My miscarriages remain unexplained. It could be bad luck. It could be a chromosomal issue. We might never know. And that for me is the worst development. I know, it is ridiculous to want something to be wrong. But I wanted there to be something wrong with me so that there was a reason for the miscarriages.
Our friends went to our house and hid the pregnancy books, which I'd been reading just the night before we lost her. They took down the congratulations cards from the bookcase. My husband steeled himself to put the little pink dresses and frilly babygrows in the attic, so I wouldn't see them in the spare room.
Three days after the wedding the miscarriage started. It began as a pain in the stomach. She knew it was happening, so we called for our fifth emergency appointment. The bleeding was constant and she had continuous pain. What could I do to make it better? The helpless feeling of inadequacy was fraught and very real.
It can also, dare I say, be quite frustrating for the woman in the relationship to do all the talking. Yes, it's our bodies going through most of the testing, poking and prodding, but it takes two to make a baby. Men aren't just there to provide the goods! As a woman, I need my other half to talk to me, communicate his feelings to me.
Amelia's magazine, cult online creative treasure trove, is returning to print for its 10 year anniversary, with an issue called That Which We Do Not understand. It sounds like it's going to be a treat. Is there anyone who isn't interested in things we don't understand? The things at the periphery, the things Science can't quite explain?
I have secondary infertility, in other words I had fertility issues after my first child was born. She is now six. After five and a half years of numerous procedures, operations, four rounds of IVF, a miscarriage and ending up with a fairy godmother surrogate, I got my happy ending, my complete family.
Perhaps it was being put deep under by the anaesthesia, for I am told it really is a little like dying. Well the closest one comes to dying without actually... dying; when you are sedated enough for them to cut into you. Maybe it was that which dropped me deep into myself, enough to touch the stuff that really mattered. The debris hidden behind decades of conditioning shot to the top.