April Fools.

!! SENSITIVE MATERIAL - TRIGGER WARNING !!

It's coming up to that time of year again, where social media is full of April Fools jokes and pranks. Now don't get me wrong, I can have a laugh and I'd like to think that I'm a fun person, but nothing irks me more so than seeing someone post the phrases or words:

"I'm Pregnant!!" or "Baby coming soon!!"

Only for them to be disregarded in a 'jokey' manner the very next day. I know I probably sound uptight and that there is some lack of fun within me, but for someone who has suffered two miscarriages both of which ended in surgeries resulting in any future pregnancies being classed as high risk and having friends who have also lost babies or cannot conceive, it pains me.

It's taken me a few days on and off to gather the courage to write this down... Not because I'm ashamed, but because of the memories and feelings that resurfaced whilst going through it in my mind. I think I have a good coping mechanism and tend to push traumatic experiences to the back of my mind. I rarely speak about them to the people closest to me, let alone write them down for the entire world to have access to.

I guess unless you've been through it, you will never truly understand the complete and utter heartbreak of losing a child. I mean, of course, you can have empathy with someone if they do, unless you're a heartless piece of shit, but you will never really know how it feels unless it happens to you personally. Let’s put it this way - I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

In my experience you never ever forget what it feels like. You never forget the moment you find out that the baby you longed for so much is gone. You never forget the sickness that thrives throughout your body. Even though you follow all the advice in these best-selling and expensive books, you still question yourself; "was it something I did?", "was it something I ate?", replaying everything you had done leading up until that precise moment. As soon as you get that positive pregnancy test, you do everything in your power to protect them. You eat the right foods, avoid alcohol and smoking, you don't sleep in certain positions, you're careful when walking downstairs and you take your vitamins.

The loss of my first baby occurred when I was 22, I was around 11 weeks pregnant. I remember finding out, there are no words to describe the excitement of the becoming a mum. Eagerly I bought the first item, a baby-grow, and started thinking about all the adventures you would have together. Then one day at the beginning of November, I started feeling funny. I had cramps in my stomach and around my lower back, worse than period pains but nothing like contractions. Then the bleeding started, I remember my ex's mum telling me that it was probably spotting and not to worry. The truth is, you can't help but worry. Your body is going through all these changes, physically and emotionally, it would be strange for you not to worry. I put myself to bed that night with a hot water bottle to help with the cramps.

Waking up the next morning I knew that something wasn't right. In fact, something was extremely wrong. I told my ex that something bad was happening, we phoned the hospital, gave them the details of what my body was going through, and they told us to come in straight away. It was a Saturday morning. As soon as I got to the hospital, everything became a blur. We sat and waited for a couple of hours after being checked in before we even saw someone to explain my symptoms and go through my medical history. We waited another hour for the scan. The room was quiet, like eerily quiet. The only words spoken were to tell me to lower my jeans and that the ultrasound jelly might be a bit cold. I just lay there looking up at the ceiling wanting it all to be over and to be told my baby was okay.

No sooner had we left the ultrasound room, we were called back into another small office... It was bad news. I think deep down I knew it was always going to be, but I had that little bit of hope that things would be fine. Glass half full and that. The ward sister explained that there was no heartbeat and that the baby had died. She apologised numerous times as though it was her fault. She gave us her condolences along with some leaflets; how to deal with a miscarriage, grief counselling and pregnancy after loss. She sat talking to me for a while, firing statistics at me like it was going to make me feel better.

"One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage"

"Miscarriages are very common in your first pregnancy"

I felt numb. I didn't cry. I just sat there holding tightly onto the leaflets, looking at her, trying to process what had happened and what she was saying to me. I recall her telling me that I would have to go back in a couple of weeks to make sure that the baby had 'passed' okay and for a routine check-up. Wait, I had to go up there again? Surely that was it, the baby had died, there wasn't anything else that needed to be done. Boy oh boy, I was naive.

The journey home I just sat looking out the window, not saying anything to my ex. I don't think he knew what to say to me either. We went back to my mums, he put me into bed, ordered me a pizza and told my mum what had happened. Hats off to him, he dealt with everything so well. I slept for about 16 hours. I felt so drained.

Two days after finding out, I still hadn't cried. I mustard up the courage to go back to work. My mum worked for the same company, and I'd asked her if she would mind telling the girls in my office what had happened. When I got into work, I was greeted by hugs, flowers, chocolates, and cards. I broke down, and now I had started, I couldn't stop. Everyone was so caring and considerate. My manager told me I wasn't ready to come back to work yet and I needed looked after myself mentally and physically. Little did I know, she was right. I pushed myself to go back to work so it would help take the attention away from what had happened - losing my baby.

We were due to fly out on a city break to celebrate my ex’s birthday. I had my check up two days before the flight and was told that there was still a small part of the foetus in my womb, but that it would probably pass in the next few days. Not only did I have the constant daily reminder for the past two weeks, but I also knew that I would probably have it over the weekend whilst we were meant to be away and having fun. Maybe it would be good for me to get away, maybe it would take my mind off of everything. She scheduled me in for yet another appointment the day after we flew home.

