A discretionary note to readers that this story touches on aspects of miscarriage, infertility, infant loss and mental health. Reader discretion is advised.
My son was conceived in between espresso martinis while celebrating the first birthday of my gift shop. After years of expressing in every possible way that I wanted—nay, needed—to have a baby with my husband, he finally agreed, exasperated, as he walked through a doorway. He wasn’t quite ready—then again, is anyone ever? I knew it was time. We would casually stop “not trying” to have a baby when he returned from his first European tour with his band at the time. But by then, the threshold of parenthood had already been crossed for us.
Joshua left the country, and two weeks later my period was late. I casually took a pregnancy test. When I say casually, usually the best way to make my period get a wriggle on was to take a test and then breathe a sigh of relief that a baby wasn’t going to pop into our world unexpectedly. I was pouring myself a glass of white wine, pulling on some kind of trashy TV show, and reheating my dinner on the stove when I looked back at the test and it read a resoundingly “positive” positive. I was in shock but delighted.
I called my husband in the UK and said, “Sex is real, I’m pregnant.”
I know it seems strange to start an article on the mental health struggle I’ve faced whilst going through years of infertility with my absolute beginner’s luck at conception, but secondary infertility is, quite frankly, a rude biological prank. I spent years trying not to get pregnant, and then my son arrived in the most delightful perfect timing. I had a horrific pregnancy and birth and declared, “Never again, one and done.” My son is now 5½ (the ½ is very important, as he will make sure you know), and I have spent most of his life desperately trying to, and failing at, conceiving a sibling for him.
I’m three miscarriages deep into a painful fertility story that I try not to let consume my every waking thought and moment.
If you’ve seen me completely lose my mind, vent furiously, or cry uncontrollably, congratulations—you’re in the inner circle. I am very open with sharing my fertility issues. I’m not ashamed, and the more I talk about it, the less alone I feel because it’s more common than you think. Anxiety and overwhelm are, according to moode’s 2024 Preconception Survey, the most common emotions felt by women trying to conceive. And whoa, I have felt very overwhelmed and anxious.
Cancer is, unfortunately, a big part of my fertility journey. My husband was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in 2020. Initially, I couldn’t have cared less about another child; I just wanted the cancer to be gone. Chemo was a torturous time for him. Cycle after cycle got rid of the cancer, and we thanked G-d for the clear scans and remission that followed his treatment. Fertility outcomes for the kind of chemotherapy he had are very low, and after 12 months of remission, his sperm count was basically non-existent. Suddenly, IVF was the only option for another child.
A small miracle occurred in 2022 when a doctor declared that natural conception wasn’t completely impossible. I skipped out of the appointment and declared that “THIS WILL BE THE MONTH.” And I was right—we got pregnant. It was my first pregnancy since my son, so when I started bleeding at 11 weeks, I was completely unprepared for miscarriage and the many, many colours of grief that followed after.
If we’re talking about trying, then we need to talk about miscarriage. Trying again after three miscarriages has been a very special kind of madness. The last miscarriage, my first embryo transfer, almost killed me. The embryo implanted in my C-section scar, which is a rare ectopic pregnancy. I bled almost immediately after the positive test, and despite being told that I had miscarried, my HCG continued to rise as they would expect from a viable pregnancy. I lost count of the scans I had to have as they tried to locate the pregnancy and was hospitalised several times. In December 2023, I stayed at work long after I should have gone to hospital. I was bleeding, and after being discharged the week before, I knew it would just be a long wait in the emergency room. But then the clots were the size of grapefruit, and I ended up needing a blood transfusion. I kept holding out hope that the pregnancy would keep growing and we would have a miracle. It was only when I was brought back from a scan and a miserable blue butterfly was placed on my hospital room door that I realised it was well and truly over, I was having a miscarriage. The sign might as well have said “grief lives here.”
As I had my blood transfusion, another woman in the room next door to me also lost her baby. I cried for both of us. A nurse passed the door, and I heard her say in complete disbelief, “But she was fine! She was about to go home… It’s lucky it didn’t happen tomorrow.” The next day I woke up, and Christmas hit differently for every woman on that floor. The only present any of us wanted were healthy babies or miracle heartbeats on the ultrasound. The lady who brought my breakfast gave me an extra treat and smiled kindly. I just wanted to disappear and wake up in an alternate universe where my baby was still growing happily inside me.
In early January 2024 whilst waiting for what I thought was going to be a routine blood test result I suddenly started bleeding and had I not been at the hospital things could have ended very differently. I had emergency surgery and ‘trying’ was off the cards for at least 6 months. My uterus was off limits.
My second transfer didn’t work. I already knew it hadn’t worked—my period arrived the day before I was due to get my blood test to confirm if the embryo had cozied itself into the lining I had been painstakingly helping to grow with progesterone suppositories each day. I was calm when the nurse called to confirm the blood test was negative and immediately booked in for my scan to begin the next cycle. There is no stopping the train to sibling station; any grief is fuel for the fire.
Later that day, I exploded about something unrelated to pregnancy, and my husband and I got into a massive fight. I screamed across the room, “I just wanted to be pregnant today!” and fell in a heap. My husband stopped, made me a cup of tea, and I cried. Big, heavy, infertility frustration sobs. In public, I can hold it together. With him, I am a nuclear warhead primed to go off from the cocktail of hormones and disappointment.
I am about to have my third embryo transfer and begin the two-week wait, where I try not to let my brain absolutely cook itself, getting carried away with the ‘what ifs’ and possibilities.
Trying to have a baby and keep the pregnancy in my body has almost killed me. But I keep trying because I feel so deeply that there is another person who is supposed to join our family. The support I’ve had has been at times wonderful, and other times, I feel like people don’t know what to say anymore. The words of comfort don’t come as easily when you’re trying and failing over and over.
It was Isobelle Oderberg’s 2023 book Hard to Bear: Investigating the Science and Silence of Miscarriage that marked a pivotal point in my journey. “No one can tell you when it’s time to stop,” Oderberg writes. This book gave me the support I needed to make sense of what was happening and, most importantly, reminded me that I was not alone, that none of us are alone. “Listen to your own heart, and it will tell you what to do and how much you can handle.”
I have found a community that prays for me, that helps me hold onto hope on the days I feel like I’m going to fall apart. Friends offer to drive me to appointments and know that even though it’s hard to talk about things, they’re there for me. It’s essential to have this support. The trying, the hoping, the tempering of optimism with the reality that it might not work, can’t be done alone. Anytime I’ve closed off and tried to hold onto everything myself, I’ve felt myself falling into a very specific kind of ‘all I want is a baby’ madness.
In the time I’ve had losses, other families have welcomed multiple members to their families. You have to remind yourself that their happiness isn’t a macabre reflection of your grief. They’re separate, unconnected stories, even though what they have is what you’re dreaming of. I remind myself that their joy is a blessing and focus on my own journey which i know is easier said than done when you have happy news and gender reveals consistently smushed into your face by the world and social media.
Life has the infinite capacity to surprise, and I have to keep holding onto the vision that there is a baby in my future.
If you had a miscarriage, stillbirth or your baby died after birth, support is always available. Please see the below resources that offer support to families. Red Nose on 1300 308 307 for a 24-hour grief and loss support line,Stillbirth Foundation Australia for information and resources, The Pink Elephants Support Network for miscarriage information and support.
Maggie May Moshe is an artist, writer, creative, mother, and the owner/professional gift wrapper of Thinkers & Makers gift shop.
