It’s been a difficult few months since the miscarriage, which was to be expected really. It was such a shock to reach 12 weeks and then that be it.
It still is a shock in many ways. What happened continues to hit me when I least expect it, like a low blow to the stomach.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t suppress the tears.
And I enter a very sad place where all I want to do is hide away and cry.
But it is getting easier. Those days are becoming less frequent. Life moves on, and I guess I have to as well.
Since I stopped bleeding, many friends have announced pregnancies. Some due within days of when our due date should have been. I never thought it was possible to be so overjoyed for someone, whilst simultaneously crying tears of such pain and sadness. Typing “I’m so happy for you”, and truly meaning it, all the while wondering whether it will ever happen for us again.
It’s taken a little while to even be able to consider procreating again. I was stoically against it initially. Convincing myself that we were happy as a family of four – especially with Bertie joining the clan – and that we’d stay that way forever.
But then a friend had a baby. And the picture of her newborn; divine, fresh and new, stirred something within my womb. My ovaries started to scream again. I didn’t feel ready, but I knew that it couldn’t be the end.
So Nick and I talked. And voicing everything out loud made me realise that I don’t want to regret not trying again. Neither of us do. Even if we don’t start trying for a few more months, I’m not ready to be ‘done’.
I don’t want to reach the menopause and think “I wish we’d tried again”.
I want to hold one of my own newborn babies in my arms for a final time.
I want to at least have a go at procreating again. Even with the risk of another miscarriage. (Although I admit that going through this again really scares me).
We have always wished, hoped and imagined our family with three children, and I’m feeling positive that this isn’t the end.