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I have done a lot of healing the past six months and I’m ready to see if we can bring a baby into this world.

The first month brings it’s challenges and little time to practically start trying. We’re out for our first wedding anniversary dinner. I go to the toilet when we first arrive and notice my period has started. Damn. Not pregnant. On the plus side I get to enjoy a delicious bottle of Italian red with my husband. And maybe I wasn’t quite ready anyway.

Do we ever really know?

So a few weeks have gone by and I’m now at the end of my fertility window, the time in which I can conceive. Now we wait. Wait until my period arrives…or doesn’t.

Even though it’s pretty scary, I know for sure there will be some excitement when I do get pregnant. And I’ve let go of the guilt. So I’m healing. Maybe it will be life long. But healing is a beautiful concept. And I’m feeling good.

I have come to realise something in my writing and in my thoughts. I tend to think more about where I would be now if I were still pregnant with my first pregnancy that ended in miscarriage than my second. I’ve sat with these thoughts for a week or two now. Trying to pick them apart. And I don’t think there is any one answer.

I guess part of my blames myself. Blames myself for getting pregnant so quickly again after miscarrying. Not allowing my body and mind and heart time to heal. How could I be so irresponsible or careless? What was I thinking not thinking pregnancy could happen again so quickly?

I wonder to myself if I didn’t miscarry a second time, would I be doing okay or would I still feel guilt after losing my first.

The first time around, I knew I was pregnant for a mere two weeks before I started miscarrying. But in that two weeks I had allowed myself to love my little grain of rice. To fall in love with the thought of bringing another baby brother or sister for Jas into the world. To dream of our future in 9 months. So. Much. Happiness.

The second time around, it was 5 weeks of knowing I was pregnant before I miscarried. Those 5 weeks washed so many emotions through me. I was incredibly worried that I wouldn’t be able to hold onto this little bean either. The sweet innocence had gone. And I was so so sick it was hard to do anything that brought me joy. I didn’t allow myself to feel happy. But I did love my bean and I wanted him or her to ignore my attitude and hang in there. Please. Hang in there. Because we could do anything if we had each other. I’d talk to my belly in bed when no one was around.

I knew my risk of miscarrying lessened as each week passed. So when I hit the 9 week mark and I was so sick I started to let myself relax ever so slighty. I’d tell myself, atleast you feel pregnant. Your hormones are doing their thing. Just a few more weeks, and you’ll be out the other side feeling like taking on the world. But that idea all came crumbling down the day of my scan.

I wish things could have been different. I wish I never had my first miscarriage. I wish I never had my second. I wish I gave myself more time before getting pregnant again.

But I knowing wishing won’t get me anywhere. And I’ve learned so much from this. So it’s time to try my best to let go.

I awoke with a sadness. The past 5 birthdays since my Mum passed away have started that way. They get easier but they will never be quite the same. But this year brings a new level of grief.

It was my 34th birthday yesterday. I should have been 22 weeks pregnant. I should have been counting down the weeks until I went on maternity leave, until we moved upstairs and started preparing bambino’s room. Until we had a newborn bundle in our arms. A perfect addition to our family.

I acknowledge this feeling and tell Brian why I’ve started crying. Sometimes I just need to explain myself in a sentence or two, have a hug and then move forward. And that’s what I do.

I celebrate what I do have including the people in my life and that’s a whole lot. I just wish things were different and I could celebrate this time with a growing babe in my belly.

I bought two baby nikau. Nikau is my favourite tree. They are ready to go in my garden, but I’m not ready to plant them. What if this process makes me sad. What if it feels ceremonial. It’s too hard right now. Plus there are weeds I need to remove first. Weeds. The pits. I’ll wait until I’m back from holiday.

Another Mum I know asks me how I’m doing. She says it never gets easier, but it gets less all-consuming. This resonates with me. I still think about everything that has happened to us, but it doesn’t consume me anymore. I’m doing more and seeing more. I went away with some girlfriends and we laughed so hard we snorted and spat up our drinks back into our glasses. That’s real healing. Real self-care. And it never would have happened a few weeks ago. Instead of tears of laughter, I would be crying tears of sadness. I’ve come a long way.

