There are times when we receive a personal story and my heart just breaks. But always, always, the couple involved are some of the strongest people around. They have to be to get through and I have nothing but love and respect for their bravery. Today Tamsin is sharing a very personal story that led to one of the hardest decisions you could make.

Have you ever had your heart broken? I thought I had. From the classic dumped-by-the-boy-of-my-dreams-in-sixth-form heartbreak; a more serious relationship breakdowns; to the terrible heartache when a beloved family member passed away. Turns out, I hadn’t really experienced true heartbreak until the 20th October 2015 when the Sonographer’s hand rested over mine and I looked into her eyes to see her apologetic, ominous expression.

It was the three month scan for our very first baby. Something I’d wanted and had been looking forward to for as long as I can remember. Before going in, I was nervous of course, I remember just wanting to see with my own eyes that there was something ‘real’ in there! The lights went off and after a short while on the screen was our little baby – a fizz of excitement rose up when I saw tiny arms waving, little legs kicking and a beautifully rhythmic heartbeat. I’d inwardly breathed a sigh of relief – it was a feeling of pure, pure joy.

But then, a slightly uncomfortable feeling crept in. The image in front of me looked perfectly normal – arms, legs, rounded tummy… but it didn’t look quite right. Not quite like all those other scan pictures I’d seen from friends or on social media when other’s shared their happy news. My concern was validated with the apologetic look on the sonographer’s face once she’d finished the scan.

I felt like I’d dropped right down from the sky – not a sinking feeling but a crashing, thud of a feeling. After further emergency scans the day after we learnt that our baby had a rare neural tube defect called Anencephaly. During the very early stages of pregnancy, it’s tiny little skull and a portion of it’s brain had not developed and we were told that the condition was ‘not compatible with life’. If we continued with the pregnancy our baby would not survive for more than 24 hours once born. I howled with grief the entire way home.

We were faced with the ‘decision’ to terminate the pregnancy. I say ‘decision’ although for us this was never a choice. I knew I could not bring a baby into the world that would never have the chance to ‘be’. But the actively putting an end to something I had so badly craved for such a long time was the hardest thing I have ever had to do and went against every instinct I had.
My experience of the termination was horrendous. From the anti-abortion activists outside the clinic to whom I wanted to shout “I don’t want to be doing this”, to being passed from one room to another, waiting in corridors and feeling very out of place. I remember waking up from anaesthetic and realising that my baby had gone. I began sobbing silently and was told robotically and without emotion by a nurse ‘you shouldn’t cry, your mascara is running’. I felt like no one in the world could possibly understand my heartache – all I could think of was how much we would have loved that baby.

This time and the weeks following are a blur. I felt wrapped in a fog, completely heartbroken. I spent hours lying awake blaming myself and going through every tiny thing I did/eat/said while pregnant. I was completely incapable of even attempting to console my husband whose grief was further adding to my own heartbreak. I continued to work (I run my own business and that time of year is our busiest) and had to put on a brave face for my staff who were not aware I was even pregnant in the first place, let alone what had happened. I would get home every afternoon and cry and cry.

Shortly after we tried again for another baby. I fell pregnant very quickly. I had naively thought ‘we’ve had our bad luck, this one will be fine!’ but after 6 ½ weeks, I had an early miscarriage. By this time I had numbed completely. Once again, I was convinced it was somehow my fault and my mind was consumed with all the ways I could have prevented this from happening. In hindsight, I now believe that my body was just not ready to carry another baby yet but at the time it felt like the cruel universe was just laughing at me.

The preceding months dragged. Being desperate for a baby is exhausting – the never-ending cycle of ovulation tests, pregnancy tests, fertility apps and late night googling takes its toll. I was on constant high alert for others’ pregnancy announcements and actively avoided putting myself in uncomfortable situations. I went to a dinner party and sat next to a pregnant lady who spent the entire evening complaining about how awful it was being pregnant and how she was so miserable that she couldn’t have a glass of wine. I screamed inside.

As a couple we slowly healed, and still are. We have the ashes of our first tiny baby and intend to scatter them when we plant a rose bush at the front of our home. I also got the tiniest little star tattoo on my wrist that sits under my watch. Only I really know it’s there and it’s just a reminder of the precious babies we lost and still think of, and it helped a small part of me to move forward.

After another six months we conceived again and I’m now four months pregnant. The pregnancy so far has had quite a few complications and hurdles that have just added to our nervousness and anxiety. I dread every appointment and scan and think the worst every time I feel a pain or something strange, but as the weeks go by, I am slowly beginning to let myself believe that this baby is going to be fine and to allow myself to feel excited and to begin thinking towards the future. It’s something I’m working on day by day.

I’d like to think our experiences have made me, and us as a couple, stronger, although it doesn’t feel like it quite yet. I pondered long and hard about whether to write this, but I remembered reading Becky’s post on Rock My Family about her ‘Missed Miscarriage’ and how it made me feel like I wasn’t the only one going through hell, which is hard to do when you’re in pain. It made me think that if I could just help one person feel less alone in grief or encourage someone to talk about their issues then it would be a good thing. I can’t thank Becky enough for her kindness and support when I contacted her and I will always be grateful for that.

My experiences initially gave me a sense of failure, guilt and shame and only when I opened up to my family and friends did I begin to heal and realise that none of these things were my fault. I strongly believe that we should all feel more comfortable and create a more open culture to talk about pregnancy issues, loss and fertility and for it to be less of a forbidden and taboo subject than it currently is.