When I fell pregnant with my son, I largely ignored the fact for the first 20 weeks. I went through the motions with appointments, scans, blood tests etc. When my husband and I told our (very) close family just before our 12 week scan, it was muted and dropped into conversation. I wasn't jubilant or looking forward to bringing a new life into the world. I was absolutely terrified. It was as if an icy claw had a grip around my stomach from the moment those lines appeared on my pregnancy test until my consultant at my 20 week appointment said "everything's fine"
You'd be forgiven for thinking I was cold hearted or even that I didn't want this baby, but nothing could be further from the truth. I wanted this baby more than anything in the world. I'd pined for a child, longed for the downy smell of a newborn's head and to be woken up for night feeds at 3 in the morning. I couldn't wait to be a mother, I already was in one sense.
Things were completely different in my first pregnancy. Although it was unplanned, my husband and I were completely overjoyed and immediately fell head over heels in love with this little life. We excitedly told our families & a few very close friends, we started buying little outfits, making lists of names. We whispered with boundless optimism whenever we were alone and wondered who our baby would look like, who they would take after. There was no doubt in our mind that we'd be bringing our baby home that autumn. Everything was going to be perfect, we got past the 12 week scan( that we naively thought was the scary one) and started telling more and more people that baby Hancock was on their way.
We carried on, elevated to cloud 9 for another 8 weeks. I counted myself very lucky that the only pregnancy symptom I suffered with was fatigue and thicker hair. Nick and I are both fit and healthy, we have no family history of any serious illnesses, at the time we were both 25 and had gotten past the first 12 weeks. I'd convinced myself that if we made it past that point it was plain sailing from there. The date for our 20 week anomaly scan came round frustratingly slowly. We couldn't wait to see our baby again and decided that we didn't want to know if we were having a girl or a boy.
I'll never forget the moment when blissful optimism and certainty turned into crippling doubt and despair. Everything was ripped away from us in the space of that 15 minute appointment. The dreams that we had nurtured as lovingly as we had this little person were shattered, and we had to tell everyone that there wouldn't be a baby after all.
That scan started off what was to be the worst week of my life. 5 days later, our daughter was delivered sleeping. It's not an exaggeration or melodramatic to say a part of me had also died with her.
It stands to reason that, after this experience, my second pregnancy would be very different. We weren't trying, but we weren't not trying for another baby. When I missed my period it was a really weird mix of feeling cautiously optimistic, incredibly guilty and so overwhelmingly scared. I felt that by being pregnant again just 6 months after she'd died, I'd betrayed my daughter.
I wanted to love this baby as much as I'd loved Imogen but I just couldn't let myself fall that hard again, I couldn't risk my heart being broken like it was last time. I tried to make myself numb, I tried not to get too attached, as if that would soften the blow if we lost this baby too.
Although I'd started eating the right things, stopped drinking all the wrong things and stocked up on pre natal vitamins, I tried to put the reason for me doing these things to the back of my mind. Whenever an antenatal appointment letter came through the post I didn't count down the days, it filled me with dread. I was scared of the midwife saying to me "I'm so sorry, we can't find a heartbeat". As soon as they did I felt like I'd been granted a temporary reprieve.
Where I'd felt a bit smug about not having any sickness last time, it put me on edge the second time round. Someone had said to me that morning sickness was a sign of a healthy baby, which I knew rationally was an old wives tale but it didn't do much to help my blood pressure.
Every scan we had (there were so many more this time) was another anxiety ridden experience. At our first one, I remember waiting to go in surrounded by smiling serene pregnant ladies and their proud partners. I sat there shaking and on the verge of tears. I was very acutely aware that we were about 20 meters away from the delivery suite where our daughter was born sleeping. The sonographer asked "first baby?" when we went in, I just wanted to scream at her to read my notes, but politely smiled and said "no, our first died last year". Her face immediately changed from that same serene expression to one of sympathy and almost of panic. We had the scan, measurements were taken and we were told "everything looks ok". I couldn't take her at her word, I'd been burned before.
