yes, I smiled and laughed and pretended I was fine.


Thank you for reading all of this.

I am sending out a lot of love to all those who have had to bear the loss of an unborn child. To those who lost, anywhere between conception and full term. My heart breaks for you as my heart broke. But it, and yours I hope, will heal.

I know that this had made me stronger. More importantly it made me realise my strength. It has also however, made me realise the flaws in always keeping the strong face on, when you are struggling. I always smile, even when I am in pain. And this may have resulted in people thinking I am fine. Which I am clearly not. But I am getting better. And if I feel that I need to talk to someone professionally, I will. This episode has left me with the very, very strong belief that you should always, always share your stories. For yourself, for mothers, mothers to be, partners of those women, and for all women everywhere. We are the village and we need to support each other.



After the miscarriage, the paramedics left the school grounds, my principal waved goodbye with last words of “Take as much time as you need, ” and my husband helped me out to the car. Before we walked out though, he suddenly stopped “Wait!”, and tilted my face towards his. He wiped the tear driven mascara from my cheeks and all the black from under my eyes. I had put on a lot of makeup that day for my interviews! What a man, I thought. Later he would run into the milk bar for sanitary items and come out with Tena pads. “Those are for people who CAN’T CONTROL THEIR BLADDERS!!” Even though I was writhing in pain in the front passenger seat, with contractions still coursing through my body, this seems hilarious to me now.

Dear Little One (who left too soon)

Dear little one who left too soon

Why didn’t you hang around?

I even had maternity clothes ready to go

It was 2 months since we’d found out

I don’t know why you left us

I assume that something was wrong

I know it happens more often than thought

But hard not to blame me for something I’d done

You were just beginning to look human

At ten weeks, we felt nearly safe

Oh little one who left too soon

It hurt when you went away

It hurt so much OH GODS the pain

Like I was giving birth

Such pain and to know I was losing you

The worst. My heart. Has hurt.

I feel lost little one now that you’re gone

I was loving you growing inside

My life has turned from the course it was on

This sadness, is hard to hide

We will try again little one

Maybe next time you will come

We will bring you out into the world

Love, your Dad and Mum.

An Impregnable Truth

Somewhere, at some time, a man is working in a lab. He looks at his screen, at his results, at the culmination of years of much research and hard work. It’s late and there is no one around with whom he could share his breathtaking moment of discovery. It’s possible, he mutters to himself. Yes, yes. It’s possible.

Men could be impregnated. They could carry a baby to term. They too, could experience the joy, the miraculous experience of pregnancy that women have exclusively been experiencing for millions of years.

Wow. He was standing in the middle of the lab now, his hand reaching for his phone, frozen in his pocket. The effect this discovery would have on the world… he pictured the possibilities. Imagine a world, he thought, a world where men could carry their son or daughter. That connection between mother and child, the connection of being connected, that could now be felt between a father and their offspring.

He thought about his own life. He could be the one rubbing his belly, being told he was looking so well and healthy. He could be the one able to feel the kick of the baby – having other people so attentive and joyful about his condition. People would let him sit down on the train, he thought, and he could lie on the couch, while his wife, sympathetically would make him toast with peanut butter and bring him cups of tea. He considered the nausea and vomiting. Well, that comes with the job he thought stoically. And the flatulence, well, that’s normal, he thought, a smile across his face.

Yes, I would be a great pregnant father, he thought. Strong. I would never complain. I mean, how hard could it be? He had battled a brutal cold last week, and he had really never complained. No, he could do this. Hey – if the women can, men can, he thought, yes, men can do this.

But I wouldn’t be able to play squash anymore, he thought sadly. No, it didn’t matter, this was all worth the sacrifice. So no sport. And food, he would have to be healthy… Hmmm. He glanced at the Macca’s bag on his desk. And alcohol. He wouldn’t be able to drink… at all. Would he bother going to the pub with his mates then? No, I guess I wouldn’t go out too much, and I’d probably be tired all the time, he thought after a chuckle at the thought of pregnant man at a bar, atop a bar stool, or playing pool. But when we go out, he thought with a start, I’d be the designated driver. All the time. All the time? Wow. He couldn’t help but frown at the thought of nine months of not drinking and being a perpetual chauffeur.

His mind flashed through scenarios of his hypothetical pregnant life. The disappointment on his mates’ faces as he turned down offers of go-karting, boys’ weekends and fishing trips. He saw his boss’ face as he resigned, the difficulty sleeping on his front – his favourite position – being tired at friends’ weddings, throwing up every morning, and his new diet – healthy and alcohol-free.

Startled at his own mind’s wonderings, the man looked at the clock. It was late, he had to get home. He pulled his hand from his pocket, and hung up his lab coat.

The man, exhausted, crawled into bed, and planted a loving kiss on his wife’s head. He rubbed her belly that was protruding from between her pyjama bottom and top.

“I appreciate you carrying our baby, babe.”

His wife, surprised at this statement, smiled confusedly. “How’s the research going?”

“Yeah, good. Not quite there yet.”