You can follow from the start of my journey through miscarriage here.
Before Boo, I was consumed with baby fever. I was desperate to be a Mum. To have a baby. To be pregnant. To have a baby bump. The feeling was primal and consuming.
Then I was really ill throughout my entire pregnancy and signed off sick for about 6 months. This was swiftly followed by a harrowing experience with post natal depression and anxiety.
The euphoric primal dance party eminating from my womb was snubbed out. I didn’t have baby fever. I wasn’t excited. I wasn’t happy. I was numb to the whole thing. I feel slightly robbed if I’m honest. It was a big lesson on adapting my expectations.
When we decided to try for baby number 2, I was anxious. It took a long time to warm up to the idea. In the end, I was won over by practical reasons. Boo will be an ace sister. I’m about to enter the geriatric pregnancy age bracket. Time to try. But no baby fever.
Then something altogether crazy happened. I woke up at 4am, approximately 5 hours after we had had sex. I sat up feeling dizzy. I went downstairs to get water. I was overcome with joy that I was pregnant with a boy. It was irrational, I told myself. I just finally had baby fever. There’s no way I could know I was pregnant. But I was. A long week and a half later the tiny squinty line finally became pink enough to see without convincing myself I wasn’t mad. Plus M finally conceded that it was, in fact, a line and would I please stop peeing on sticks every 5 minutes now.
I was ecstatic. I wasn’t scared about illness or depression. I was overjoyed that we had a new member of our family.
I went out and bought a winter onesie. The due date was Christmas Day. We bought an outfit for Boo that had BIG SISTER emblazoned across the front. We announced. We weren’t cautious or worried. We were in love with our little boy. Boo, who is obsessed with Peppa Pig named the baby in my tummy George.
Then when I was almost 8 weeks I started to bleed. I hadn’t thrown up for 3 days. I knew it was over. At the hospital thy found a heartbeat. M was so relieved. I wasn’t. I couldn’t shake the feeling that George wasn’t well. 3 days later I woke at 4am. Exactly 6 weeks after waking at 4am the first time. Only this time my body woke me to say goodbye. I felt light tightenings and my body push for about 5 minutes. I lay quietly just experiencing it all. Grateful that my body had woken me to be part of it. Then I felt him leave my body. I put my hand down and there he was. Tiny. Perfect. With a little beautiful face. A tiny heart that had now stopped beating. Tiny arms and legs. My baby. George.
I’ve felt empty since then. That euphoria I felt when George was conceived has gone. I am an empty shell.
Until today. I must be ovulating because I’m having that same primal feeling. That possessive and pressing urge to be pregnant. That feeling you can’t escape. I really can’t escape the feeling. I’m currently wrapped in a towel in the swimming pool changing rooms writing this out like a totally bonkers loon. I couldn’t stop thinking about this urge the whole time I was swimming. I had to get out and write it down because it’s crowding my brain.
So do I try now? Am I emotionally ready? Is this just my body l telling me I’m fertile right now. I really don’t know. It’s a milestone I thought I wouldn’t hit for quite some time yet. The journey from miscarriage is strange and unpredictable.