Warning: This piece includes graphic descriptions of what it’s like to experience miscarriage, which may be triggering for some readers

The birth of my little boy completed me. I’ve always had a strong maternal instinct; a need to be a mum and I cradled my firstborn at the age of 36 after three long days of labour. 

I was actually terrified at the thought of childbirth. I’ve always had a relatively unhealthy fear of all things medical but also knew that hospital was where I would feel safest. The desire to have a baby overrode the fear of giving birth; of the pain I expected to feel and of tearing or an episiotomy ‘down there’. I would put myself through it to have something that I always knew I wanted and for a few years feared would never materialise after a lengthy relationship which didn’t work out. To cut a long story short, I found myself single again at 33 and met my partner at 34.

For three years I’ve enjoyed countless precious moments with my little boy. Of course there have been difficult times too – the sleep deprivation he caused was literally a nightmare, and I struggled with his frequent waking every couple of hours or more for a good 12 months. Some days were a cloud of nappy changes, feeds and rocking, and it was hard to function or think straight. Yes, he has meltdowns because he wants his cereal in the red bowl, not the yellow one. Yes, he still has to be watched, entertained and looked after constantly and I’ve had very little time to myself for the last three years. Yes, he often still wakes me during the night to pull the covers back over him, even though he’s perfectly capable of doing it himself. But I have a son. An adorable, inquisitive, chatty, hilarious, amazing son. He’s mine and I fall more in love with him every day. 

It’s hard to explain the yearning to have another child. I want it for me, to have two children in my life, two little people to love and adore and I want it for him. I want him to have a sibling he can play with, grow with, to have a shared history with and to support him for the rest of his life when his dad and I are long gone. I’m well aware it doesn’t always work out that way and some brothers and sisters can’t stand each other, but I’d aim to do everything in my power to foster a loving, supportive relationship. Family is very important to me. 

Lots of parents have that desire for another child and it isn’t questioned in the ones who conceive easily. ‘They want to complete their family’. ‘When are they having another one?’ ‘They’ll have a second one soon.’ But for someone with secondary infertility it’s a different matter. ‘You’re luckier than some’. ‘At least you have one, others don’t.’ ‘Isn’t your little boy enough?’ Yes he is. He bloody is. He is everything. But I’d like to be a mum of two – is that so very wrong? Is it greedy because I want something that can happen so easily for others? Is it self-centred because there are women who, for various reasons, struggle to have any children at all? In fact, that longing to be a mum of two is so strong that it led me, someone who is fearful of needles, invasive procedures and pumping my body with medication, to IVF after 18 months of trying to conceive for the second time. 

I cried when I got my fertility test results. They were a shock as my little boy was conceived in the first month of trying. I cried after consultations with fertility experts. I cried when trying to make decisions about which IVF path to take or whether to do it at all. I cried all the way through the consultation with the nurse who talked me through the fertility drugs and taught me how to self-inject. I had to steel myself for the two or four injections in my stomach every night, administered by my other half as I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My jaw felt locked for two whole weeks before the egg collection and I cried while they inserted the cannula into my arm and then wheeled me into the operating theatre. As the sedative seeped into my body, my jaw finally relaxed. 

You invest so much in IVF on so many levels; emotionally, physically, financially and practically, trying to juggle the logistics of appointments with work and childcare if you already have a child. It’s also defined by waiting and hope, as well as the needles and hormones. Each day brings a new hurdle and if and when you get over it, more hope. 

The waiting and thirst for information starts from the off. How many follicles on each ovary? Are they growing? Are they still growing? How many eggs did they collect? Did they fertilise? What grade are the embryos? Will they make it to blastocyst stage? And if you’re lucky enough to have an embryo transfer, there’s the long two week wait to see if you’re pregnant. Following that, another two-week wait for an early pregnancy scan. 

We had one top quality, grade one embryo by day three after the egg collection and a second which wasn’t viable by day five. The good one was transferred back into me on the third day and seven days later I knew my body was pregnant, just as I did in my first pregnancy. A blood test after another seven days confirmed the news.

Relief, more tears, more hope.  

Then a couple of weeks later we went for the early pregnancy scan at the IVF clinic and were told it was perhaps too early to tell if there was a heartbeat. I was told to go for another scan a week later which we chose to do at the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU) at an NHS hospital. As we were waiting to be seen, a lady came out of a side room wailing, bringing tears to my eyes. I didn’t know then that I would be the next distraught woman in the department that day. I knew from the consultant’s silence and stony expression as he scanned me that something was wrong and the moment he broke the news that our baby definitely didn’t have a heartbeat, is etched into my memory. I walked in as a mum-to-be and walked out empty. 

I didn’t miscarry naturally, so two weeks later I was back in the EPU for a procedure to remove the ‘products of conception’; our baby. I chose the option of having it under local anaesthetic as I was uncomfortable with not being able to breathe independently under a general anaesthetic. The thought of the procedure caused a lot of anxiety and I hoped my body would start the miscarriage process naturally before the day of the operation. 

The procedure itself was wholly unpleasant and painful at times, but it was manageable pain and it was over quite quickly. My other half was by my side and showed me pictures of our son on his phone throughout, which put me in a stronger place mentally. The bleeding goes on for a couple of weeks afterwards, but I know the emotional after-effects will go on for longer.

I’ve dealt with it by talking, writing, of course more crying and by doing fun things with my son – the light of my life who makes everything feel better. Yes, I am incredibly lucky. I have the comfort and joy he brings and I’m so massively grateful for it. But I’ve also realised that I’m allowed to grieve the loss of this second child. I’m allowed to feel sad for myself, my partner, my son, my mum. I’m allowed time to heal after the emotional and physical ordeal of it all. It doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate what I have, every single day. 

Useful websites and helplines:

• Mind, open Monday to Friday, 9am-6pm on 0300 123 3393
• Samaritans offers a listening service which is open 24 hours a day, on 116 123 (UK and ROI – this number is FREE to call and will not appear on your phone bill.)
• The Mix is a free support service for people under 25. Call 0808 808 4994 or email: help@themix.org.uk
• Rethink Mental Illness offers practical help through its advice line which can be reached on 0300 5000 927 (open Monday to Friday 10am-4pm). More info can be found on www.rethink.org.