I couldn't relax until I had that 20 week milestone in my rear view mirror. Then I could let myself believe I'd have a baby at the end of this pregnancy. The days and weeks just dragged past, I was wishing this whole experience away when it should have been one of the happiest times in my life. It was isolating and so very scary.
Finally, that day I'd been willing forwards arrived. We had the scan and in spite of all my worry, everything was completely fine with our baby. We went to see our consultant immediately after and were given a treatment plan which didn't involve many additional appointments, just a few extra scans to make sure the baby was continuing to grow properly. I felt the relief wash over me and genuinely thought that would be the end of my anxieties.
After a few weeks this baby settled into a pattern of movements that was both a relief and another constant worry! I loved feeling my baby somersault around in my tummy, even more so when I could see little flips and wiggles. However, every time I'd let my mind become occupied with work or anything else, I'd forget to keep track of exactly how many times or in what pattern my baby had moved. Then I'd feel the familiar tightening in my chest, my mind would race and I'd end up at the DAU. After the first 3 visits I was referred for monitoring a few times a week and even more growth scans. This continued right up until the end of my pregnancy and was invaluable in terms of the reassurance it gave me.
What surprised me most was that even though I was clearly an anxious mess from my booking in appointment until delivery, I was never referred to a perinatal mental health team until I explicitly requested it. This eventually happened about 3 weeks before Ciaran was born. I met with a really lovely woman in those crucial days who truly helped me calm down and listened with empathy and genuine concern. By the time Ciaran was due to be induced I was almost in control of my worries, and ready for the inevitable stress that comes with bringing a baby into the world.
The first three weeks after Ciaran was born were a fug of pure love, adoration, and complete bliss. I was so in love with this tiny little person and couldn't even begin to contain it. I'd regularly feel hot tears of joy form in the corners of my eyes just from looking at him. When Nick went back to work, reality set in of being completely responsible for another human and I began to convince myself that I couldn't cope.
I'd watch Ciaran when he slept at night under the impression that if I took my eyes off of him for a second, he'd stop breathing. After a while I thought that every time he cried it was my fault, that I wasn't doing enough and that he'd be better off with someone else looking after him. I thought that he didn't like me, that I'd made him neurotic by worrying so much when I was carrying him. These thoughts started off as pretty standard things, like when I'd try to suss out why he was screaming in the middle of the night and realise he needed changing or feeding. But they escalated to the point where even I knew they weren't normal.
I sought out help from the Ealing IAPT team who diagnosed me with mild post natal depression and anxiety. I wasn't surprised; with a course of cognitive behavioural therapy I'm now on my way to recovery. It's not easy talking about this kind of thing when everyone around you has certain expectations of how they think you should feel. Everyone tells you that you should be overjoyed, that you're a natural, that you're so lucky. All of that may be true, but unless you're in the right frame of mind, you'll never believe them or take any comfort from it. You need to believe it yourself to genuinely acknowledge any praise or compliments.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, pregnancy after loss is bloody hard. It's a series of horrible milestones that should be wonderful. They're hurdles you need to get behind you, rather than look forward to. Even when you've got past those it's all the new things you don't even imagine that come along and wake up that horrible little voice in the back of your head. The voice that tells you everything's going to go wrong again and that after everything you won't actually be able to take your baby home after all.
What I'm also trying to say is that with the right help and support, it doesn't need to be as hard or as lonely. My biggest regret is that I didn't push for the help I so desperately needed earlier than I did. I think that would have been the deciding factor of how enjoyable my second pregnancy actually was. I've learned that it's not a good idea to look back, and that I need to accept the things I can't change. I've learned that worrying about things that haven't happened yet is pointless, but it still doesn't stop me! I've learned that feeling guilty for loving my son unconditionally is not only robbing me of the best possible relationship I can have with him, but more importantly it can be damaging for him.
All I can do now is take what I can from the experiences I've had with both of my children, and both pregnancies, and learn from them moving forward. All I can do is love and care for my son to the best of my ability and enjoy him. The burden of knowledge can be a blessing and a curse, but now I feel ready to let myself be happy with what I have.
Written by Sinead Hancock - @sineadmaria
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