Pins and Needle: Part 2

July 2012

Before we started trying for our family - before even Samuel was born - John and I had talked about fostering vulnerable children.  I had grown up with fostering being the norm: my grandparents fostered a number of young people and there were a few families in our church who also fostered.  I had never really known any different and knew that it was always what I wanted to do.  John, when I first mentioned it to him about ten years ago - early in our relationship - had his reservations.  It wasn't something he had ever really thought about but as the years passed and we talked more about it, he became much more positive about the idea until we decided that, once we had had our own family, it would definitely be what we did.  Over the years we spoke about it an awful lot and when I was pregnant with Emilie, knowing that she would have been our last biological baby, we spoke about waiting a couple of years after her birth before we registered as foster carers.

I have mentioned a number of times that when Emilie died it felt that the rug had been pullled out from under our feet.   Every plan we had ever made seemed to come crashing down around our ears and we didn't know where we stood or what to expect from the future.  As time passed and our hearts began to heal we began talking about foster caring again.  We had thought that, maybe if we were unable to have other children, we might look at adoption but this would be after exhausting every biological option and only when this felt like the right thing to do, which at the time it didn't.  As we talked about fostering, however, we were both filled with a real sense of excitement and expectation.  Very early on in the process we only told two other couples; Phil and Helenor and Paul and Sally who were already foster carers.  We spoke to both couples at length about what we were thinking. As we had spoken to them about it prior to the problems with infertility, it didn't come as a shock to either couple and we decided to register an interest with the local authority.

At this time, and prior to us telling anyone else, a number of people spoke to us about whether we had considered registering as foster carers and more and more it was seeming like the right thing to do - and what we would have possibly started considering at that time had Emilie survived.  And so, with trepadation, I filled in the online form and waited to be contacted by social services.  They contacted us the following morning!

I also began my injections for my IUI treatment.  The medication I used was called menopur which contained the hormone FSH (follicle stimulating hormone).  I had read online that FSH was extracted and purified from the urine of post menopausal women and wondered what on earth I was injecting myself with!  I was umsure whether to share this piece of knowledge with John as I am certain that he already thought he was living with a menopausal woman without factoring in even more hormone cocktails!  I had assumed that it would be a simple 'open syringe, inject myself' process like with the fragmin but I actually had to be taught how to mix the injection prior to using it.  I had to mix the menopur powder with saline to form a liquid and then I had to use 2 syringes and a drawing up needle to draw it into the syringe, swap over to an injection needle and then had to inject the whole syringe into my stomach.  I managed to bruise myself every time!  The first time I injected myself I flinched as soon as the needle touched my skin and grimaced as I pushed into my stomach.  I remember being surprised at how easily the needle slid into my flesh and was equally surprised - and alarmed - at how sharp it must be.  This was confirmed the following time I injected myself as I cut my index finger on the needle removing the cap.  Needless to say I improved following this and thank goodness I did...I had a longer than normal path of injections ahead of me.

In between the first set of injections and my ultrasound we went to stay with Tom and Lindsey, who had supported us during Emilie's funeral, for a couple of days.  It was such a relief to get away and Sam, as always, loved seeing them.  We talked and talked about the infertility and losses we had suffered and spoke in depth about the foster caring plans.  The others drank wine whilst I sat watching, jealously, having not had anything to drink for nearly 2 years and not being able to drink due to the treatment.  We laughed together a lot and relished the time we were spending there.  Lindsey and I took Sam to London Zoo - a huge experience for both Sam and I and I remember being comforted by the uncomfortable stomach cramps I was feeling that I assumed confirmed the hormones were working.

On our final night with Tom and Lindsey we ordered a take away curry. I remember the look of absolute horror on Tom's face as he accidently bit into a cardamon pod.  He was horrified and his reaction resulted in hysterical laughter from the rest of us.  On exclaiming that surely it couldn't be THAT bad, Tom suggested I try one...which I did.  Knowing that the taste was pretty awful I didnt chew it and swallowed it whole - causing more laughter.  I remember at this point Tom exclaiming that the seed would sprout and grow inside me to which I commented 'at least something will!'.  More laugther followed by sobering smiles.  We felt - and still feel - so at home with them that nothing is hidden.  Three is no shame in what we feel and even in the saddest of times we can laugh together and find homour to break through the pain.

At this point there was a huge shift in my thinking and I started to realise that I no longer knew what the desire of my heart was; but I was safe in the knowledge that God knew me better than I knew myself and HE knew what the desire of my heart was.  He could see past the fear.  I stopped begging him morning, noon and night for a baby and instead just prayed that he would give me the desire of my heart.  Whatever that was.

The day after we returned home I attended the hospital for my scan.  There was a dominant follicle.  It was bigger than the others although not significantly so and so I was given another round of FSH injections and sent home for another couple of days.   When I returned for my repeat scan, the dominant follicle had grown although was not quite big enough to trigger with the HCG injection.  I was given another few rounds of injections before the follicle had reached the desired 21mm needed for taking the HCG trigger shot; another injection which, this time, was to trigger the release of the egg in the follicle. I had to take the trigger shot at midnight and set my alarm to wake me up incase I felll asleep.  It felt like the latest night of my life!  I took the syringe out of the fridge and injected it as I had learnt to.  My hands were shaking and I was terrified I had done something wrong.  This precious liquid was the key to me ovulating and therefore was the key to me getting pregnant.  I did not want to mess up.

Over the following couple of days I felt awful.  I felt really nauseous and bloated and was suffering from awful stomach cramps.  I drew comfort from this that ovulation had happened.  We dropped Sam at a friend's house, drove to the hospital to register and hand in John's sprem sample and went out for lunch as if it was the most normal thing in the world.  I tried not to think about how clinical the process was and tried hard to see it as a means to an end.  The artificial insemination was possibly one of the most surreal moments of my life.  Again I lay in a bed with a nurse making small talk and John holding my hand whilst thoughts of fertilisation and conception were racing through my mind.  We left the hospital one more time and once again I tried to relax but had hundreds of 'what ifs?' racing through my mind.

Over the next couple of weeks we carried on progressing with our foster care application.  We met our social worker; a really down to earth man who was not fazed or concerned about our suffering from infertility.   We were - and had to be - completely honest about our feelings and experiences. He fully understood and appreciated our motives for wanting to register as foster carers and was more than willing to support us through the process and (huge wealth of) paper work, medicals and checks.

Nearly two weeks after the IUI, we went camping with some friends and their children.  Again I welcomed the escapism that getting away provided.  Sam played happily with his friends and we had a wonderful time inspite of the inevitable rain.  We sat under the gazebo around the camp fire and chatted and played games.  Our friends knew that we were in the middle of a fertility treatment cycle and were amazing supportive and emphatic throughout the entire weekend.  They listened when we needed to talk, normalised our feelings when we (I) let my anxieties get the better of us and distracted us with humouur, good food and conversation when we needed it.  The morning we were packing up to return home I started experiencing very painful stomach cramps.  Although I was unsure what a 'normal/natural' menstrual cycle really felt like, I was convinced that I was getting my period.  I panicked and spoke to Sarah about it, who reassured me that with each of her three pregnancies she had experienced what felt like premenstrual cramps prior to missing her period/finding out she was pregnant.  I felt sad that even though I had been pregnant three times I still didn't know what 'normal' was nor did I know what to expect.

John and I sat in our house that evening whilst the stomach cramps continued.  I kept rushing to the toilet to see if I had got my period.  By the end of the evening I felt at peace and at a place of acceptance at the thought of my period being imminent and therefore the treatment having failed.  The following morning I was surprised to realise that my period hadn't started and the cramping had stopped.  I took a pregnancy test as I knew I was meant to and followed my normal routine of hopping in the shower whilst the result developed.

On stepping out of the shower I picked up the test to throw it in the bin as my reflexes had become accostomed to doing.  However, as I glanced at the digital test window I was surprised to see the words 'pregnant 2 - 3'.  I took a number of tests that morning to confirm.  Each of them was positive.

Pins and Needles: Part 1

May 2012

"I am losing all hope; I am paralysed with fear.  I remember the days of old.  I ponder all your great works and think about what you have done." Psalm 143: 4-6

My second round of clomid made me feel even worse than the first.  The headaches were more than I could bear and I couldn't cope with the other hormonal side effects.  I knew that I must be a nightmare to live with and the hot flashes were adding to my discomfort.  I waited for my day 10 ultra sound and attended the clinic with a sense of dread.  Sitting in the waiting room I looked around at the other couples and wondered what their stories were.  Did they have another other children?  Had they experienced any losses as we had or were they childless?  I do remember at this time, however, having a real revelation of how lucky we were to have Samuel.  I lay on the bed waiting for the nurse and was quickly realising that ultra sounds were possibly my least favourite thing in the world.  I was certain I'd had more bad news than good news in ultra sounds and fet so angry that these machines could look inside me and see how poorly my body was working.  Once again I hated that I had no control over thesituation and was angry that the whole thinng needed to be a process of trial and error to see what worked for me.  I wanted them to give me the highest dose of clomid that they could to cause mne to ovulate but instead they had to work their way up to prevent over stimulation of my ovaries.