The getaway didn't really help, but I kept myself occupied and tried to have fun. I made it my mission to make sure my ex enjoyed it. He'd been so supportive through it all, he deserved it. I controlled the cramps and hid the pain just so he thought I was relatively alright, but inside I just wanted to die. I don't say that lightly, I blamed myself for what had happened, and by carrying on with a normal life I felt like I would forget about the baby. It was a catch 22. Either carry on in a secret state of depression and have a constant outlook on like with a lot of 'what ifs’ or bring myself out of it and regain control of my mental health. It was tough, but I knew that I needed to find a way to do just that. I needed to. I don't think I'd ever known what it was like to be truly depressed until all that happened.

No sooner had the weekend break begun than it was over. The flight home I just kept thinking that I couldn't wait to get home and get into bed and cry. I could finally be in pain without having to keep a mask on. I was in a constant battle, and I didn't know if things would ever get better. Little did I know that the next day, they would become a lot worse.

Making my way to the hospital the next day at 7am, I just prayed to God that I would be given the all clear. We checked in, waited... waited... and waited even more. After about 4 hours of watching girls coming in and out of the Early Pregnancy Unit, some who had been given bad news, others who were fortunate enough to be told their babies were okay. It was finally our turn to be called in. The nurse apologised to us and explained that the people who had been seen before us were classed as more of an emergency than I was. I got that; my baby had died. There wasn't anything they could do for me. Whilst we were up there, I had to take another pregnancy test and go in for an ultrasound. This was all so familiar.

As soon as the scan results had come through, we were urgently called in. I needed to go back the next day, the baby still hadn't passed and because it had been nearly a month, I needed to go down for surgery in case it caused an infection. They explained the process, the complications, and chances of death. I had to sign a form to give my consent and confirm that I understood the information they had just provided me. I didn't care, I just wanted this nightmare to be over with. I needed my ex to take me and pick me up as I'd have to go under general anaesthesia to have the surgery. He was self-employed, it meant he'd lose a day’s money, but there was no hesitation in his compliance to run me around.

Surgery day... Saying I was scared would be an understatement. I'd sat up for most of the night researching the surgery and the risks involved. Chances that I could go into cardiac arrest, or that I could stroke out right there on the table, or the surgeon could accidentally cut through a vein, and I could bleed out there and then. Yeah, I was scared. I was absolutely petrified. I couldn't eat that morning, I wasn't allowed. I could only sip water. I didn't know what time my surgery would go ahead. I had to be put on the waiting list and would be seen when there was a free slot. Luckily, I was seen about 3 hours after checking in. I was glad, I was hungry, and I'd already had enough of looking at the posters on the wall providing information on miscarriage, loss and grief. I was done with it all.

I was put into a cubical of my own and was told to dress in the hospital gown they provided, along with these weird socks that apparently stopped blood clots from forming. My ex had stayed with me right up until the point that I went through those double doors towards the surgery room. I remember letting go of his hand. What if I never got to hold it again. What if I died?

Being wheeled down into the theatre was daunting. I went into this room where I was greeted by two people, they were lovely and made me feel so at ease. They were going to administer the anaesthetic. The woman was speaking to me about my favourite food and drink. As the man was getting the injection ready, she took hold of my hand and said to me "Imagine you're on a beach drinking a cocktail..." and I was gone.

As I came round, I just remember not being able to see anything properly. I'm really short-sighted. I had to leave my glasses with a nurse who would put them in the recovery room. I remember starting to panic and cry the more I realised where I was. A ward sister rushed over to me with my glasses. I just wanted to go home, but I had to have a post-op check and eat something before they would consider it. It felt like hours before I was discharged.

I left... never wanting to have to go through that again.

Four months later I fell pregnant with my son, he'll be seven this year. He's what you would call a rainbow baby. A baby conceived after a miscarriage.

Five years later in 2019, I found out that I was expecting again. We went for an early scan; my ex had a heart condition when he was born so worry started to set in. At the scan we were told that I was around 5-6 weeks pregnant, and everything was okay. This time I bloated out loads! I started showing around 4 weeks and it was hard to hide, especially with it being summer, I couldn't hide the bump with oversized jumpers. It left me no choice but to tell my colleagues. So, as I reached the 10 weeks mark I told the people in my office. I bought donuts and set them up in our office with the scan picture next to it captioned 'Join my mummy - Eat for 2!'

Everything was so perfect within that moment. Everyone was so happy for me, and the donuts went down a treat! Then, within a split second, I stood up from my chair, something was wrong. Blood. So. Much. Blood. All I kept thinking was about the first time this happened. It was like the nightmare was about to resurface and drag me down to the depths of hell all over again.

I went to the bathroom to sort myself out and call the early pregnancy unit. They asked for my symptoms, how I felt, how much blood there was. After I explained everything, they told me to go up there straight away. I was scared. Really scared. I knew what was waiting for me when I walked through those automatic doors at the hospital, and it was bad news, I knew it was.

I was right. The scan showed that there was nothing there, the baby had died at around 6 weeks. Again, I was left heartbroken. I was run through all the same information as last time. It should pass naturally, come back in two weeks, blah, blah, blah.

