Lindsay: Right Where I Am 2018: 5 years 18 days followed by 4 years 11 months 3 days followed by 3 years 4 months 6 days followed by 2 years 9 months 10 days followed by 2 years 2 months 20 days

I'm finding writing this post much harder than in previous years. In the past I was just sad and over time I had worked out how best to cope and process those feelings. Now there's such a mix of emotions going on inside of me I can't pinpoint how I truly feel, it's such a jumble. On one hand I do know I'm happy, so that has to be a good thing. I have a lot in my life to be happy about as it's been 15 months and 7 days since we welcomed our third born daughter, Iris, into this world and 15 months 6 days since we brought her home from the hospital. On the other hand I'm not ok. I am not ok, but I don't know in which way. (I've typed, deleted and typed that again and again, but it's ok to not be ok, right?)

As hopeful as we were, after several years and so many losses...well it's hard to cling on to a thread of hope. It takes its toll. And the grief... The grief which comes along with that degree of heartbreak doesn't just disappear. I don't think it ever will go away completely and I'm fine with that.

The thing is, whilst I am happier now than I have been in many years, I still feel as if I'm grieving and I know to some extent I always will, but I don't feel as if those around me fully realise this. Apart from my husband everyone else was at least one step removed from the crippling pain that we went through after each loss. (If you're reading this and you've suffered your own loss(es) then you know the pain I'm talking about. The right in the middle of your chest, take your breath away emotional pain – often accompanied by the long silent sobs which can end up with you sitting in a crumpled mess on the floor...those ones. The ones you try for so long to keep hidden.) I still feel that pain sometimes and at the moment I feel as if I don't have a right to. It's as if everyone else thinks my grief is done with and everything is suddenly fixed because my daughter is here. She's amazing, but no child can ever replace another.

I love being able to mother one of my children each and every day, but I still get sad. Not because of her, of course not, but because of all the things I know I've missed out on with the others. That's natural, isn't it?

Some days the sadness doesn't affect me at all, even when I'm thinking of my children who aren't here – my son, Hunter (who would have been going to school this year), my two daughters, Esmae and Freya, and the two little ones I never got to meet - I think of them with a smile.

Some days are hard.

On the tough days I used to look on Pinterest for quotes that summed up just an ounce of how I was feeling and I'd share them on social media, almost as a cry for some support or a nudge to everyone around me that I was still going through this. I never wanted anyone who saw those posts to feel sorry for me. I just wanted them to remember (me), to understand. Each time I go to post something now I think twice as I can't afford to isolate myself even more from those around me (at least that's how it feels).

At the moment I feel as if I can't reach out in the way I need to to the majority of my friends or family as (I feel) it's hard for them to understand that the past has not changed. To put it simply, I'm still sad. Recently I tried to let a group of friends know via a message that I was struggling. Perhaps I was too subtle, but as I saw each one of them read and not reply to my message my paranoid self shouted at me “they are sick of this (you)”, “you have your daughter, just be happy”. I hope I'm wrong, I'm almost sure I am…

I don't feel like myself, although who I am these days I'm really not sure. I barely remember the person I was five years ago and after such a long time and after so many losses I feel as if it's become too much for those around me to bear. My conscious paranoia feeds the feeling that I have pushed so many people away to the point of no return. Firstly by avoiding them whilst they were pregnant (only in a desperate attempt to keep my sanity and in a strange way to try to keep the friendships intact) and secondly in the way I have been vocal about what I've been through and how I still feel. I know this level of loss, this level of grief is difficult to comprehend (the emotive subject of baby loss is enough for people to want to leave you alone) and as more and more time passes it gets easier for others to ignore, but it's isolating.

I feel as if I've lost my place in the world and I'm lonely. There are few who understand, and if they do then they're tackling their own grief.

My thoughts circle constantly – all the good, the bad and the ugly which I feel I can't control. Those thoughts never stop. I sometimes feel them getting out of control, racing around in my head and whilst I can slow them down a little they never stop. They are full of anxiety, paranoia, gratefulness, happiness, household tasks, guilt, annoyance, shopping lists, stress…

I have to bite my tongue and push down the anger and hurt I feel each time my daughter is referred to as our/the 'first'. She is not. How can I have given birth to, met and helped name four of our six babies and only have one child?