The nurse, who had become familar to me, came into the room and we exchanged small talk as she scanned me.  She explained that the follicles were bigger than the last cycle but that she still couldnt find a dominant follicle.  There were 4 or 5 that had started to grow but not to the size they would have expected at that point in the cycle.  She explained that I would need to come back a few days later and that we would have to pay more money for the additional scan.  Feeling disheartned I left the treatment room, called by the clinic to pay my invoice, met John and Sam in the cafe and left the hospital again.  John and I tried really hard to focus on the positive.  During the last cycle there had been no sign of dominant follicles.  At least so far this cycle there was a sign of follicles that were growing.

Time was speeding away with me again and as the weeks and months progressed I felt further and further away from my dream.  I was approaoching my 30th birthday; a milestone that I was absolutely dreading.  A wonderful friend of mine, Fiona, had arranged, with a group of amazing friends, a tea party in the park for me. I left the hospital on the morning of my day 10 ultrasound and went to the park to meet my friends.  In addition to arranging an afternoon tea for me they had bought me 30 birthday presents.  I hate birthdays at the best of times - I hate the reminder that I am getting older still without being where I had planned to be - but I was paricularly dreading this birthday.  However, they made me feel incredibly special and valued.  Amongst my presents were pampering things and a bath pillow, homemade chocolates, socks (a well known comfort item of mine; new socks - particularly bright ones - make the world seem a little better), books, a scarf, a jewellery making kit, candles and lots of other bits and pieces.  They had ensured that every time I look back on my 30th birthday I remember how valued and cared for I felt.

My 30th birthday arrived a few days later and I returned to the clinic for my repeat scan.  Again, the nurse and I exchanged small talk whilst she scanned me.  She looked at one ovary, explained flatly that there were no dominant follicles, and looked at the other ovary.  There were still a number of follicles that had grown a little bit since my scan a few days earlier but they were nowhere near the size they needed to be - nor had they grown at the rate they would have expected. She said, without emotion 'theres nothing to indicate this cycle will be ovulatory.  You'll need to start the norethisterone again and increase the clomid dose at day three. We'll go from there'.  I couldn't control myself and burst into tears.  I started repeating my history to her and telling her how important it was to me to get pregnant. I asked why the treatment wasn't working and she explained that sometimes 'ovaries like mine' can be unresponsive to clomid and need stimulation injections to force ovulation.  She advised that I try one more cycle at the higher dose and go from there.

At this point it dawned on me what a miracle both Sam and Emilie had been.  Although we had struggled to conceive, we had conceived naturally and I had carried both of them to early third trimester.  Inspite of the growth restriction and clotting problems, Sam and Emilie had survived to 33 and 32 weeks respectively.  They had both defied the odds.  We had had 32 precious weeks with our daughter and Samuel's story amazes everyone who hears it.  These miracles dawned on me more and more strongly as our journey continued.  I had carried two beautiful babies to third trimester against the odds and now I couldn't even ovulate - let alone get pregnant or carry past first trimester.  I just didn't understand - and never will.

During my third round of clomid I only made it to the first scan.  A couple of days after finishing the clomid I began to be violently sick.  I couldnt keep anything down and was in agonising pain with stomach cramps.  John had to stay off work to care for Sam and I spent the day in bed barely able to lift my head off the pillow.  We called the clinic who advised that I go in for a scan.  It was confirmed that, rather than stimulating the production of one healthy follicle, the clomid had casued lots and lots of very tiny follicles to develop and the hormones were making me sick.  We had to cancel the cycle, wait a full month and return to the clinic for a consultation.

Blog Entry: 30th June 2012

Today I did an abseil! It has been in the diary for a couple of months and I'll admit, as much as I love outdoor pursuits I was kind of hoping I'd have a reason not to do it in which case John would have done it in my place. But all that said, I'm so glad I got to do it! I've had a really difficult week this week knowing that my treatment hasn't worked again but knowing that I'd get to do something that I wouldn't be able to do if I was pregnant has been a little light at the end of the tunnel! 

The abseil had given me something to focus on.  It was my 'what if the treatment doesn't work' back up plan. It gave me such a buzz and, looking back, the fact that my treatment had failed in the week leading up to it left me in no doubt that it was safe for me to do the abseil.  Had this not happened; had I been mid cycle,  I would have missed out on an amazing experience out of fear of harming a very early pregnancy.  As it was, I spent the day with friends laughing - really laughing - and feeling care free for the first time since Emilie died.  I felt like I could cope, after all.

We returned to the clinic in the middle of July.  It was hot and sunny and the weather was doing a lot to make me feel more positive.  Speaking to my fertility consultant, he confirmed that my ovaries had been unresponsive to the clomid and that this was very common in Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.  He echoed what the nurse had said that clomid was generally the first step in ovulation stimulation but, as they knew I was unresponsive, we could move onto Intra Uterine Insemination.  This was exactly what I wanted, and needed to hear.  It would cost us a lot of money but I was certain that they would be able to stimualte my ovaries with the injections.  And so it was back to the norethisterone to simulate a bleed for what I hoped would be the last time.

Moving Forward: Part 2

March and April 2012

The months carried on and my periods still hadn't returned.  My life had begun to revolve around taking ovulation tests and taking pregnancy tests.  I spent an awful lot of time on the internet obsessively searching for proof of women who had found out they were pregnant inspite of a negative ovulation test.  I couldn't concentrate on anything else.  I naturally have an obsessive personality and have a strong need to be able to control things.  Here I was, in a situation that I had absolutely no control over.  Taking the tests felt like a small way that I could glean back a sense of control but every single morning when I saw the 'negative' symbols on either an ovulation test or a pregnancy test I felt like I was experiencing loss all over again. I felt like every ounce of hope was snatched from me when only a single line showed up in the display window and the rest of the day would be spent obsessing over whether I had taken the test too early/late in the day, whether my urine sample was big enough or whether the tests were working properly. I couldn't bear the thought that my body might not be working properly. 

With the support of my counsellor and friends I decided to stop taking the tests. To try and hand over the control.  It felt like I was trying to shake an addiction and I would feel uneasy at the thought of not being able to take tests.  I tried hard to throw myself into other things and give myself a new focus.  I spent a lot of time crafting, taught myself to knit and began making a scrap book.  I would put Sam to bed for his nap and sit down to carry on pursuing my new hobbies. At the time they really did keep me sane! 

In addition to the crafting, I started thinking about how I could snatch back my sense of purpose.  I knew that I couldn't get a job as I wanted to be home with Sam but liked the idea of volunteering. Every job I had had in the past revolved around working with children and families and this is where I felt my strengths lay.  There was a lunch meeting at church about undertaking training to facilitate parenting courses so I decided to go along and get a bit more information.  Jenny and another lady, Rachel, had been facilitating the courses for a couple of years and were leading the meeting.  As they spoke about what the training involved and what their vision was for rolling out the courses I felt a sense of excitement that I hadn't felt for months.  I knew that I wanted trying for a baby to be my main focus and I knew that I didn't have much head space for anything else at that time but I really felt, at that moment, that undertaking the training to facilitate the courses was what I should be doing.  I put my name down and at the same time added a little explanation about how important it was for me to be able to focus primarily on growing my family.  For the first time I didn't feel the familiar sense of panic at the thought of filling my time and throwing my energies into something that wasn't trying for a baby!  Suddenly I had a focus. I came home from the meeting feeling a sense of excitement that was almost tangiable.  The training would be in the September.

Mother's Day was looming and I was dreading it. I knew that I was still a mother to Sam but I felt like half the mum I had expected to be at that time. We decided to go away to center parcs for a week, to escape and spend some time as a family. The get away did us all the world of good and Sam particularly enjoyed having some activities that were specifically for him. We made some really special memories that week and learnt that we could enjoy being our little family of three. Inspite of this, however, there were some really painful moments during the week.  I especially found the swimming pool very difficult to cope with. Seeing women with swimming costumes stretching over their baby bumps was almost more than I could bear and I would find myself looking a little too long at tiny babies who lay in their mother's arms whilst their siblings splashed in the pool. My own flat stomach seemed to be mocking me and I eventually decided that I couldn't bear it any more and John took Sam swimming alone.

My first mother's day without Emilie was bitter sweet. We were still at center parcs together and I woke up with the familiar sense of emptiness.  As I had done previously with other 'celebration days' I took a pregnancy test on waking.  I remember thinking how wonderful a testimony it would be to have found out I was pregnant on mothers day. Again, it was negative. I threw the test in the bin and decided to try and enjoy the rest of the day. John did his best to try and make the day special for me. He and Sam bought me a 'cake pops' book. Another hobby to pursue and something that would go on to fill a lot of my time over the coming months. I did not want to be sat with other families over lunch time so instead we went out for lunch the day before and spent time in our lodge together on mother's day itself.