The next two weeks were probably the worst two weeks I have ever lived. Not just mentally, but physically. My body was under a ridiculous amount of stress and pain. Added with the fact I had a five-year-old running around and starting school the next month just made everything so much harder.

Two weeks later I was back in hospital. Once again, the foetus hadn't passed. They wanted to give me a pessary to help induce contractions and hopefully flush the left-over tissue out. It was the same thing they would give to someone who wanted an abortion. I didn't know whether to feel angered or upset. I didn't want an abortion, so why was I being given the drug to help induce one?! I remember leaving the hospital and screaming as soon as I got in the car. I must have looked like an absolute loon to the people walking through the car park.

That afternoon I went back up the hospital with my mum, she stayed with me whilst they did what needed to be done. It was probably one of the most degrading things ever. I felt awful. Finally, I was allowed to leave. They gave me a pack with leaflets and emergency contact numbers. There was also a form in it describing what my body would start experiencing over the next few hours and what to look out for. At the bottom it stated that I needed to take a pregnancy test in a weeks’ time, if it was still positive then I would need to go back up to the hospital to discuss further options.

The next few days came with a lot of, how can I put it, grim sights. The first evening being the worst. I spent the majority of the next 24 hours in the bathroom, let’s put it that way. I remember laying in a heap on the bathroom floor crying so hard that I couldn't breathe. I just wanted it to be over.

Taking the pregnancy test a week later, I was, for the first time in my life, hoping for a negative result. Nope, you guessed it... Positive. I couldn't believe it. I must have done some real bad stuff in a previous life to warrant going through this absolute shit storm.

Back up the hospital. I'd lost count of the number of times I'd been up there; it was becoming my second home. I spoke to this kind woman, she was brilliant. She went through all the options I had, but that we had to act as quickly as possibly because there was now an extremely high risk of infection. This had been going on for coming up to seven weeks now, I told her I wanted to go with whatever the quickest option was. I didn't care. My body had been through enough to even contemplate giving a shit anymore. I was shutting down and I was tired of being so exhausted.

It was agreed. Surgery, that Thursday... I still remember the exact dates of both of my surgeries. They're engraved into my mind.

Don't eat from 7pm the night before, only sip water. I was told to get up to the hospital at 7am for the best chance at being seen as soon as possible. The clock ticked by, 2 hours, 3 hours, 4 hours. By 3pm that afternoon I still hadn't even been given a bed on the ward. I asked a nurse what was going on, she said she would find out. 45 minutes later she returned and took me to a ward where I was given a hospital gown and those god-awful socks. I never thought I'd end up here again. I lay in the bed for an hour, waiting to be told I was finally being taken down for the surgery. There must have been a shift change because I didn't see the original nurse again. Instead, someone else came in and asked me when I had eaten last and how long I had been up here, it was nearing 5pm by this time. No food for nearly 24 hours, she was shocked and went to get me some fluids that she could hook me up to whilst I waited. On her return, she stabbed two needles into me, one in each hand. Just as she was about to attach me to the goody bags someone else came in, 'we're ready for her now - there's no time for that'. Within seconds the sides of the hospital bed were lifted up and I was wheeled out. So long bitches.

The same protocol as last time, down to pre surgery for my knockout drugs.

As I woke up my ex was already there waiting for me to come back up from recovery. Man, I was hungry. I just remember asking him if we could get pizza. Until we left, that was my focus, a double pepperoni stuffed crust pizza. I did the necessary, scoffed down four slices of toast, went to the toilet, and got out of bed and managed to walk the length of the room and back unaided. I was determined to get out of there, so I used every ounce in my being to find the strength to drag my feet along floor no matter how much pain I was in. 2 hours later and I was still there. I remember having a go at the woman in charge on shift. I just wanted to go. I just wanted pizza.

We had escaped. Finally. I felt so excited to be going home, and I think for the rest of that evening that's what kept me from breaking down over what I'd just been through - again.

The next day came the bombshell. It was over. We were over. He couldn't be with me because I'd lost the baby and he was finding it hard. 'I love you Danielle, but I can't be with you because of what happened'. The memory of him kissing my bump one morning before he left for work replayed in my head. I blamed myself. He made me feel like it was all my fault. I hate him for that. I always will. So, if you ever read this, I hope you know that you didn't break me, I'm much stronger because of what you did and how you made me feel.

So please, just think before you go and make a joke about being pregnant, think about the silent battles people are facing. The recent miscarriage someone has just had to deal with or the heartache of being told that they can't conceive. It will haunt the people who see your posts. Be thoughtful, be kind. It's not funny, and in those moments where you're pulling an April Fool's joke on the rest of your friends, just think, maybe one of them has been through it, maybe one of them has lay awake on the night of what would have been their babies 8th birthday. Please, just think...

Yes, the physical recovery period was only a few days, but mentally I don't think you ever fully recover. The only thing I could do was to try and start rebuilding my life. I knew I would never move on or get over this, and it's true, nearly eight years on from my first miscarriage, I'm still not over it. I don't want to move on, and I don't want to forget them. They were a part of me, even it was only for a short time.