I struggle when someone else mentions their children, especially the children mine should have grown up alongside.

I still get that lurch in my stomach when I hear about friends' pregnancies – I don't know if this is fear, anxiety, jealousy, an involuntary reflex... I am happy for them, but the news makes me think of my own pregnancies and this in turn makes me feel so selfish.

I cringe (and then immediately feel guilty for doing so) each time I bring up my previous pregnancies or my other children with the new mum friends I have made. I hear them in my head saying 'she's not going on about this again…’

I feel guilty each time I breathe a sigh of relief when my daughter (the child I so desperately, desperately wanted) takes a nap just so I get some much needed time to catch my breath, to gather up some of those whirring thoughts...

I'm already worrying about how anyone reading this who has no living children has taken that last statement.

I worry about a lot of things - too many things perhaps.

Even with all of these thoughts going round and round I feel numb an awful lot of the time and that's the worst feeling. I stop and think about something and often there's just nothing. Maybe I developed such a good coping technique of blocking out so much of the world that it stuck.

I used to calm myself by writing down how I was feeling, but I haven't made enough time for that recently and it shows. This piece is all over the place. And maybe that's where I am right now...all over the place, but ironically almost always here...stuck inside my head with the many, many frantic thoughts.

~~~~~

You can read Lindsay’s previous posts here:

Right Where I Am 2018: 2 years 11 months 1 day followed by 1 year 2 months 20 days followed by 7 months 24 days
Right Where I Am 2015: 1 year 11 months 18 days followed by 14 weeks 1 day

Lindsay: Right Where I Am 2016: 2 years 11 months 1 day followed by 1 year 2 months 20 days followed by 7 months 24 days

I find this a difficult blog to write as there are so many different dates to consider. The members of my invisible family seem to be growing at an alarming rate, yet to an outsider it looks like it's still just my husband and I.

At the time of writing this it's been 2 years, 11 months and 1 day since my first loss – my son, Hunter. It is 1 year, 2 months and 20 days since I lost my first daughter Esmae and 7 months, 24 days since I said goodbye to my second daughter Freya. In between losing Hunter and Esmae I had an early loss and since losing Freya I've suffered another early miscarriage. Whilst those two little ones were no less important than the babies we got to meet, hold and name, I somehow seem to cope with the early losses much better. I grieve for all my babies as a whole and I try to see each pregnancy, no matter how short lived, as signs to not give up.

Last year when I wrote my first 'Right Where I Am...' blog I was trying to look forward and to be hopeful. Since then I've been fortunate enough to have fallen pregnant twice more, although I still have no living children. Whilst I'm still just as hopeful that things will eventually work out for us, I feel as if I'm only just clinging onto that hope for dear life.

Over the past three years my life has changed in ways I never could have imagined. I have felt my heart shatter, more than once, unleashing an unimaginable, indescribable pain and I feel alone in it all. My husband and I feel alone in it all. We feel more and more isolated from those around us. Sometimes it's as if everyone has forgotten, or they just don't dare ask how we're doing because they don't know how we are managing to cope, but somehow we do.

No matter how cheated I feel, I never feel angry at the world for the hand we have been dealt. I do, however, find myself feeling increasingly bitter and envious of those around us. Those who seemingly sail through their pregnancies without a care and then get to take their baby home at the end of it all. They get to experience it all as it should be. I tell myself that deep down I am happy for them, but I honestly don't know if that's true. I get so angry at myself for not feeling truly happy for them and for having to distance myself from them, but it just hurts too much.

Pregnancy and birth announcements can reduce me to tears, probably more so now than a couple of years ago. I remind myself I'm not crying because they are happy and I am not. I reassure myself I'm crying because their announcements remind me of what I once had and have lost. There have been so many announcements in recent years I've lost track. It's far easier to count those around us who don't have children or aren't pregnant at the moment. I can count them with one hand still firmly in my pocket. I feel as if my husband and I are being left behind.

The spells of feeling 'normal' seem to be lasting longer these days, which is nice. I've even caught myself having the odd fleeting moment where I've forgotten any of this has happened. This isn't necessarily a bad thing and I don't feel guilty for momentarily forgetting. It's strangely comforting; to know this will always be with me, but I can live with it more easily now. I know there will always be reminders of what my husband and I are missing out on and they will always be hard to deal with. The other day I was walking home from work and there was a little girl, no more than two years old, and her mum walking slowly down the hill towards me. The little girl wandered off course and her mum called her name to stop her from venturing too far – she called out my daughter's name and it pulled me right back to reality. Little jolts like that are hard to prepare yourself for.

We've been through so much I sometimes think it seems almost fictional. Yet, I live each day with pieces of me missing and it doesn't matter what the future brings, those pieces will always be missing from me.

At this point last year I was hopeful to start trying again and I will feel that way again soon, but for now, a little over a month on from my last loss, I need to focus on myself. Even just for a few more weeks so I have one less thing to worry about. Whilst I need to keep going, keep trying and keep moving forward, the tally of pregnancies which have been cut short, due to a whole host of separate reasons, sticks with me.

Our family is growing more quickly than anyone else's around us, but I'm the one still sitting at the computer in our spare room desperately wishing it was the nursery we had planned, pictured and shopped for. I'm the one who can't look at another little baby for fear of forgetting what my own babies looked like or in case they snap me back into reality and make me remember the raw pain that can only come from loving so strongly and which I try to push deep down each day.

Sometimes I think it's a good thing we can't predict the future. I am here, almost 3 years on from losing my first baby and I'm glad that I didn't know then what I know now. I'm so glad I didn't know what was in store for us. In a strange way I wouldn't change the past, but I could never have pictured this would be where I am right now.