Finally, a few days after returning home, the 8 weeks - and a couple more - that I needed to wait before starting fertility treatment was over and we found ourselves heading back to the hospital to attend the fertility clinic. I had attended this clinic a number of times before; before Sam's pregnancy, before Emilie's pregnancy and following Emilie's death.  It was nothing new but the sense of desperation I felt to begin treatment was new.  We discussed all our options with our fertility consultant. My problem wasn't getting pregnant, as such, it was releasing an egg to be fertilised in the first place.  The doctor explained that if they could get me to ovulate, I should be able to get pregnant. It sounded so simple; take tablets, ovulate, get pregnant. Time everything perfectly.  However, the problem would be how to keep me pregnant once I was pregnant but that was a bridge they'd cross as and when I was pregnant.  I would have every medication I needed thrown at me in the hope that I would get pregnant and would stay pregnant.  But my lack of periods was a problem.  As it had been over 8 weeks since my miscarriage the doctor agreed to induce a period in order to get the treatment moving.  I  I had never had a bleed induced before and didn't know what to expect. Was it an injection? Would I be given tablets? Would my period start that day or would it take a couple of days? 

I waited to speak to the nurse hoping that she had the magic formula to get things started.  She gave me two prescriptions; one for clomid and one for norethisterone.  I had to start the clomid on day 3 of my cycle.  I couldn't wait!  However, I was then shocked to learn that inducing a bleed asn't as straight forward as I had hoped it would be.  I had to take the norethisterone for 7 days and a period would start 3-5 days later. This doesn't sound like long time at all but I had already waited for so long, I couldn't bear the thought of having to wait another 10 days before getting a period.  I tried not to cry.  As an after thought, the nurse said 'make sure you take a pregnancy test before you start the norethisterone.  If you take it and you're pregnant you will miscarry'.  And so started my next obsession.  I spent the next couple of weeks terrified that I might be in the early stages of pregnancy ....that it would be far too early to show up on a test but that taking the norethisterone would kill my (hypothetical) baby.  Once my period began, I looked out for signs of miscarriage.  I was incredibly anxious and obsessed about whether the clomid would work or not if I took it straight after an (imaginary) miscarriage. I was a wreck.  

And then I started the clomid.

I had carried my clomid out of her he hospital holding it as if it was a precious gift.  As far as I was concerned at the time, clomid was my pass for a new baby.  I spent the time leading up to being able to take it checking over and over that it was still in the cupboard. I obsessed as soon as I had started taking it at day three of my cycle over whether I had taken it at the right time of the day or not. Had I swallowed it properly? Had I remembered to take it at all?  Fertility treatment is not easy for someone with an obsessive personality.  There is far too much that is out of your controls and far too many possibilities to consider.

The side effects of the clomid started virtually straight away and were so severe that I was certain it was working.  My head became stuffy and fuzzy and I couldn't think straight.  I was taking paracetamol to try and clear the headaches.  I felt like I had the worst PMT that I had ever experienced and became incredibly short tempered. But worst of all was the hot flashes. I would be sitting watching TV, or getting on with my daily activities when all of a sudden my temperature and pulse rate would soar.  I would feel as if I couldn't breathe properly and would need to strip off my top layer of clothing to try and cool down; not good in public.  I found this incredibly uncomfortable and unnerving and this was for me, the worst side effect of taking clomid.

At day 10 of my cycle I attended the clinic for an ultra sound to assess the growth of the follicles on my ovaries - which should grow to release an egg.  I felt so awful that I was certain there would be a healthy follicle growing ready to release an egg.  However, the nurse very bluntly explained that there were a number of tiny follicles (very common in PCOS) but that there was no dominant follicle that would grow to release an egg.  I expected her to ask me to come back in a couple of days, having given the follicles a chance to grow a bit more, but instead she told me that this cycle would be cancelled due to lack of dominant follicles needed for ovulation and I was to begin the norethisterone again at day 21 of my cycle and then take double the amount of clomid I had started with on day 3 of my cycle.

I was once again devastated but this time was also shocked at the clinicalness and coldness of this method of trying to get pregnant.

Moving Forward: Part 1

Once again we were back at the place of trying for another baby.  The initial pain of the miscarriage resurfaced everything that had surrounded Emilie's death.  I didn't feel like I had lost another baby - I felt like I had lost Emilie all over again and had to keep reminding myself that this was a separate baby. We had had names picked out and I found that focussing on these names helped me to separate the baby I had just lost from Emilie.  We also decided to tell Sam that we had lost another baby in order to help him understand why mummy and daddy were sad again.  In the certainty that only a child can have, Sam told me 'we will get another baby, mummy'.  Each night he prayed for 'Jesus to give us another baby' and each night I felt a stab of pain as his childlike faith mirrored my own desperation.

The panic attacks resurfaced and the grief began to overwhelm me again.  I couldn't bear to see dates on the calendar and I couldn't cope with planning ahead and putting dates in the diary.  Every date indicated a milestone; 12 week scan, a year since I had found out I was pregnant with Emilie, 20 week scan, hospital admission date, due date and a couple of weeks after my due date - Emilie's first birthday and anniversary. I hated the way that all of these dates loomed. I was torn between wantijime to stand still so that we didn't have to endure the grief and pain of its passing and wanting it to move forward quickly so that we could get pregnant and have another baby. I wanted to say 'wake me up when it's all over'. Grief does strange things to people; I would never have wished Sam's life away and wanted to cherish every moment we had with him. I wanted to remember every little detail and wanted him to remain young for as long as possible. Yet here I was, wishing my own life away, praying that this terrible season would be over as soon as possible. I wanted my joy back.

We desperately wanted to start trying for a another baby straight away but the miscarriage had left me quite ill needing very high dose antibiotics which needed to be completely out of my system before we started trying again.  My hormones were all over the place, I was underweight and exhausted and I had once again suffered horrendous clotting.  The advice we were given was to wait until the antibiotics were out of my system before we could start again.  In order to lessen the stress of waiting we would be able to have fertility treatment but we had to wait until I had had a period before I could start any treatment.  If I hadn't had a period within eight weeks then they would intervene and use medication to stimulate a withdrawal bleed, restart my cycle and begin the treatment.  I was feeling quietly confident. After all, it hadn't taken long for me to get a period after Emilie's death and my hormone levels were a lot lower this time, surely.  I was certain that my periods would return within the month and walked out of the hospital feeling more hopeful.

Time began to move on and I tried to keep my spirits up but I was struggling.  A number of people tried to support me through saying things like 'at least you know you can get pregnant'. I'd smile but, at the time, this was of no comfort to me at all. I did know I could get pregnant; I had got pregnant three times, but my most sucessful pregnancy had resulted in severe growth restriction and early delivery.  It had been down hill from there with Emilie's stillbirth and and my miscarriage. Getting pregnant was of no use to me at all if I couldn't stay pregnant.  I was absolutely exhausted.  I couldn't see it at the time but I do wonder, had I stayed pregnant, would my body have been strong enough to sustain a pregnancy and grow a healthy baby.  Would I have been emotionally strong enough to survive another pregnancy and look after a baby?  The one piece of comfort I drew from the situation is that everything I'd read about trying for a baby after a miscarriage said that you were more fertile following a miscarriage.  Surely I would get pregnant quickly again.  I knew that 1 in 3 pregnancies ended in miscarriage and tried to see it simply as a statistic. My next pregnancy would be the one that stuck...it had to be.

Once the bleeding and cramping stopped - which took a while - I began to feel brighter.  The emotional pain was no easier but things are easier to deal with when you do not have physical pain holding you back.  And, of course, I was going to fall pregnant again straight away so once the bleeding and cramping stopped I was more confident that my fertility would return imminently. At this time I met with a friend, Karen, who had experienced a stillbirth 10 months before we lost Emilie.  They had lost their daughter, Ella, in an unexplained stillbirth.  Over the year and a bit since Ella had died, Karen and her husband Dom, had raised tens of thousands of pounds for charities helping to raise money to fund research into the causes of stillbirth and neonatal death and to help reduce the risks.  Karen and I had been chatting and decided to hold a bake sale for 'Bliss' a premature baby charity.  Inspite of my hatred for diaries and calendars, having the date for this bake sale in the diary really gave me something to focus on.  I spent the week leading up to the bake sale engulfed in a cloud of icing sugar and flour.  I baked as if my life depended on it and friends dropped baked goods round to my house in huge amounts.  I began to worry how I was going to fit it all in the car.  

On the morning of the bake sale I met Karen and Dom to load up their car with a wealth of baked goods donated by Costco and we left to set up at Dom's work place.  I couldn't believe the amount of cakes and treats we had and Dom's colleagues continued donating cakes for us to sell! The support was overwhelming.  The day itself was exhausting as Karen, Dom and I cut cake and served customers.  I couldn't believe the number of people who got involved.  At the end of the day, people were willing to buy whole trays of left over cakes and parents at Karen's girls' school continued to donate money and buy things.  When it was all over, Dom counted up the money; we had raised £750!  I couldn't believe it.  Not only had this given me something to focus on and look forward to but I also felt like I had done something to make a difference - that Emilie's life wouldn't be in vain.