I can’t wait to get away on holiday. Take some time for our family, treat ourselves, get away from work and chores and admin. A chance to reset. We’ll be on the road tomorrow for a week. Wwwaaaaaahhhhooooooo.

*These words include detail of my physical miscarriage so you might not want to keep reading*

I realise that I can’t do this alone. I’m not strong enough. I need my village. So I let people know.

I’m overwhelmed by the support from people. We receive flowers, cards, gifts, meals, messages, phone calls and visits.

I take things day by day. On the day following my scan, I need to get out of the house. I go to my sister and laws and then my sisters’. I bring Jas and he gives me strength and love.

The day after that, I go to the hospital. The staff are incredibly kind. The nurse tells me that this is not my fault. I know that deep down, but I needed to hear it anyway. I decide to take the medication to bring on the physical miscarriage. I’m not ready to take it yet, so I bring it home with me. I am absolutely dreading what has to come.

The following day I take the medication. I lie in our bed and wait. My sister and my niece lie with me and bring me cups of tea and ready salted chips. My husband reassures me that I am strong. He takes Jas and my niece for a walk. He’s been doing the majority of the parenting the past few months and I love him for it. Beyond words.

The cramping starts first. Then, I lose 3 of the 4 pills in the toilet. I figure it’s okay as it has been 6 hours since I inserted them and the bleeding has started. It’s like a heavy period. I get through the night. The next day there is no pain and the bleeding is lighter. I’m emotionally and physically drained. I have a feeling my body hasn’t done its’ job just yet.

The blood test result confirm that I still haven’t finished miscarrying. So I head back to the hospital. They mention over the phone that I can pop in to get a second dose of the medication so I go alone. But it’s not a ‘pop-in.’ I’m there 3 hours and in that time I speak with a nurse and two doctors. I have a speculum inserted, they take swabs and remove a clot. I squeeze one of the doctors hands and try my best to breathe. I hate it. Then they perform an ultrasound scan and the doctor tells me I haven’t passed any of the pregnancy. Another knock. I see my babe on the screen. I’m in tears again.

This time I put the 4 tablets under my tongue. I’m left in a room as they dissolve like chalk in my mouth. After 40 minutes I press the call bell. I can’t bear to be here anymore. I’m fine to leave. I rush out of the hospital. It’s raining, I feel sick and the cramping has begun. I dry wrench and cry and rush to our car down the street. I struggle to keep my breathing under control. When I get in the car, I burst into tears. I’m wailing and gasping for air but I need to get home.

More wailing in my husband’s arms. Then drugs. Then sleep. I wake to a huge gush of blood. It’s on my undies, my pjs, the bluey I get from the hospital, the sheets, the bathroom floor. Bri cleans it all up and brings me tea and cheese toasties.

I gasp as I lose large clots. I want to try and catch the tissue, but it’s lost to a sea of red. I get through the night and the next day.

I go to work the day after that, I’m barely there but I try my best. The week before, an elderly patient I see for an appointment where they establish some health goals tells me about her family. She tells me she has 4 children and had 2 miscarriages. This touches me. It’s so nice to hear her acknowledging her losses, that many decades later. I want to do the same.

I’m lying here writing this. It’s been 79 days since my first miscarriage and 13 days since my missed miscarriage. I haven’t gone a day without crying. Some days I feel lighter and stronger. Some days I feel deeply saddened. Today I started on my garden in memory of Haewai Iti and Haewai Nui, my two angels.

I know this journey isn’t over. And I know I’m not alone. People are kind. I’m so thankful for that.

The sadness is unbearable. I’m devastated. I look for comforting words.

The following words help me to validate my own feelings and fully immerse myself in my grief.