~~~~~

You can read Lindsay’s previous post here:

Right Where I Am 2015: 1 year 11 months 18 days followed by 14 weeks 1 day

Emily: Right Where I Am 2014: 56 weeks 2 days followed by 14 weeks 5 days

As I sit here and write this I still have this disbelief that I have buried my 2 little boys in just over a year. I have had to go through the painful process twice of giving birth to my sleeping babies. Second time I've not been dealing with all the emotions of my loss again, it's been easier to put my emotions away in a little compartment in my heart. It has been 14 weeks since I said hello to Finnley and a very painful goodbye all in 1 very horrific day. It was worse knowing what the process was and what was to come which is why it has made me numb and and not deal with this grief again, it just hurts far too much.

I've had post mortem results and a meeting with my consultant and it was all positive so I'm opening that little place were I've put my grief in order to be the Mum I need to be to my living children and move forward to the future. I try and reflect on my boys once a day by writing, crafting, running or listen to some music. It's just space each day to either feel sad, angry, guilty or simply reflect on how far I have come on this journey.

I sometimes wish I'd never suffered unexplained infertility and spent many months, years trying to get pregnant with my living children but then I'd never have been blessed with having Georgie and his short time that I was able to carry him in my tummy I still remember being so happy to have have fallen pregnant with out any fertility tests and was actually enjoying my pregnancy, and we would never been blessed with Finnley.

Through losing them both they have shown how strong I can be. To have gone through the immense pain of leaving with empty arms from a hospital where I have already walked out with my both my living children is so hard a constant reminder of what should be. June is bitter sweet: we had Georgie's birthday and 11 and 13 days later I have my dd and ds and I thought this year would be different from last year but I still find myself reflecting and grieving what should of been and find it so hard to be truly happy, I should have a 5yr old a 2 yr old and an 8 month old but instead I'm deep in my grief and missing 2 baby boys and not really sure of the future.

I have met some amazing women on my journey and am very proud to now call them friends but it is such a shame that we have all had to endure this journey of losing a child, but without their help I would not be as strong if I had not had their support, they understand the pain like no one else and know just what to say at the right time and don't question why you do certain things. They totally get the burring desire to have a rainbow and put yourself through the hell again of another pregnancy and don't tell you at least you you already have a boy and girl why are trying again.