As time went on it became obvious that my periods were in no rush to start again. I began to feel increasingly fed up and impatient. I was taking ovulation tests daily and felt despondent each and every time they showed no hormone surge. I was taking pregnancy tests on a weekly basis, just in case, and would sometimes re-take these a number of times a day to be certain and to try and make sense of any of the symptoms I was feeling, or imagining, at that time.  I felt like I had nothing left to give.  I had no job, Sam was due to start nursery within a couple of months and I felt like I had no focus or purpose. Gradually though, the season began to change and spring began to break through.  I would look out at the garden and see it springing into life.  I saw new buds on trees, bulbs pushing through the soil and colours changing.  This gave me a huge boost.  Winter was finally coming to an end and the crisp, fresh colours made me feel like I had something to hope for.  I became desperate to know exactly what hope was. I wanted to know what the word meant and was desperately keen to understand more about the Biblical concept of the word.  Through my research I learnt that the biblical meaning of the word 'Hope' was very different to the way we view it in the English language.  I knew that hope brings a sense of expectation.  But when I read about it, this definition seemed quite abstract. It was often said as if the person hoping was making a wish. I had used it in this way.  I had no idea what i waa putting my hope in anymore and certainly did not really believe that anything i was hoping for was truely possible yet I kept repeating my wishes; 'I hope I get pregnant again', 'I hope I don't miscarry' over and over. Positive reinforcement, positive mental attitude. However, the use of Hope in the Bible, I learnt,  is very different to this. It is an indication of something that is certain - a strong, confident expectation rather than something wishy washy that can't be defined. I needed to hope in the God of miracles, the God of the impossible. I began to believe that he could quite literally reach down and pull me out of the pit of desire I was in. I desperately wanted to hear him say 'hope in me, wait on me, I have a plan for your life. Be confident in what you hope for'.  Something shifted in me and I truely believed that God had a plan for me; that this season would end and I would be rewarded.  This rang so true with me that I decided to get the Hebrew word for hope - 'Tikvah' - tattooed on my back.  I truely believe that this was a turning point for me both in my journey and in my understanding.

A Boost and a Blip

The following two weeks felt like some of the longest of my life.  I thought about the baby I was carrying every minute of every day and continued obsessing about the pregnancy symptoms I was feeling.  I was desperate to hold my baby - to have a baby - and couldn't think of anything else.  I carried on crocheting the blanket and praying that my little baby would live and would grow.  I would stand in front of the mirror umpteen times a day trying to work out if my stomach was changing shape at all - trying, with a huge desire for X-ray vision or ownership of my own ultrasound machine, to see inside myself and visualise that tiny heart beat.  To know my baby was alive.

Sam's birthday party was over and the day of his birthday arrived.  He was three - two years older than he had been when we began the journey of hoping for another baby.  We took him out to a favourite restaurant for a birthday tea and took him to the Build a Bear shop to choose and build his birthday present. Having never been to Build a Bear before I didn't know what to expect.  Sam loved it. His instantly chooy he wanted - a monkey - and took it over to be stuffed.  He loved watching his monkey fill with stuffing and take on its monkey form.  Once his monkey was filled the shop assistant explained that Sam could choose a heart to put inside himInstantly the room began to spin.  She explained that the heart could have a sound attached so that Sam could hear it beating.  I could feel my own heart begin to beat more quickly and my breathing sped up.  I tried to block out what she was saying as we did our best to steer Sam towards the silent heart which he thankfully chose.  I was relieved when she stitched up Sam's monkey and handed it to him.  He was thrilled. However, the final step of the process felt like a stab in the gut for me. We followed the sales assistant over to the computer where she began logging in the monkey's details. She logged his name (Sam, rather creatively, chose the name 'Sam' for his monkey), his date of birth, colour etc.  She then printed out the details and handed them to Sam explaining that this was 'Sam Monkey's' birth certificate.  A wave of nausea and panic flowed over me and I had to walk away leaving John to take Sam to pay for his monkey.  It still amazes me, looking back, how such a special experience could have become so painful.  Sadly, although Sam still has his monkey, now affectionately named 'Liverpool Monkey' due to the Liverpool football kit he wears, I do not know where the birth certificate is and we have never been able to speak to Sam about the heart inside his monkey.  It was at this point that I began to realise that the words 'heart', 'heart beat' and the sounds relating to heart beats would be a big trigger of panic for me for the foreseeable future.

The day of the ultrasound finally arrived and we had no choice but to take Samuel with us.  He sat and played with my phone whilst my consultant scanned me.  I had been terrified in the lead up to the scan and struggled with the whole 'full bladder' thing; I was so nervous that I had had to go to the toilet four times before my scan!! Immediately on scanning me my consultant reassured me and  told me that there'd been progress since my last scan.  The baby had been developing.  She kept telling me that she could see the embryo but it was very tiny. She then asked if I'd had any bleeding and my heart just sank....

Minutes later, however, she said 'there's the heart beat. I'm very, very happy-it's a viable pregnancy'. I couldn't believe it! I tried so hard not to cry.  There was no real sense of excitement or anticipation, just an overwhelming sense of relief. I felt like I could finally say 'I'm pregnant!' And sent a text message out to our closest friends to thank them for their prayers and share the good news.

I was still terrified but spent the rest of the day reading back over my notes again and again to see it written in black and white: 'crown to rump length 4.9 mm' 'fetal heart action seen'. I needed to keep reminding myself that it was real and that it was happening to me.  We returned home and spent the day trying to get our head around things and forcing myself to rest.  

That evening I started my fragmin injections which were every bit as painful as I had remembered them being following my Caesarean section with Sam.  With each injection I decided to make a point of taking joy in each sharp scratch of the needle reminding myself that I was one day closer to meeting our baby.  I cooked tea for Sam and John and we got ready to put Sam to bed.  Somewhere around this time I went to the toilet and saw what I had been dreading for the past 7 weeks.  

I was bleeding.

I shouted to John and explained to him what had happened. I saw his face fall.  Straight away, and trying not to panic, I called Sally and arranged to take Sam round there so that we could go to the hospital. 

Once in the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit I handed over the obligitary urine sample and sat down next to John.  I went into triage and cried as I relayed my history to the nurse.  She asked about the severity of the bleeding and whether I had any cramping.  At this point there was no cramping and I was desperate for this to be a good sign.  We did not have to wait long, thankfully, and I was examined by a doctor and a very caring nurse who held my hand and tried to soothe me as I cried.  My cervix was closed and they could not see any fresh blood which was a positive sign.  It was explained to us that spotting and light bleeding can be quite common at this point in pregnancy due to hormonal changes but to be certain I was booked in for a scan the following morning.  We were sent home as reassured as we possibly could be.

The bleeding continued through the night and had got heavier by the morning. I was scared to go to the toilet for what might happen.  I wondered whether, if I stopped going to the toilet, the bleeding might stop.  I was desperate for a miracle.  Again, we did not have to wait long in the waiting room but in the time that we were in there I looked around me at all of the women in the room. They were all, I assumed, in early stages of pregnancy and possibly in the same situation I was in yet none of them seemed teary.  None of them looked distressed.  They chatted to their partners as if life was completely normal and yet there I was, waiting for my scan, running backwards and forwards from the toilet to assess the blood loss I was experiencing.  It was getting worse.

Finally our turn arrived and we entered the scanning room.  Once again I lay down on the bed and waited for the news.  Only 24 hours ago we had seen our tiny baby - witnessed the tiny flutter of their heart beat - and had returned home reassured.  Yet here we were, with me lying down and with the concerned look of a sonographer as she scanned me.  Moments passed before she put down the scanner and said quietly "there is no heart beat, I'm sorry".  John started crying next to me and I just sat feeling numb and broken.  I wondered how God could possibly let me get pregnant again only to lose the baby.  Again. I was angry and devastated.  To avoid having to go back into the waiting room while a decision was made, we were taken into a side room with comfy sofas and were made cups of coffee.  Coffee - healer of all ailments I was discovering.

Eventually our consultant came up from theatre.  Once again she was very upset for us.  As the scan had shown that the gestation sac had not yet collapsed there was still a very small possibility - albeit very unlikely - that the baby was too tiny for a heart beat to be detected.  With this in mind she suggested that to remove any doubt we should wait for another week rather than undergoing a D & C - a procedure used to remove 'products of pregnancy'. And so, even though I knew that this was the best thing to do, we left hospital once again in a state of limbo waiting for yet another scant to confirm what had happened.

We returned home with the familiar grief hanging over our heads and knowing that we were in for more waiting.  I felt like all I had done for the past two years was wait - waiting for test results, waiting for appointments, waiting for ovulation, waiting for my PCOS riddled menstrual cycle to move on - to do something normal, waiting for blue lines, pink lines and digital 'pregnant' signs, waiting for scans, waiting for babies.  Then there I was, waiting for the inevitable.  I knew that the recommendation to wait had been given based on guidance that intervention wasn't carried out on pregnancies where the baby was under a certain size to prevent the termination of potentially viable pregnancies but I knew that there had been a heart beat.  My baby had been alive and then it hadn't.  I just wanted the miscarriage to be over and done with.

