As I held the positive test in my hand, I could feel my body go into shock. I was in my 30s, in a happy relationship (albeit still firmly in the honeymoon period), we had just moved in together to our cute rental cottage, my career was at its peak, and I was enjoying all the benefits of DINK (double income no kids) life. This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t against having children, quite the contrary. But I guess, after spending much of my 20s in unsuitable relationships, it wasn’t something I had considered would be in my present. It was a chapter for a few years away, surely? Although this test with its flashing ‘2-3 weeks’ insisted otherwise.
I spent much of the first few weeks post positive test in a bit of a blur, unsure how to handle social occasions, feeling uncomfortable about passing on a glass (or three) of wine, struggling with a range of pregnancy symptoms, and getting to grips with the idea that I was meant to keep this a secret for the next three months. There was also the feeling of overwhelming guilt that I had fallen pregnant so easily. I had a number of friends struggling to conceive or finding out that their fertility journey was going to be complicated due to medical reasons and here I was pregnant, unplanned.
There was also the feeling of overwhelming guilt that I had fallen pregnant so easily. I had a number of friends struggling to conceive and here I was pregnant, unplanned.
I could feel myself physically and mentally withdrawing from my friends and social crowd. I couldn’t work out where I belonged
– I didn’t fit with my married friends, who were either chasing after toddlers or pregnant after doing it the ‘right way’ or my other friends, who were still living for the weekend. Nothing seemed to fit whilst I struggled to get my head around the prospect of becoming a mum.
For as long as I could remember I have always been a child magnet. I spent much of my late teens and 20s teaching cheerleading to children from the age of five upwards. But having kids of my own, especially in a relatively new relationship, out of wedlock and living in a rented house, meant the picture I had created in my mind as to how and when it would happen suddenly looked very different. I felt this inner turmoil of grieving for the route I thought my life would take, as a control-freak who veers on the side of perfectionism, and what I could only describe as overwhelming relief that the decision of when to stop and have children had been taken away from me.
I hadn’t realised the impact of other people’s fertility journeys and society’s constant reminders that somehow once you hit 30 there’s a ticking time bomb in your womb.
As the weeks went on, numbered in a way I had never experienced before, I also couldn’t stop this feeling of underlying excitement. I hadn’t realised the impact of other people’s fertility journeys and society’s constant reminders that somehow once you hit 30 there’s a ticking time bomb in your womb. I felt so grateful that this hadn’t been the case for me, all the other details started to become irrelevant. It was like winning the lottery without buying a ticket. Yet, to the few people who knew the situation, including my partner and my close family, I would nonchalantly shrug off the importance of the pregnancy, sitting on the fence about how I felt when it was mentioned and always vying on the side of caution.
My partner was instantly excited, he came from a big family and had always wanted children. He insisted on an early scan to ensure everything was ok, which I went along to still proclaiming I didn’t mind either way as it wasn’t planned anyway. However, deep down the anxiety something could take away this feeling bubbled under the surface.
As the ultrasound probe stroked my lower abdomen, I had a weird pain in my gut. As I looked at the screen and the sonographer’s face, I could see by her expression it wasn’t good news. “How many weeks do you think you are again?” she asked kindly. “Eight…” I managed to squeak in response, my voice sounding unfamiliar as it echoed around the clinic room. She went on to explain that the sac appeared empty and that I was to go home and contact the early pregnancy unit (EPU). She mentioned missed miscarriage and no visible heartbeat, but nothing seemed to sink in or make sense, before ushering us out the room suggesting I could have my dates slightly off and should wait a few weeks.
I tried to convince myself it was a blessing, I could now revert back to the ‘plan’, and this wasn’t how it was ‘supposed’ to be anyway.
After speaking to the EPU, I was told to wait and booked in for an early scan in two weeks time. Those 14 days were the strangest period of limbo ever. I couldn’t work out if I was meant to be happy or sad, I spent hours googling and searching every forum for possible outcomes. I was still struggling with pregnancy symptoms, feeling nausea and gaining weight, yet according to the scan there was nothing there. I tried to convince myself it was a blessing, I could now revert back to ‘the plan’, and this wasn’t how it was ‘supposed’ to be anyway. I withdrew even further from friends and social occasions as I had no idea how to even start with how I was feeling, becoming more and more isolated with my own thoughts.