Clara: Right Where I Am 2013: 2 years 2 months 2 weeks followed by 1 year 2 months

Technically, if I was being really honest with myself, the title to this Right Where I Am should be a little different...

Truly Right Where I Am: 2 years 8 months followed by 2 years 2 months 2 weeks followed by 2 years followed by 1 year 2 months followed by 7 months

A ridiculously long title and a stark, sad reminder of 5 little babies taken from us far too soon.

So where am I right at this moment in time? Desperately clinging on to hope that someday we just might, might, might have our earth family. Massive perivillous fibrinoid deposition just about has us beaten. There are no treatment plans left to try. I have punished my body enough. I am relieved that my last pregnancy ended in December at 11 weeks... I could not have coped with another stillbirth and that is the way it would have gone. Even at that point, my placenta was a mess.

So I am clinging on to the hope of a family and wondering how on bloody earth I got to this point. When did this become my life? I am exploring options beyond options beyond options. Seeing specialist after specialist after specialist and generally leaving them shrugging their shoulders and scratching their heads. We have a positive way forward we think, although it is not something I want to talk about yet. I just need to keep believing I guess.

At the same time as all the continuing heartache though, I am counting my blessings. The amazing support network we have around us which continues to keep us going. My wonderful husband - he is my rock. My beautiful niece - my little ray of sunshine. I am also eagerly awaiting the arrival of my new niece or nephew in October. It just can't come quickly enough, I want them safely here. It has surprised me just how much I am looking forward to this little person coming into our lives, it has surprised me how well I have coped with the news of a new baby. I am so delighted I can feel this way and I am lucky because my sister in law has done everything she can to make it easier on me. I just want her to enjoy it, I just want everything to be okay for her, I am very much looking forward to being an auntie again.

I am also trying to live life again at the moment - an attempt to claw back some of the girl I used to be. I am losing weight (2 stones so far), cycling again and have also signed up for sea kayaking classes this Summer. Life is too short and I have enough to feel miserable about without feeling miserable about myself too.

Reading this post back, it sounds to me to be all over the place which is probably a true reflection of where I am at the moment. Despite this, I am trying to keep going, trying to live a life that will make my girls (and all my babies) proud of me. Still determined that I will never give up.

You can read my post for Right Where I Am 2012 here:

Right Where I Am 2012: 1 year 2 months followed by 1 month 10 days

You can read my girls' story here:

Clara: My Story

Tasha: Forever Changed

My story like everyone else’s, is very unique. It also has a controversial topic related with it, abortion and selective reduction. My husband and I used a medication called Clomid in order to get pregnant. I do not ovulate on my own so we knew this was our first step in starting a family. We were shocked when I got pregnant the first month. My pregnancy started out quite normal, I was sick and tired but I was happy. When we had our first appointment at 8 weeks we were shocked to find out that I was pregnant with quadruplets. I remember laughing in the doctor’s office because I just couldn’t believe that I had four babies growing inside me. Then reality set in. How was I going to carry four babies? Would they survive? Would I survive?

We were faced with the absolute most difficult decision of our lives, try to carry quads or reduce to twins. We took a week to make our decision. It was the longest and most difficult week of my life (up until that point at least).  We were given so many statistics and hypotheticals that I probably couldn’t repeat any of them back to you if I tried. The bottom line was it was more likely that all the babies would die rather than all of them live. I would be hospitalized by 20ish weeks and the babies would be lucky to be born after 28 weeks. I knew that the chance of them surviving was little. Of course you hear of all the miracle stories where quads survive and everything is fine, but that is only half of it. Most people are not that lucky. Those are the exceptions, not the rules.  We made the seemingly impossible decision to end two of our babies’ lives in order to give the other two babies a better chance of survival.

I have so much guilt and I still wonder if we made the right decision. Of course I have had some judgment from others and honestly that is okay with me. I know that with the facts we had, we made the right choice. It is easy to judge from the outside but until you are faced with that kind of decision, you have no idea what you will do.