In what felt, at the time, like a cruel twist, the bleeding slowed down as the week continued and there was still no cramping. I began to wonder if things were ok after all.  I began to fantasise about having the scan that Monday morning and finding a strong heart beat.  Either way, I hated the waiting.  It seemed to drain me of any joy that was left and I began to withdraw again.  Then, a couple of days before the scan I began to experience cramping.  The pain was virtually unbearable so I took some pain relief and went to bed.  I truly believe that God protected me that night from another night of excruciating pain whilst I lost another baby as I fell asleep relatively quickly.  I woke up in the early hours and the pain had stopped.  I got up to go to the toilet and as I did I passed a huge clot - my baby.  I was physically and emotionally exhausted once again.  I tried not to look at the contents of my womb lying in the toilet and instead I cleaned myself up, flushed the toilet and went back to bed.  Two days later, the scan confirmed that my uterus was empty except for some left over areas of clotting.  I was given some strong antiboitics to clear the clots and was sent home under that advice that, should the clots not clear within a week, I would need to return for a D & C.

Her First Christmas

Christmas 2011

As Christmas continued to approach, the pain of the season intensified.  Our Church has a children's procession every christmas service and, although I knew there was no way I could take part in the procession that year, John bravely walked round with Sam whilst I stood and sobbed.  I watched the children process around and watched the new babies of that year being walked around proudly in the arms of their parents.  My arms were empty.  I had so looked forward to this procession.  I had pictured myself carrying Emilie around in a Christmas outfit whilst people smiled and admired her.  My arms had never felt so empty as they did in that moment and I didn't know what to do with them.  They seemed to hang limp and redundant at my side.  My friend, Elli, stood by my side with her arm around me while I cried.  I did not need to explain what was wrong, nor did I need to justify myself.  This simple act meant more than she will ever know.

I had Christmas in the back of my mind as a time of miracles. I had prayed and prayed that I would be pregnant by Christmas; that I wouldn't have to go through another Christmas Day without the knowledge that 'this time next year' we would be a family of 4.  Christmas Day arrived and the first thing I did on waking up was take a pregnancy test.  I have no idea what compelled me to do it.  I had spent weeks begging God to allow me to be pregnant by Christmas.  I had presented Him with my demands and had waited for him to pull through for me.  I wasn't willing to listen to thoughts that I might not be ready or that is might not be time and instead I convinced myself that this was the plan.  The test was negative, of course.  I put it in the bin in the bathroom, took a deep breath and tried to put it to the back of my mind. 

The recent events hadn't dampened Sam's excitement of Christmas Day and we shared in his joy as he rooted through his stocking and unwrapped his presents.  He was filled with ecstasy at receiving what he had asked for and I tried hard not to envy my (not even three year old) son.   We shared breakfast together before returning to exchanging presents. A text message came through from Elli inviting us for a walk in the park.  Again I felt intensely loved and cared for.  Sam had got a new bike and wanted to ride it round the estate.  The park would have been too much for him so we gave our apologies - and with that agreement to spend the morning alone as a family we knew that we would be ok.  

We arrived at James and Katie's house early afternoon and were absorbed at once into the excitement. Sam was delighted to see his little friends and we were incredibly grateful for the company of James, Katie, John and Kirsten and James and John's mum, Joan. We chatted together and, with the shared knowledge of the way we were feeling, there was no need to mention our grief.  We knew that it was being acknowledged every moment in the invitation to spend Christmas Day with them.  We felt we were given the permission to not put on brave faces and just to take the day as it came and because of this, and because of the shared company of friends, we had a wonderful day.  Because of the kindness of friends reaching out to us at our darkest time and not worrying about how broken we might seem on the day itself or being noticeably uncomfortable towards our grief, we had one of the best Christmases I can remember. We laughed and cried together, shared food, gifts and fellowship and loved each other.  Instead of looking back and remembering our first Christmas without Emilie as a time of pain, we are able to look back and remember the joy; the children sharing (or being encouraged to share) their new toys, videos taken immortalising for ever excited children bouncing with full tummies on the trampoline, eating wonderful food and enjoying each other's company. We returned home that evening not with the heavy hearts we had expected to have but with smiles on our faces having enjoyed a truly special day.

New Years Eve arrived a week later and, with it, the chance to wave goodbye to 2011. This brought with it mixed feelings - it was the end of Emilie's year, the time to wave goodbye to her and start afresh with a new year, new challenges and with new memories to be made.  I felt resentful, however, at seeing out yet another year without the promise of a baby.  New year two years previous was when we had begun to consider the possibility of having another baby and weighing up the risks.  I felt like we had gained nothing in the time that had passed since Sam's first birthday.  I desperately wanted something to look forward to; a bit of hope to cling on to.  Again, on waking, I decided to take a pregnancy test as I still hadn't had my period.  Although this was not unusual for me it was disconcerting and I was experiencing a number of symptoms that I needed to justify or rule out in my own mind.  I placed the test on the side in he the bathroom and jumped in the shower.  On getting out of the shower, I squinted through my contact lens-less blurred vision to see writing in the test screen that I couldn't quite make out.  I reached for my glasses before looking again.

The test was positive.

Filled with elation and fear we set about texting our closest friends to let them know our news and to ask them to pray for us.   I would be due in early September and, knowing that the baby would be early, I was incredibly excited to know that I would have a baby that would be in the same year in school as Jasper. As Emilie should have been. As the initial shock wore off, however, I struggled to be joyful. I struggled to find that place of peace and instead could only feel the trepidation of facing another high risk pregnancy.  I wanted to go to sleep for 9 months and wake up with a baby in my arms.

As soon as the holidays were over I called the hospital and made an appointment to go in and see my consultant.  Before this could happen we had to have our 'booking in' appointment and once again I found myself sitting in a room full of pregnant women - some looking decidedly fed up - and glancing round at them struggling not to feel envious.  On giving in my name, my notes had been obtained by the receptionist and my details were being checked.  On the front of my notes was a SANDS (stillbirth and neonatal death society) sticker with the writing 'Emilie-Rose 26/9/11' written on it to make staff aware of our story.  As the sticker caught my eye, my mind went blank and the familiar sense of panic arose in my chest.  I struggled to recall my details to confirm my GP, phone number and address to the receptionist and felt a wave of dizziness flow over me.  I mumbled through my details trying to hold back the tears before we walked down to the antenatal waiting room.  

The midwife we saw was very supportive.  She explained that it would be a very high risk pregnancy - which we already knew - and gave my the opportunity to choose my own midwife to do my care.  I requested the same midwife who had did my postnatal care after both Sam and Emilie and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard her agree, over the phone, to do my care.  We went through my whole history which was tiring and emotional and I was given me new folder of antenatal notes, again with a SANDs sticker affixed to it, to bring home.  Placed inside the notes was information about breast feeding, about delivery options and a leaflet about the dangers of smoking in pregnancy.  Breast feeding was the least of my worries at the time and I wondered what possible options I might have regarding delivery given my history.  Smoking was something that I definitely wouldn't risk.  The leaflets felt like they belonged in someone else's notes yet I tucked them inside my folder and smiled at the midwife.  The notes themselves, however, felt like my enemy.  I longed for them to say something normal - to hint that I might have an uneventful pregnancy - but the information and medical history inside them seemed to jeer at me.  For months after this I hated the look of antenatal notes in pregnant friends' houses and envied the normality the I assumed must be inside them.

In the lead up to the booking appointment I had had a difficult couple of days trying to stay positive. I knew that I had let fear take over and desperately didn't want to live that way. The morning of the appointment my pregnancy calendar had informed me that in a couple of days 'the nose, mouth and ears that you'll spend so much time kissing in eight months time are beginning to take shape'. I found that I could barely read it and wanted to throw my phone, that held the information, across the kitchen table.  I wanted to know that I would hold and kiss my live baby when they were born but I felt almost too scared to let myself believe it.  So, on returning home from the appointment I decided that to try and boost my positive thinking I would begin to crochet a blanket for the baby. I had made one for both Sam and Emilie but in the chaos and terror, Emilie never got to be wrapped in hers. It took me hours to make and is folded neatly in her memory box. I made a decision when we were trying for this new baby that I didn't want to make or buy anything for them, just incase. But as the desire for another baby increased, so did the need to provide for them. And so I began to painstakingly crochet a rainbow coloured stripy blanket. I focussed intently on the baby as I was making it and that helped to make them more real to me.  I would spend each evening after putting Sam to bed standing by the cot in Emilie's room - in what would be the baby's room - and praying fervently that I would bring this baby home.  That in 9 months time a little baby would be lying in that cot depending on me to meet its every need.  Around this time some friends had prayed for us. They spoke to us about trusting God. One of them said she felt that at that moment our pregnancy was likened to a misty morning where everything was quite dark and gloomy but by the end of the pregnancy the sun would have broken through to reveal a glorious day-that we would have our baby to bring home at the end of the pregnancy - but still I found it so hard to trust.

