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Weekly Warrior - Meet Amy

At 9.30am on Tuesday, 14th May 2019 we walked into Horsham Hospital filled

with excitement, hope and dreams for the future. Just 10 minutes later, we were

leaving the ultrasound department with an emptiness that remains in our hearts

to this day; exactly one year later.

When I close my eyes at night I can still see the black and white image of my

uterus on the screen in front of me, my name and the date in the top right hand

corner. I can still hear the ultrasound technician sigh and whisper quietly: ‘I’m

sorry’. I can still feel that sudden rush of fear sweeping over my entire body as I

hold my breath and wait for the thump of a faint heartbeat to cut through the

silence and catch us all by surprise. I can still feel the warm, salty tears gathering

at the corners of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks as the nurse pushes a

handful of tissues into my hand. Our baby was just 10 weeks, six days when it

stopped living.

One in four. I knew the statistics. I’d uttered them to myself every day since that

line emerged on a Monday morning in April, an explanation to my nausea,

headaches and bad back. I’d sat in my midwife appointment just six days before

my 12-week scan and recited them again: ‘I’m trying not to get too excited, I

know one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage.’ I’d almost convinced myself of

that too. But as that 12-week milestone edged ever closer, I allowed myself to

falter. I started to get excited. I began to write a list of baby names; I opened the

new copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting ordered online; I bought my

first pair of maternity jeans as mine started to feel a little snug; and I browsed

the Mamas and Papas website adding nursery furniture, teeny tiny newborn

clothes and toys to my shopping basket. Although I told myself it wouldn’t

happen to me, it did. I am one in four; and I never get to order those items.

It’s been a year since our missed miscarriage. That’s 366 days (it was a leap

year); or 8,784 hours; or 527,040 minutes. I’d be lying if I said the pain and grief

had subsided all of these months on. It hasn’t. It’s still there, pumping through

my veins and etched on my heart. Every time I see another pregnancy

announcement on Facebook my heart aches a little more deeply than before.

Every time I brush my hand over a soft, fluffy baby grow in a shop the yearn from

deep within my gut cries out a little harder. Every time I hear a baby laugh or coo

or burble the desire within me to be a mother gets that little stronger.

I feel so far away from my own pregnancy announcement, from buying baby

grows or from hearing my own baby cry. We’re 19 months into our TTC journey;

or 19 cycles (in theory). That’s one positive pregnancy test, one missed

miscarriage, three days in hospital, one D&C, three weeks off work, five

supplements every day, six ultrasounds, four hospital appointments, eight blood

tests, three fertility consultations, more than £2,000 spent, five temperature-

recorded cycles, 24 OPK tests, 14 negative pregnancy tests, and countless tears.

But I feel as though our journey hasn’t even started. All around me friends,

relatives and colleagues have started their own TTC journeys, fallen pregnant

and welcomed their babies into the world. And we haven’t moved forward at all;

we’re right where we started. We live month-to-month, two-week wait to two-

week wait. We have no answers and no baby. I’ll be honest, most days I struggle

to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Most days it’s a never-ending deluge of

disappointment, stress and anxiety. The emotional impact of all of this is deep,

relentless and unyielding. There’s no break, no day off.

Being a parent is hard, but becoming a parent is even harder.


You can follow along on Amy's journey online:


Twitter: @AmyDeeKay

Instagram: @amydeekay

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