A week after the reduction we found out that one of the babies heart had stopped. I was devastated. At this point I was 13 weeks along and just hoped that everything would go smoothly from there. I kept thinking that we had already gone through so much that we could not possibly lose the last baby. That would just be too cruel. The only thing that was getting me through was the fact that we still had one baby to look forward too. We began planning like any other expecting parents. We planned the nursery, work, and picking out a name. I had been having other complications and was being closely monitored by my doctors. However, at exactly 19 weeks I began having contractions. This was not the first time so I was hoping it was just another false alarm. We went to the hospital just in case and just a few hours later we were informed that the placenta was detaching and the baby would be born and that he would not survive. I remember feeling like I was underwater when she said that. All I could think was “no!” This could not be happening. We had already been through so much, he couldn’t die too.

At 11:42 on October 5, 2012 I gave birth to our sweet angel baby Maddox Moore. He was absolutely perfect. He had my mouth and nose, and his dad’s beautiful shaped eyes. I am so proud to be his mom and I am so glad that I got the time with him that I did. I would go through it all again if that meant being able to hold him one more time.

I go through our decisions all the time and I wonder if we did the right thing. I know that many people will say that what we did was wrong or that they would have never been able to do what we did and others will agree that they would have done the same thing. I know that we will always wonder what would have happened had we not done the reduction. I also know that had we lost all four babies later in the pregnancy that would have been just as awful. I would have then wished we had done the reduction. I will never know what would have happened but I do know that I have to accept the decision we made and be thankful for the time we had with Maddox and the other babies we never got to meet.

You can read more about Tasha's story on her blog Forever Changed.

Clara: When loss keeps on happening...

At the moment, I am waiting to miscarry. My fifth pregnancy, my fifth child... yet still no living children.

All was going well. Various early scans had shown a little bean, with a heartbeat, developing well. A scan at 11 weeks on Tuesday showed the heartbeat had stopped. This has been so completely unexpected and I feel completely numb. If anything, I expected the bad news to come as we approached 20 weeks and beyond. I have been taking all my myriad of medications, focusing on getting to that point and then taking it from there.

Since finding out we were pregnant again, I have injected myself with heparin over 100 times. I have taken over 200 steroid tablets as well as the daily aspirin tablets. I have had two intralipid infusions. Folic acid tablets, vitamin D tablets, pregnancy multi-vitamins. All to no avail.

We do not yet know if the condition that took Molly and Grace from us (massive perivillous fibrinoid deposition) is responsible for this loss also. My placenta will need to be sent away for testing. If this condition is found again, we have nowhere else to go. This treatment plan was our last hope.

If the loss of this fifth much-wanted baby is just ‘one of those things’, I still do not know where to go from here. I just don’t know if I can cope with being pregnant again. My body needs a break. In the past 28 months, I have spent 18 of them pregnant with absolutely nothing to show for it, except a gravestone commemorating two little girls and a shattered heart.

A very close friend with the same condition lost her 4th child last week. She has 4 children in Heaven now and, like me, has no living children. I have 5 children in Heaven now. It’s too much, it’s unfair to expect so much of one bereaved mummy. As this friend has said, we are a medical mystery. Despite the advances in modern medicine, we are a rarity and people don’t really know what to do with us. Our children are perfect but our immune systems are letting them down.

I just don’t know where to go from here. My heart has shattered. I feel I have let everyone down... again. It’s just horrendous.

You can read more about my journey here: Clara- My Story

You can read more about my condition here: Clara- Massive Perivillous Fibrinoid Deposition

Update Feb 2013: Placental tests came back to show that MPFD had returned with a  vengeance despite the extensive treatment plan. So this does not work for us. Where do we go from here? We just don't know.

Clara: My Story

Inspired by the other parents who have shared their children's stories on here, I have finally decided to share the whole stories of Molly and Grace. Here goes...

We found out we were pregnant with Molly in mid-December 2010, 5 months after our wedding. We were delighted but couldn't help worry as we had miscarried at 6 weeks just under 3 months earlier. At a scan on the 6th of January we saw Molly for the first time. A little bean with a flickering heartbeat. We were in love! We were delighted and let our parents in on the news early on.