As the days went by I began to find the emotional aspects of being pregnant harder than I had imagined I would.  I constantly had people asking me if I 'still felt sick' and what other symptoms I was having and the more they asked, the more I panicked that I wasn't feeling the right things.  I had no idea what 'normal' was where pregnancy was concerned, my brain began to play tricks on me regarding my symptoms and I began to become obsessive over how sick or how tired I was feeling.  I kept willing myself to feel worse so that I would conclusively know that I was pregnant.  I also obsessed about bleeding.  Each time I went to the toilet I would expect to see a drop of blood - a tell tale sign that a miscarriage was happening and I began to read about the likelihood of miscarriages happening without bleeding and/or cramping occurring.  I felt like I was trying to protect myself by anticipating loss before it happened so that it wouldn't come as such a shock.  I was terrified in every aspect of the word.  

Around the time that I was about 5 weeks pregnant, Sam's 3rd birthday party arrived and I threw myself fully into party celebrations.  His excitement was infectious and John and I enjoyed having something positive to focus on. I spent the week leading up to his party making hundreds of tiny bananas for his birthday cake as he specifically asked for a 'monkey lying in bananas' cake!  Everything that took place that week revolved around Sam's birthday as we tried to turn a potentially painful situation - our son getting older without a sibling - into something to celebrate and the party preparations became a huge distraction for me.  It also became a metaphor for how I was feeling at the time and for how hard I was trying to trust God and I wrote the following on my blog:

15th January 2012

I have been working out how much food I need to prepare, how many people will be vegetarian, ensuring there's no stray nuts flying around to cause allergic reactions and whether I should do fresh fruit or not. That's before I even factor in blowing up balloons and thinking about party bags! Sam has asked, rather unassumingly, for the cake. It is the only request he has made for his whole party and there has been no doubt in his mind that I will deliver. He hasn't felt the need to keep reminding me about it or to check with me whether I will still do it, or whether I've changed my mind. Every so often he'll ask me all about his cake and want to know how I am getting on with making it but he trusts me completely to give him what I've asked for. 

I know this is the sort of trust I should have for my baby growing as it should and being born alive. I was reading this this morning and it really rang home with me: 'it is as though God has asked you to copilot this most important flight. He is holding the controls, but you're asked to come alongside on this journey, doing what he asks & responding to his requests. To be an efficient copilot you must trust your pilot implicitly and remain in constant communication. Trust God, your pilot, with ultimate control of your pregnancy journey.'  I know, that in the same way Sam can't painstakingly make tiny sugar paste bananas, or prepare sandwiches & pizza for his party, there is nothing I can do to form this baby. I can accept all of the medical advice I am given, eat well, rest as much as possible and ensure that I'm caring for myself. I can present my requests to God and let him know how scared I'm feeling but I can't form this baby-that is His job and I need to trust Him to deliver. 

Philippians 4:6-7 (NLT)

6Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.[] 7Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.

Still the obsessions continued, however, and I felt the need to raise this point with my counsellor.  I knew that I was feeling nauseous but if this stopped for even a moment I would fear that the baby had died.  This affected me to the point that I didn't want to eat much in the hope that eating smaller amounts or not snacking throughout the day might help to make me feel more sick and therefore make the pregnancy seem more real.  In some sort of method of self preservation my mind was refusing to acknowledge the nausea and instead I only noticed the lower abdominal  cramping I was experiencing, fearing the worst, even though I knew that that was normal in early pregnancy. My counsellor explained to me that my brain consists of a sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system. When you experience trauma, the sympathetic nervous system comes into force activating fight and flight response. Everything is overactive, stress levels are raised and it is much more difficult to normalise things. That was where I was emotionally at the time and I needed my parasympathetic nervous system, which is responsible for relaxation, to be more active. Carol discussed some breathing and relaxation techniques with me and I really hoped that these eased the sense of panic and dread that I felt. I knew that I needed to put aside some time each day to practise these techniques and relax but every time I did the fears and anxieties would kick back in.

At 6 weeks - going by my own dates and estimations, we met with our consultant.  Although surprised at how quickly we had got pregnant this time, she was great and told us how pleased she was for us. She explained that I would need a scan scan to confirm viability before I could start the fragmin injections which would help to prevent the blood clots I had suffered with both Sam and Emilie.  She also explained that at my current gestation it may be too early to detect anything giving me the option to have the scan that day or to wait another week and come back.  I was terrified but decided that having the scan that day would at least give a chance of reassuring me.  I hated the thought of returning home and not knowing.  Of spending the next couple of weeks in pain and anxious with my mind constantly playing tricks on me.   My consultant first did a transabdominal ultra sound & could detect the gestation sac & yolk sac but no heart beat so tried doing an internal scan. I lay on the bed, shaking.  I had such trust in my consultant but everything about this experience resurfaced feelings from the day Emilie had died. And she knew it.  I watched her face again and tried to read between the lines that resonated once again in the silence. I tried to will a live fetus into existence and told myself over and over that if no heart beat was found it was probably too early. I waited.

Still no heart beat.

I tried to remain calm as memories of the scan confirming Emilie's death flooded over me. Knowing me well and knowing my history, my consultant reassured me telling me that there was definitely a pregnancy there, that I wasn't imagining it but that it was probably too early and the baby too tiny to detect a heart beat. Inspite of how much I trusted her, I couldn't help but feel heartbroken again.  I was desperate to see a heart beat; to see the tiny flicker that confirment by baby was alive.  I was desperate to take home a scan picture to place up on the fridge and remind me each time I looked at it that in a few months time I would have my baby to hold.  But instead the scan reaffirmed the fears I had been feeling.  I worried that the baby had stopped growing a few days earlier and that's why it was too tiny. I couldn't help but feel terrified, dreading the worst and anticipating losing another baby. 

The advice we were given was to return home, try to rest and to go back two weeks later for another scan.  I tried so hard to keep calm and focus on the positive; there was a gestation sac and yolk sac.  There was a little home growing for my baby.  I spoke to a radiographer friend who confirmed that the findings of the scan would be what he would have expected for that gestation.  He tried his best to reassure me and I tried my best to cling to the positives.  But with every day that passed I felt like my dream of having a healthy baby was moving further away.

The New Normal

Emilie's due date - 23rd November - arrived.  I didn't sleep well the night before; I dreamt that the whole experience had been a terrible nightmare and that I would wake up to find that I was still pregnant and waiting for contractions to start.  Instead, when I woke, the stark reality hit me once again.  Our daughter had died and this was the day I had been dreading - the day that she should have been born.  The only thing that lifted my mood slightly was the arrival of my period 2 days previous.  I fresh start - the knowledge that we may be able to conceive soon.

We had planned a family day.  We took Samuel over to North Wales to see, and ride on, a miniature railway and to visit a railway museum with model railways.  Sam absolutely loved it.  He was amazed by the tiny little trains that he could operate with the push of a button and watch them speeding around the track.  I stood watching him take in everything around him and tried to control the palpitations and tight chestedness I was feeling through breathing exercises.  I was vaguely aware of the whistling in my ear that told me that my stress levels were high.  I tried to push down these feelings for Sam's sake so that we could enjoy the day together.

Afterhe train fun we went to a small cafe for hot chocolate.  We sat tucked around a corner so that we were away from the hustle and bustle and found ourselves sitting next to a couple with twins who were under 1.  I looked at them longingly as the sat being fed in their highchairs.  I was desperate to tell their parents how lucky they were and begun to imagine what it would be like to have twins.  I longed to hold one baby and they had two.  I remember trying to reason with myself that I didn't know them or their situation and that I needed to try to control my jealousy towards them.  I returned my attention to my hot chocolate before nothing the woman stand up in the corner of my eye.  As she stood to reach across to one of her twins I noticed that she was heavily pregnant.  I chocked back tears and gulped down my hot chocolate hoping that we could leave the cafe as quickly as possible.  We drove home exhausted - relieved that the day was over and that Sam had had a good time and at the same time full of grief that we had come full circle.  It was over.  The pregnancy had ended, we'd received the test results and now Emilie's due date was over and done with.  We needed to try and move forward and establish the 'new normal' as well as we could.

Life continued to plod on and we became acutely aware of the inexorable passing of time as we watched lives progress around us whilst we remained stuck in our grief limbo.  I started to get out and about more to toddler groups with friends and to their houses.  There would be some days where I would simply need to sit in my own world whilst Samuel and my friends children played around me, me being stirred every now and then by questions or requests.  Other days I would feel more able to engage in conversations although still struggled with talking about anything remotely normal.  Our daughter had died and life would never be normal again.  Making smalltalk, reading books, engaging in normal conversation and watching TV seemed to be things that I had lost the ability to do.  Everything seemed so trivial to me. Thankfully my friends were patient and allowed me to talk about my feelings and Emilie as much as I needed to.  It was obvious that this made some people uncomfortable, however, and conversations would not flow easily, relationships becoming superficial and surface level - something that we couldn't contend with at the time - and unfortunately a number of relationships did break down.  I have heard other people who have experienced such grief describe the same problems.  I learnt that grief, like joy, is something that needs to be shared.