“If I were to start a file on things nobody tells you about until you’re right in the thick of them, I might begin with miscarriages. A miscarriage is lonely, painful, and demoralising, almost on a cellular level.” – Michelle Obama

“There’s a unique pain that comes from preparing a place in your heart for a child that never comes” – David Platt

“‘There is no heartbeat.’ 4 words. 4 words to end the life I had. 4 words to change who I was. It will never be the same again. I will never be the same again.” – Kerin Lee

“A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven’t. Most don’t mention it. But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she’ll know.” -Barbara Kingsolver

“I carried you for every second of your life, and I will love you for every second of mine” – unknown

I go to work. The smell of coffee in the staff room makes me dry wrench. I’m struggling to drink the litre of water you’re encouraged to drink before the dating ultrasound scan. My first patient cancels. I’m counting down the minutes until I head down the road to my appointment.

I arrive. At first I think the sonographer is really awkward. He barely speaks. Bri is two minutes late, trying to get a park. The sonographer waits. When Bri arrives, the sonographer spends a few moments with our baby visible on the screen. He turns to me.

“I have some bad news. There is no heartbeat. I’m so sorry.”

The words are crushing. It feels like a scene from a movie. Bri wraps himself around me. I hate that we’re all wearing masks. I can’t believe this is happening. The tears stream down my face.

“Are you sure?” I ask. He shows us our baby once more and prints out an image. I’m so grateful now that I have that keepsake of our time together.

And then I realise, I have to get my baby out. I cry even more. The sonographer calls my boss and my midwife. He’s kind and gentle and gives us a moment together.

Now what. I feel completely broken. We make our way home where I spend the rest of the day in bed.

My diet mostly consists of crackers and toast. I see an acupuncturist in the hope it will relieve my nausea. They give me a resource to take home.

“Although nausea during pregnancy is often dismissed as a minor disorder it can be a very real affliction for many women…it can interfere with quality of life…”

This made me feel validated. I knew other women went through it. It was such a simple message but one I needed to hear.

The weeks pass by and I do the minimum to get by. I’m counting down the weeks until I’m clear of the physical burden of nausea, interrupted sleep and fatigue.

When I was pregnant with Jasper I made the decision to stop receiving treatment for my MS. Weighing up the risks vs benefits was tricky. Ultimately, I made the call to put the health of my baby first. I knew the risks of harm to him were minimal, unknown and quite possibly non-existent.

The drive to put your unborn baby first is very powerful. I expect all expectant mothers feel this way.

I’m now faced with the same decision. Do I stop treatment, increasing my risk of relapse? Do I continue treatment, with the unknown harm this may or may not cause my baby. I read countless articles, watch a video from a neuroscience research fellow, and talk to neurology health professionals. There are no definitive answers.

“If a woman becomes pregnant while taking TYSABRI, discontinuation of therapy should be considered. A benefit-risk evaluation of the use of natalizumab during pregnancy should take into account the patient’s clinical condition and the possible return of disease activity after stopping the
medicinal product.”

I make the call to stop treatment and hope that I stay well.

Each day following my positive pregnancy test brings more fatigue and nausea. It feels like a hangover with no relief. A hangover with no laughing about the night before. I hangover without McDs for dinner. I feel like I’m stuck inside a pit.

I end up spending 5 consecutive days in bed. I feel so ill. By day 5, my husband calls my family for help. I don’t think he’s seen me this down and out since my Mum died.

My siblings bring food. They do our washing, our dishes, change nappies and give Bri a break from the chaos. They sit with me and when they are around me, I feel relief. And when they go, I feel stuck back in my pit.

Jasper climbs all over me as I lie in bed or sit on the sofa. He accidentally presses on my breasts which are insanely tender and growing by the day. I yelp in pain and he hugs me. I dry wrench and he goes ‘oo’.

On reflection, a big part of that time in bed and in my own head was caused by the shock, anxiety, and grief.

I’m not so down that I stop making plans. There is some hope amongst all the angst. Surely this level of nausea means my hormones are doing their thing. I feel SO pregnant. I try to stick to the gym as much as I can. My belly is already expanding. I’m already wearing a maternity bra, a good couple of sizes up from my regular size. I buy some maternity leggings and shorts in preparation for the heaphy track I’m going to walk in a couple of months when I’ll be safely in the second trimester, or so I think.