Things were going well. I was being sick constantly. We started to relax and counted the days to our 12 week scan so that we could announce our happy news.  Valentine's Day arrived and with it my 12 week point. Our scan wasn't until the following week. My mother-in-law came with us and we were amazed to see our little jellybean waving away at us. All was well the sonographer said, things were progressing nicely.

We announced our happy news to friends and family. No-one was more excited than my 5 year old niece. She was so excited about being a big cousin and started having regular conversations with my growing bump. The 'morning' sickness continued morning, noon and night.

At 16 weeks I had a small bleed. A trip to the maternity unit showed I had a cervical erosion. Nothing to worry about at all. We also had the chance to hear Molly's heartbeat through the doppler. One of the most amazing sounds I have ever heard. In the next few weeks, I started feeling movement. Every time I sat down, I had flutters in my tummy.

At 19 weeks, another bleed. Again a trip to the hospital confirmed the erosion was the cause of the bleeding and we had another opportunity to hear the heartbeat. Perfect! We were looking forward to our 20 week scan the following week.

On the 12th April, at just over 20 weeks, we headed to the hospital for our scan. I hadn't felt any flutters for a couple of days but was waiting patiently for the real kicks to start. We were looking forward to seeing how our jellybean was coming on. We were shown into the usual room but this time the sonographer did not turn the screen round. All was quiet and I knew something was wrong. She took my hand and said 'I'm sorry but there is no heartbeat'. I will never forget that moment. She went to get someone to come and confirm that our baby had died.

We were shown to a tiny room and told a doctor would come and speak to us. We were in shock. The next couple of days are a blur. I was given tablets to take and told to come back in 2 days to be induced.

We arrived back at the hospital a couple of days later and were given a side room in the labour ward. All around us we could hear the cries of healthy newborns. At 10am, I was given the first pessary to induce labour and the contractions started soon after. That whole day is a blur to me.

Molly was born at 21 weeks on 14^th April 2011 after a 12 hour labour. I didn't look straight away. The midwife took her away and brought her back to us all clean and wrapped up. I was scared to hold her, scared to touch her. But she was perfection in miniature and so beautiful. Her hands were perfect, complete with long fingers and tiny fingernails. She would have played the piano, I knew that.

We held her and spoke to her. I was scared to unwrap her and look at her. I was scared to keep her with me. We spent a few hours with her then the midwife took her away. I was in shock. I don't think I would have survived had it not been for my husband. He was there every moment with me, he kept me going. Leaving the hospital the next day, without Molly, was one of the hardest and most horrendous things I have ever done. Walking away that day was the worst part of the whole experience, I don't know how my legs carried me. We buried our beautiful girl 2 weeks later on a warm, sunny morning.

I have regrets...

...that I didn't look at her feet, that I didn't hold her for long enough... I just didn't know what we were allowed to do and I didn't have the presence of mind to ask. I look at her footprints and I wish I had looked at her tiny, perfect feet.

July brought results of the tests carried out on my placenta. Molly had been perfect, my body had let her down. Placental results showed that she had died due to a very rare condition called Massive Perivillous Fibrinoid Deposition (MPFD).  This basically meant that fibroids and clots had formed on the placenta, gradually taking over until it was no longer fit for purpose and unable to support a growing baby. You can read more about it here.

Consultants put in place a plan for future: daily aspirin tablets and daily self-administered heparin injections. It was hoped that this combination would stop clots forming and keep the blood moving through the cord. Time would tell.

We went on to have another early miscarriage at the end of July 2011 and then pregnancy test on New Year's Eve confirmed that we were pregnant for the fourth time and, with a treatment plan in place, we were hoping that finally this pregnancy would give us our take home baby. What a fantastic start to 2012! Our rainbow baby was on its way!

We were booked in with the midwife straight away as we needed a quick referral to our consultant and a early scan before we started on the medication. 6 weeks brought us to our first scan...

With a little bean appearing along with a heartbeat we began the medication. At night, I was taking my aspirin, folic acid and vitamin D. Also I began injecting the clexane. This was a bit strange at first but I got used to it quickly and a vast array of bruises began to decorate my tummy. I was not bothered, I would have injected myself a hundred times a day to keep my baby safe.