As the year wore on, Christmas decorations and the joy of the Christmas season filled the world around us.  It filled shops, houses, pubs, streets, schools, church and people's lives.  It suffocated me.  I couldn't see Christmas decorations in shops and smell the sickly cinnamon air without feeling a wave of panic engulf me.  I couldn't escape from the knowledge that this should have been Emilie's first Christmas.  I felt that the decorations and displays were mocking me.  I couldn't even bear to buy wrapping paper.  Thankfully, Sam's present and our nephews and friends' childrens' presents had already been purchased prior to Emilie's death but everyone else received vouchers that Christmas. They were very understanding.  We hadn't made any concrete plans for Christmas, knowing that Emilie would have been so young, and instead were going to see how we were getting on closer to the time.  

Following her death we struggled with the idea of seeing family for Christmas as we didn't feel we, or any other of our family, would be able to escape the grief and we needed to feel comfortable with grieving on the day.  When we made this decision another plan was made that we were comfortable with, however, the day drew closer it became apparent that that plan was not suitable and our Christmas plans fell through the week before Christmas.  We were devastated.  We began to look at last minute holidays for the three of us for Christmas and panicked about what to do.  The two of us would have happily by passed Christmas but wanted to celebrate for Sam's sake. Father Christmas still had to come and we desperately wanted him to enjoy the day.  We did not have the capacity to decide what to do and sunk deeper into our despair.  And then, days before Christmas, the phone rang.  Some friends of ours, John and Kirsten, had planned to spend Christmas Day with John's twin brother and his family - with whom we were also friends.  They had spoken to each other and invited us to spend Christmas Day with them and their children.  Even now it makes me emotional to think about this.  We were to  spend Christmas Day with wonderful friends whilst Sam got to wreak Christmas havoc with some of his closest friends!  And so we had something to look forward to.

On 14th December, Faye and Mark's son, Jasper, was born.  Faye was two weeks past her due date and I was becoming a nervous wreck for her.   I wanted him to be born; to know he was safe, sound and healthy. I carried on seeing her in those two weeks and tried my best to hide my anxieties - but I'm certain I wasn't successful!  And then, whilst round at a friend's house where I didn't need to hide my feelings, a text message came through to announce his birth.  I had prepared myself for that moment for weeks and had gone through all possible emotions in my mind.  But when it came to it - apart from a nagging sensation of grief and pain that lingered constantly anyway - the main thing I felt was relief.  Relief that Jasper and Faye were healthy.  Later that evening it struck me.  The feeling wasn't jealousy or resentment, it was the old fear that Faye wouldn't want to be part of my life.  I began to worry that Faye would not want Jasper near me. That I was a bad omen of sorts - that my grief would overwhelm her and she would simply want to dwell on her own gains.  I was terrified of losing my friend and of losing a child who I had looked forward to meeting.  I spent the evening in a sense of panic.  The following morning the doorbell rang after we had dropped Samuel off at playgroup.  We weren't expecting anybody so I took a deep breath before opening the door.  Standing there were Faye and Mark.  I fought back the tears and gave her a hug whilst she apologised for being 'off the radar' the past day.  I marvelled at how well my friend knew me - how she had anticipated and acknowledged my fears and accounted for her (unavoidable) absence from phone contact!  She told me that I should feel free to ask her to go home but that she had brought Jasper to meet me and wanted to give me the opportunity to meet him on my own without the added pressure of putting on a brave face in public or in a group.  Her sensitivity overwhelmed me and I opened the door as they got Jasper out of the car.  They sat him on our kitchen table in his car seat and I marvelled at his size.  His head was covered by a hood and his hands and feel obscured and hidden by the sleeves of his coat and feet of his baby grow.  He sat curled up in his car seat trying desperately hard to retain the fetal position as the safety straps held him in place.  For the 9 weeks since Emilie's death I had barely been able to look at a pram - let alone a less than day old baby - and yet here he was, sitting on my kitchen table and I couldn't take my eyes off him.  I touched his coat and reached for his tiny hand inside the sleeve, sighing as he grasped my finger.  I waited for the inevitable panic attack but it didn't come.  John came in and we caught up with Faye and Mark, hearing about the experience of Faye's labour, Jasper's birth and how close Faye was to delivering him before reaching the delivery suite.  We knew that they had no expectations of us and were happy to let us take things at our own pace.  I had passed a huge hurdle; I had looked at and touched a newborn baby and I hadn't spontaneously combusted in the process.

Pain and Panic Attacks

Once Emilie's funeral was over there was an initial release as the limbo state we had been in was over.  But following the release we were plunged deeper into grief.  The funeral had given us something to focus on and something to move towards and once it was over we had nothing to replace it with.  John had still not returned to work but his return was moving closer and I was all too aware of my lack of job, and therefore (as I felt at the time) my lack of purpose.  A few weeks previous I had felt like I knew exactly where I was going.  I had finished work early to rest but knew it was temporary.  My plan was always to spend time with Sam and Emilie being a stay at home mum until she was a couple of years old at which point I planned to continue my career in childcare.  And now here I was jobless having suspended my business with no direction.  The rug had well and truly been pulled from under our feet.  

My blog, at that time, read:

13th October 2011

I feel like I’m really struggling.  I miss Emilie so much – I will be ok for a couple of hours and then my chest seizes up as if my heart is physically aching for her and the panicky feeling comes back.  I’m physically and emotionally exhausted from not sleeping and spending hours crying. I find myself staring at people with young babies and panicking when I see a pram.  I know that they are doing the things that I should be doing and am finding this incredibly painful.  I keep thinking about all of the milestones we’ll never have with Emilie – her first smile, weaning her, learning to sit up and learning to walk.  I can’t bear the thought that these are all things we won’t get to see.  

I had started to go back to toddler groups with my friends, initially with John's support and eventually by myself, but I was always in a strange, subdued state.  The world carried on around me and I felt like an observer in my own life.  I almost had the sensation of being under water - when all senses are dulled but you can vaguely hear people calling your name and talking about you.  Sam and his friends would run around as normal and I would watch them, in a daze.  My amazing friends - the same friends I had met when I had Sam - stuck by my side and ensured that I wasn't left alone.  The panic attacks I was having were becoming much more common but now, instead of taking me unawares they would be always present, just below the surface pushing down on my chest and suffocating me.  They would lie dormant rendering me unable to eat or sleep, unable to have a conversation without hearing a ringing in my ears and sensing how unreal the situation was, and unable to breathe deeply.  And then they would surface.  I would see a pram or a baby carrier, see new born baby or a pregnant woman or hear the cry of a baby and the panic would be unleashed.  I needed to try and learn to contain it.  I quickly learnt that, although seeing any pregnant woman or baby was painful, seeing a woman or baby whom I didn't know and had no relationship with was more than I could bear.  I didn't know their story and often they didn't know mine.  I envied them so much and desperately wanted to tell them how lucky they were.  I struggled to walk past them in supermarkets or cafes without feeling like I wanted to be sick.  Thank goodness people were still cooking meals for us as for weeks on end I became unable to go to the supermarket!  After a few weeks the panic was ruling my life and I became unable to function. I had lost weight - very quickly and very obviously.  My eyes were tired, my face was gaunt and my skin was pale.  I knew that people were becoming increasingly worried about me but I physically could not eat or sleep.  It didn't take long for this to become a habit and it was difficult to see where the inability to sleep and eat through grief ended and the habit started.  It was at this point that my GP suggested I start taking antidepressants in order to help me function more on a day to day basis.  The type of anti depressants I was taking would not work instantly but instead would take a month or so to build up in my system.  In the meantime (and in the time following) I continued to have counselling sessions with Carol, who had been with us on the day that Emilie died.  

I was continuing to read books that spoke about overcoming grief and losing a baby/child and was asking God to speak to me about what was happening.  I knew that I blamed myself for everything that had happened.  I was expecting the results of the pathology report to throw up something that would indicate I was to blame and knew that I'd have to pay the price.  I would rack my brains to think about what I might move done and would obsess about what I could have done differently; should I have eaten that?  Should I have taken Sam to soft play? Should I have gone to the hospital earlier?  Should I have slept in that position?  Should I have gone swimming the week before her death?  Should I have taken those baths?  Did I take the medication to prevent clotting properly?  Had I taken it at the wrong time of day??  The questions went over and over in my mind and I begged God to tell me why it had happened.  Why had he allowed it?  The only thing I knew is that I wouldn't know the reason this side of heaven and blaming myself for the rest of my life would be a very long, painful and possibly futile process.  That said, it took me a very long time to stop blaming myself and there are still days when the thoughts of self blame cross my mind.  I was reading a book one evening and read a passage that talked about God having a purpose for each and every one of us.  It was written by a lady who's baby had died of a congenital disorder and had been stillborn at the same gestation as Emilie.   She was talking about the purpose that her daughter had had in her 7 month life.  ('Wonderfully Made' by Jaclyn M. Olson).  I was absolutely blown away by what she had written and begged God to show me what Emilie's purpose had been.  I knew that the  Bible says that God ‘will fulfil his purpose for me’ (Psalm 138:8) and that this applies to Emilie also – that her short life was not a waste or in vain and that she did have a purpose.  That I didn't know what her purpose was at that time was no obstacle to God and he reminded me that he has a plan for me to prosper me, and NOT TO HARM ME – to bring me HOPE and a future.  I needed to keep clinging to this, especially when the doubts crept in.  At that time I also began to realise that the voice I’d heard accusing me of doing something to harm Emilie was NOT God's voice and that I needed to learn to hear and recognise his voice more.  I learnt that nothing can happen without God’s knowledge and permission... 29 What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin[a]? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. 30 And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. 31 So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows" (Matt 10: 29 – 31).   I knew that I needed to cling to this and decided to wait to find out how God would use what had happened for good.  