After the two weeks had passed, we went to the hospital where the EPU confirmed I was having a missed miscarriage. I felt completely lost, one minute I was getting my head around becoming pregnant and the next it had been taken away without a single sign or symptom. Missed, or silent miscarriages affect 1-5% of pregnancies. It occurs when the baby hasn’t developed, yet your body has continued to produce pregnancy hormones leading to symptoms like sickness, headache, and breast tenderness, which means it often comes as a complete shock.
According to my blood levels, my hormones were still very high so the doctor couldn’t confirm how long it would take for me to pass the sac, or naturally miscarry, and advised I went for a dilatation and curettage, or D and C. This is a procedure which removes the lining of the uterus, as well as an incomplete miscarriage or empty sac. I agreed and arranged, very matter of factly, to take the next available slot at the end of the week. My partner was concerned that he was meant to be flying off for a stag do the day after, but I calmly dismissed his worries and assured him I would be fine, insisting he still go. It wasn’t like we had planned to get pregnant, I reminded him, suggesting it was probably for the best anyway. I organised taking a few days off from work and staying with my mum the night after the surgery. I told myself that I shouldn’t cry over something I didn’t want a few months before, it made no sense to my logical brain. Yet, deep down I knew I was distraught. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach, repeatedly. I was grieving for a child I didn’t even know I wanted, yet all of a sudden it was all I could think about. Although I assured everyone that I was handling it with strength and courage.
On the morning of the D and C, I recognised another couple in the waiting room, I instantly turned to my partner and said how terrible I felt for them. They were married, they had obviously tried to get pregnant and had lost a baby. In my head their pain was worth way more than mine because I hadn’t planned for this. I told myself I shouldn’t cry, when there were people like them struggling. I convinced myself I didn’t deserve to feel the grief I was struggling to control under the surface.
The procedure and recovery passed in a blur, for the next few weeks I was on autopilot, still struggling to face friends and family who were unaware of the situation and still coming to terms with the fact that whether I liked it or not, something inside me had changed and it wasn’t going to go back to normal.
Society appears to expect us to sweep it under the carpet, accept the statistic that 1 in 4 pregnancies end in a miscarriage, and that by keeping the news to yourself you somehow lessen the pain.
My first period, about six weeks later, hit me like a tonne of bricks. I cried the whole day, it was the final sign my journey towards motherhood wasn’t actually happening. It was like waking up from a dream, and for the first few minutes trying to work out what was real and what was in my head. We are taught not to discuss pregnancy during those first few weeks, because of the risks, which means there’s little information out there about how to navigate your feelings. Society appears to expect us to sweep it under the carpet, accept the statistic that one in four pregnancies end in a miscarriage, and that by keeping the news to yourself you somehow lessen the pain. I’m still confused as to why as women are we meant to keep one of the most life-changing situations a secret as some sort of protection? Surely, the person who will hurt the most from a possible negative outcome already knows?
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By accepting the grief I felt it made me realise I couldn’t be nonchalant anymore, I may not have thought I wanted kids right now, but now I knew I did and I couldn’t hide it. I made sure I checked the maternity policy at work, I decided to take control of my diet and lifestyle, I allowed my partner to see my grief and pain. We discussed how we both wanted a family and to settle down. I wanted to ensure the next time we saw a positive test, there wouldn’t be a fence in sight, I would be happy and I would allow myself to be, regardless of the outcome.
Nine months later I found out I was pregnant during a friend’s wedding in Mykonos. We had just spent a week partying in Ibiza after taking a break from trying to conceive, for us removing the pressure and constantly looking at dates and tracking ovulation worked. We still weren’t married, it still wasn’t the full plan, but my missed miscarriage had shown me that sometimes a plan isn’t all it cracked up to be. I allowed myself to feel the joy, to show excitement, anxiety, and everything in between. If I was going to be a mum I had to be my most authentic self from now on, even if that meant feeling pain and disappointment. This was just one of the gifts my missed miscarriage gave me, the other was it showed me that I was ready to be a mother.
I now have two children, an eight and a five-year-old, and I am forever grateful for them both. I adore being a mum, far more than I ever thought I would, and some of that is thanks to the pain I felt back then. I became the mother I am today 10 years ago, the minute I saw that positive test, and I will never allow myself to forget it.
Lauren Ezekiel is an associate editor at POPSUGAR UK, where she writes about all things beauty and wellness. With a degree in journalism and 12 years’ experience as a beauty editor at a leading Sunday supplement, she is obsessed with skincare, hair and makeup, and is often found offering advice to innocent bystanders. Her work has been published in Grazia, OK, Health and Beauty, The Sun, ASDA, Dare and Metro.