8 weeks showed us our little bean was coming on well and things continued to progress including my 24 hour morning sickness. I was losing weight and couldn't keep a thing down. Evenings were particularly bad but I didn't care. It was reassuring.

After a small bleed, we were scanned at 10 weeks for reassurance and our little teddy bear made a spectacular appearance. Possible future gymnast perhaps? They were twirling and turning the whole time.

Things quietened down and we waited patiently for our 12 week scan. It came around quickly and we were relieved to see our baby waving at us and measuring perfectly for dates.

Things were going well and baby was coming on a treat. We were delighted but still very apprehensive. Molly had also been measuring perfectly at this stage so we knew we had a long way to go. Our next scan was booked in for 15 weeks.

15 weeks arrived (it was a Wednesday). Baby was measuring slightly behind but the sonographer wasn't worried and said it was normal to be out by a few days. The worry was in the back of my mind though. We went round to see the consultant to make sure all was going well with the medication. He offered extra scans for reassurance at a community clinic every Friday which we gratefully accepted. We went 2 days later for the first of those scans and a registrar scanned us on a very old machine. She was concerned about the fluid level but, after looking at our scan photos from the big machine from the Wednesday she said they were the same and not to worry about it if the hospital hadn't mentioned it. So we tried to put it out of our minds.

On the Sunday I had a major bleed so we went down to the hospital. A doppler let us hear a nice strong heartbeat and put my mind at rest a bit. A scan was also arranged for the coming Wednesday when I would be 16 weeks. This was when our world started to crumble all over again.

The scan on Wednesday showed that there was no amniotic fluid and the blood flow through the cord (EDF) was absent. We were devastated and could not believe that it was happening all over again. The doctors advised us that our baby would die within days and that they would scan us weekly until the inevitable happened. We met with our consultant the following day. He thought it was the same thing again and told us that this was the first time the hospital had dealt with anyone with MPFD. In fact, they hadn't heard of it before and the treatment we were on had been their best guess.

17 weeks: Scan showed baby still had strong heartbeat although growth had majorly slowed down. However, some small pockets of fluid had appeared and EDF was present. This gave us a tiny sliver of hope and the doctors doubled the amount of clexane I was taking.

By this time I was in contact with a fellow silent mum in England who had also experienced multiple loss in practically identical circumstances. We realised we had the same condition! This wonderful person had already done so much research and gave us hope that whilst it might be too late for this little one, we still had a future. There were treatments available - we provided our doctors with all the research.

18 weeks: My bump was popping out and growing well, I was still being sick. Scan showed our little star was continuing to fight hard. There had been some growth but the small pockets of amniotic fluid were gone although the EDF was still present.

19 weeks: Little fighter continuing to baffle the doctors and heartbeat still going strong. Growth minimal, EDF still present. Bump growing, baby kicking regularly.

20 weeks: Our little one still not giving up without a fight. EDF still present, no growth. We spent the weekend on the coast, remembering Molly on her first birthday and anniversary. We still couldn't believe we were going to lose our rainbow baby and we had such a horrendous sense of déjà vu as it was all happening at the same time of year again.

21 weeks: Heartbeat still there but EDF now absent again. I was advised to stop all the medication.

I woke up a few days later on 2nd May and knew our little one was gone. I had movement the night before but I knew when I woke up. A scan later that morning confirmed our little one had finally lost their battle. I was booked in for induction 2 days later.

4th May 2012, 22 weeks pregnant: After 6 hours of labour, Grace came silently into the world in the same room as her big sister was born. She weighed exactly the same as Molly, perfection in miniature. She looked so serious and deep in thought in her forever sleep. She would have been our little thinker.

I wasn't so scared this time. I held her. I looked at every part of her, including her tiny feet. I didn't want the same regrets as I had the last time. We had little clothes for her and teddies and blankets. We cuddled her for hours.

We kept Grace with us all night and her grandparents came to meet her. A bright, lone star also appeared in the sky outside the window. I think Molly had come for her sister.