The weeks seemed to go by in a hazy fashion and there is alot that I can't remember about those first few weeks after Emilie's death.  We were trying to work out what our lives looked like; what the 'new normal' was.  The medication I was on was beginning to work and, although still present, the panicky feeling I had become so used to was getting less suffocating.  I would still cry myself to sleep at night though and would put Sam to bed for his lunchtime nap and sit in a daze not knowing what to do with myself.  I began to watch TV box sets whilst Sam slept to keep my mind in some way occupied but looking back I can't remember anything of what I watched.  I would often arrange for friends to come round for coffee whilst Sam was asleep and would try to engage in 'normal' conversation but, as my mind was filled with thoughts of Emilie, this was something that I found incredibly difficult to do.

The day that Emilie had died had been a blur of trauma and confusion.  The only item we had kept of hers after her death was the pink and grey striped sleep suit that she had worn.  Before the funeral I had woken up in a panic that the funeral directors would have thrown it away and asked John to call to check.  They confirmed that they still had the sleep suit and her Princess dress and I asked John to go down to get it.  I wanted her to wear her dress so that we could remember her as a Princess but I was desperate to retrieve the sleep suit.  Grief is a funny thing.  It completely disables you and renders you incapable, not only to complete every day tasks, but also to think clearly with perspective for the future.  We were unable to think about what we might want to keep of Emilie's and this was something that, apart from being given the memory box, was not really spoken about at the time of her death.  I look back and wonder what, if I was in my right mind, I'd have kept.  Maybe the blanket she was wrapped in?   Certainly the wrist band she wore from the hospital.  Instead, the only material things we had to prove she existed was her sleep suit and her hand and footprints.  I longed for something physical to hold.  I didn't want to hold the sleep suit too much as it smelt as I had remembered her smelling and I didn't want to lose that scent.  I couldn't hold the hand and footprints.  I longed for something to show people - to say 'this was my daughters' or to enable them to raise the subject in conversation. 

 The week of the funeral, while John was still off work, I decided that I wanted to go along to 'Sticky Fingers' - the toddler group run by my church.  I wanted to try and get back some sense of normality and also wanted to see people before the funeral so that the funeral wasn't the first time I would have seen them since Emilie's death.  It just so happened that on that particular day Jemma, the leader of Sticky Fingers, had met a lady who made silver hand and footprint jewellery.  Jemma had felt really compelled to invite the lady along to the toddler group that morning and had shared my story with her, asking if she would be able to make me a piece of jeweller with Emilie's prints on it.  Jemma sensitively spoke to me that morning.  Through chatting, I explained that we didn't have anything physical to remember Emilie by and how much this was upsetting me.  She then relayed her conversation with Sarah, the jewellery designer, and asked if I would like a piece of jewellery making as a gift.  I remember the feeling of complete numbness that I was still experiencing at that time.  I had worked to put on a front that morning so that I could get through the group and I wasn't willing to let anything break down that front but the thought of owning something that represented Emilie overwhelmed me.  I have never been able to express how grateful I am for my necklace but remember that 3 weeks later when I picked it up and was able to wear it, feeling a huge sense of relief at being able to prove Emilie had existed.  I loved wearing something that people would notice and could ask me about.  I often say that the necklace is my most treasured material possession - I know that it is the material thing I would save if my house was on fire!

As the weeks drew by, Faye's due date was getting closer and I was so scared that she would want to stop seeing me once the baby was born.  It was a fear that was borne out of reactions from other people who did not know how to deal with the situation.  I sometimes wonder, had the situation been reversed, would I have known how to deal with things?  I learnt that my friends were grieving as I was and the pain was incredibly difficult for them to deal with.  I learnt that it was painful for them to see us in the situation that we were in and that this pain was even more amplified when they had young babies and no one knew what to say or do.  I couldn't bring myself to talk to Faye about how I was feeling incase she turned around and told me that actually yes - she did need some space from my pain.  Each time I saw her I worried that our friendship may come to an end as she wouldn't want to see me once her baby boy was born.  Eventually I met with another good friend, Sally - a very close friend of Faye's, for lunch and spoke to her about it.  Sally's mum had died a couple of years previously and she was one of the only friends I had who had experienced huge grief and wasn't scared of it.  We spoke about the way I was feeling about certain things and she assured me that it was completely normal.  I also spoke to her about my fears concerning Faye.  I remember her reaction - it wasn't one of surprise of ridicule and she simply said 'Faye loves you'.  She helped me to understand that Faye had also experienced loss in the situation - we had both been pregnant together and had looked forward to our children being friends and growing up together.  We had looked forward to attending baby groups together and doing the whole 'baby thing' as friends.  In a similar way to me adjusting to losing all of these things, she was also needing to adjust to losing the idea of us having babies the same age.  I decided to speak to her before our due dates arrived as I knew that once her baby was born he could become the perfect excuse for me not to deal with my fears.  As our due dates drew closer I asked Faye if she would help me clear out Emilie's wardrobe.  We sat on Emilie's bedroom floor folding tiny baby clothes to put away in boxes and I spoke to her about my fears.  I explained that, although I knew that it would be hard when their baby was born, I didn't want her to try and protect me from him.  I wanted to still be able to be a part of his life and I didn't want to be robbed from that opportunity in addition to what I had already been robbed of.  The morning after Jasper was born, Faye and Mark arrived on the doorstep.  Faye said that she wanted to give me the opportunity to meet him without other people being around.  They brought him into the house in his car seat and I was immediately struck by how beautiful - and how alive - he was.  I was also struck by the fact the he wasn't Emilie.  This sounds like a strange thing to say now but it was a huge thing for me, at the time, to be able to separate Jasper from my own baby and from my own desires.  He was his own little person and meeting him was a special moment.  It didn't induce any feelings of panic or any floods of tears, only appreciation for our friends and a desire to be a part of Jasper's life as much as we could.

Just before my due date arrived we had our debrief appointment at the hospital with my consultant.  It was the first time we had returned there since the day we went to register Emilie's death and as we drove into the car park that familiar feeling of panic and dread started to rise up in my chest.  We walked down to the fetal medical unit and the walls seemed to spin around me.  I felt physically sick and the thought that I should still be attending clinic there, being monitored before Emilie's delivery, struck me hard as we waited to find out the cause of her death.

We sat in a side consulting room and waited.  My post natal midwife, Angela, had kindly agreed to come with us so that we would have an extra listening ear.  Our consultant, and a haematologist, came in and sat down.  I remember trying to take deep breaths so that I wouldn't break down.  My consultant started by asking how we were, at which point I started to cry.  I couldn't speak so simply shook my head.  She emphasised that we had suffered a huge loss and bereavement and did not at any point belittle our feelings.  She noticed my footprint necklace and commented on how special and beautiful it was.  She then  began to go through the pathology report with us.  The problems I had had with Sam had recurred but to a more severe extent.  The onset had been very sudden, the reason for which was unknown  and I had also suffered a placental abruption in which the lining of the placenta had become detached from the lining of my uterus causing the oxygen supply to Emilie to be suddenly cut off.  There was no way she could have survived and I was also incredibly lucky as pre-eclampsia and placental abruption can claim the life of the mother in addition to the baby.   I began to ask questions - had I been overdoing things?  Had I been sleeping in a poor position?  Could I have prevented it.  My consultant reassured me that there was nothing I had done to cause Emilie's death - something I really needed to hear.  We were desperate to start trying for another baby; I couldn't think of anything else.  We were relieved to hear that we would be able to try for another baby and an action plan was put in place for future pregnancies.  I would be 'booked into' the hospital very early and would have a scan by 7 weeks.  I would take folic acid in preparation, aspirin as soon as I had a positive pregnancy test and fragmin injections when the pregnancy was confirmed as viable at the 7 week scan.  Miscarriage didn't even enter my mind.  We left the hospital encouraged that a reason had been found for Emilie's death and pleased that we could try for another baby.  It was 7th November and I was convinced that I would be pregnant by Christmas.