The next day, we said our goodbyes. It took us a long time to walk away. Once again, I found this the hardest thing to do. There is nothing worse than walking away and leaving your child behind. It is the most horrendous thing I have ever experienced. I don't know how I did it either time. I don't know how my legs carried me out. I know that each time I did it I left a piece of my heart behind. I'll never get those pieces back.

Tests on the placenta have confirmed that, like Molly, the placenta was again attacked due to the condition MPFD. They are still not 100% certain of what causes the MPFD to happen, possibly an immune response, possibly an as-yet undiagnosed thrombophilia issue. They are not committing to either school of thought. What they have said is that the condition is aggressive and recurrent and they are struggling to find anyone else with as severe a condition. We are a unique oddity.

So... they have agreed to the treatment plan we have researched as long as we go into this with eyes open and accept that we are now sailing in unchartered waters with no guarantees. This treatment will include aspirin, high dose folic acid, heparin, steroids and Intralipids.

So we move forward with a quiet optimism and a realistic pessimism.

Update Jan 2013: Despite the new treatment plan, we went on to lose another baby at 11 weeks in December 2012. You can read more about this in my blog post 'Clara: When loss keeps on happening.'

Clara: Right Where I Am 2012: 1 year 2 months followed by 1 month 10 days

At this moment, I don't know where I am anymore. Back at the beginning of a nightmare and doing it all over again I guess.

We faced Molly's first birthday in April knowing that her baby brother or sister was fighting a losing battle inside me against the same condition that took Molly from us. Four weeks later, we buried Grace alongside her big sister. I have now lost 4 babies. Molly, Grace and 2 little stars lost in early pregnancy.

So I am back in the early days of grief. Once again, my confidence is gone (although I don't think it ever properly came back after losing Molly). I am afraid to leave the house. I am afraid to face people - they'd rather not be faced with me anyway. A stark, sad reminder of something they would rather not think about. The guilt is overwhelming - I feel like such a failure. I feel that I have let everyone down, especially my husband. He would be a wonderful father. I watch him with my niece, who adores the ground he walks on, and it breaks my heart. Even friends I have met on this journey who have also lost, some of them don't know what to say to me as they just cannot imagine having to live through the nightmare again.

I sometimes feel I am living an out of body experience. I do things, go places but I am not really there. I tune out, I can't always cope. I still don't think I have fully let myself realise that I am going through this again. If I stopped to think, I don't think I would start again. I have become so good at putting on a face. People tell me I am doing so well, that I am strong and brave. I don't feel it.

I try hard to count my blessings every day now. My wonderful husband, our supportive family, my friends, new friends met on this journey of loss, my sands group... I am lucky to have these things. I have met so many brave and inspirational women on this journey who have lost children in many different circumstances and who, instead of drowning in their grief, have used it to support and reach out to other women. This inspires me. Supporting other women in this situation has helped me. I was sent a poem last week written by a mother who lost her child recently and who I had reached out to. Instead of thanking me, she thanked my girls - because of them their mummy was able to offer empathy, support and advice to another bereaved mother. I loved this. It meant my girls had meaning to someone else. Last week also, a fellow bereaved mummy and wonderful friend, wrote my girls' names on the beach in Costa Rica. I love it when someone thinks of my girls, I love to see their names, to hear their names. These things mean so much to me.

My hope is still flickering somewhere and I really don't want to give up but I think another loss would destroy me. Nobody can say to me anymore that 'it'll be alright next time', we lost our next time. I can't give up though, I want so much to be an earth mummy. I don't want my girls to have died for nothing. Without them, we would not have met such inspirational people. People who have now given us access to research which shows a way forward for us. Strong women who, after many losses, now have healthy rainbow children in their lives or are pushing forward with the strong belief that their rainbow is on the horizon. I am trying to cling to this, desperately.

I look out for my girls and I see them... in rainbows, sunshine, stars, little coincidences. I feel them still and, though I miss them dreadfully, I find comfort in knowing that they are still with me in my heart.

A friend once said to me that losing your child was like walking in mud. Some days the mud is thinner and you somehow manage to drag yourself through it. Other days, the mud is so thick that you are stuck and can't move...... the thick mud days hurt your heart even more.

Right where I am... stuck in the thick mud and looking for a way forward.