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

Julia: Right Where I Am 2018: 2 years 5 months 19 days

2 years, 5 months, 19 days, 7 hours, 6 minutes... I remember in the early days after losing Caius being told it would get easier, that time was a healer; and I wanted to scream, because every day, every hour and every second felt like I was getting further away from him, from the strength of his kicks and the excitement before his arrival, from the warmth of his body in the moments after he was born to the cool weight of him just the next day.

Nearly 2 1/2 years on and I know what they mean when they say that, but easier isn’t quite the word. The overwhelming cruelty of losing a baby does slightly subside as an inkling of acceptance starts to nudge its way in, but when I really think about it, the raw pain is still there.

But through the pain there is pride. I’m proud that I am able to function, that I can continue to be present for my eldest son Reuben, now 5 1/2, and not just present, I know I’m doing right by him, and while he still yearns for a sibling, it’s not as all encompassing as it once was. We are creeping towards acceptance that we will not have another baby.

With this in mind, I’ve been thinking about selling the pram. It wasn’t bought for Caius, it was Reuben’s, but Caius was to use it, so it’s been hard to let it go, and equally difficult to let someone else use it, especially if there were a chance of me seeing them using it, that would be painful; Caius should just be outgrowing that pram now.

I am now approaching my 36th birthday and will be glad to put 35 behind me. We always said that we would try for a sibling for Reuben until I was 35, because statistically, pregnancy is harder and more complicated after the age of 35. Of course we said that long before we knew what a journey our family would be on. As a result, turning 35 was a bit of a trigger for me, possibly also because Caius was born 1 day short of 35 weeks gestation.

After 4 early losses, a 5th, Elliot at 14+2 weeks, losing Caius at 34+6, then another loss at just 6 weeks, the thought of getting to the end of our attempts at growing our family was overwhelming, heartbreaking, too much to bear. So as an epic distraction, I decided to set myself 35 ‘challenges’ to complete throughout the year, particularly challenges that I wouldn’t have been able to do had I been pregnant. I haven’t yet achieved all 35, in fact I’ve managed ‘only’ 15 so far, and with 4 weeks to go, I know I won’t manage within my set time, but I will complete them regardless, and it’s been an amazing experience, to do things I would never have dreamed of, and especially in memory of my baby boy. His legacy is very much alive and well and I’m proud of myself. I never imagined I would be brave enough to attempt a bungee jump or to climb to the top of Ben Nevis!

Sadly, I have lost friends within the last year, I guess as a result of my loss, an inevitable reality it would seem. I’m such a sentimental person, so each and every secondary loss I have felt deeply and I carry in my heart. Self care is so important though. Many friendships have been strengthened by the compassion they have shown, and I have a good network of friends and family, including fellow loss mamas, who are all amazing and who I would be lost without.

So here we are. What amazes me sometimes is that I am still standing, that my little family of three living souls has survived so far. Sometimes it’s important to recognise the journey, how far I have travelled, and recognise that, while in those early days I felt further and further from Caius, I know that he is now with us, in our hearts, in our souls, in our very essence, and in every positive action every day.

Caius Jonah Hale, born 30th January 2016, 6lb 6oz, 53cm long, forever in our hearts.

Clara: Right Where I Am 2018: 7 years 3 months 3 days followed by 6 years 2 months 13 days

Every year I wonder whether to even write this. And every year I do, although I wonder where to start and I struggle to find the words.

We are more than 7 years into this 'loss journey' now. I can't believe that amount of time has gone past. In the space of just 2 and a half years, we lost 5 babies - 3 miscarriages and 2 stillbirths, our precious girls Molly and Grace. Some days it feels like just yesterday that I held my girls for the first and last times. Those precious hours with them are so clear in my mind. It makes me smile as much as it makes me hurt.

The grief is still there. I don't think it every really goes away. But it changes all the time. It's both happy and sad. Days when it is raw, days when it just hovers on the edge, days when it's a little sign or a little reminder. It colours everything.

The grief will never go I don't think. How could it? How could anyone ever 'get over' the loss of a child? But life comes back in around it and time makes it easier to carry. Happiness comes back. Joy comes back. Life goes on. I remember talking to my gran after Molly died about her little girl who was stillborn in the late sixties. She was still grieving for that little baby. She was never allowed to see her or hold her or name her or bury her or talk about her. Although name her she did - baby Angela. I felt lucky that I had been able to hold my girls, cuddle them, dress them, name them, bury them. Molly's death gave us the impetus as a family to find out exactly where Angela had been buried by the hospital and we did. And 46 years after she was born, my grandparents were finally able to have her name added to the registry of stillbirths (at the time, stillbirths at full term - beyond 36 weeks - had to be registered, although they were rarely given names as it wasn't encouraged). They were also able to lay a stone at her grave. I know that brought my gran great comfort.

But back to me and my own personal journey...

I continue my involvement with Sands Lothians (albeit mostly behind the scenes dealing with their Twitter account), trying to give a little back in thanks to the lifeline they threw to me in those early years. I continue to dip in and out of online forums, trying to help and support others dealing with similar types of loss. I continue to research MPFD and passing on that research to all who contact me - it makes me so happy to know that others have gone on to carry healthy babies despite this awful condition.

My main battle over the past couple of years, however, has been living with the guilt that Cara will most likely never have a living sibling. And I am at the point where I have accepted this and it's okay. I used to find the 'is she an only one' and 'plans for more' questions really difficult, particularly when I didn't get a good response to telling people she will be an only child. Sometimes I explain why, sometimes I don't. Depends on the person and the moment. What I always make clear though is that she is such a blessing and a little miracle.

She is a happy and funny 4 year old who finds absolute joy in everything. She occasionally mentions Molly and Grace in conversation but she doesn't fully understand. And how could she? How do you process that at 4 years old? I don't want her to know that babies die. She has the usual childhood questions about death, particularly around her great-grandparents. We tell her people go to Heaven when they are very old as their bodies don't work any more. She has accepted this to a point. She will say that Molly and Grace are in Heaven. She knows that she couldn't grow in my tummy because 'it didn't work properly' and that is why her big sisters are not here with us. But I dread her asking me why did this happen if they weren't old but so far she hasn't asked that question. Yet.

(Cara checking out names written in the sand by big cousin Maia - Calgary Bay, Isle of Mull)

Ultimately though, we are surviving. We are living. We are happy. We have been lucky to have held and kissed all 3 of our girls and totally blessed to be able to kiss our youngest goodnight at every bedtime.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You can read my previous Right Where I Am posts by clicking on the links below:

Right Where I Am 2017: 6 years 4 months 3 days followed by 5 years 3 months 13 days
Right Where I Am 2016: 5 years 4 months 3 days followed by 4 years 3 months 13 days
Right Where I Am 2015: 4 years 3 months 1 day followed by 3 years 2 months 11 days

Right Where I Am 2014: 3 years 3 months followed by 2 years 2 months 1 week

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

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

You can read more about my condition and my story here:

Massive Perivillous Fibrinoid Deposition

My Story

When loss keeps on happening...

Clara: Right Where I Am 2017: 6 years 4 months 3 days followed by 5 years 3 months 13 days

It's been nearly 7 years since our 'life after loss' journey began. 6 pregnancies: 3 miscarriages, 2 stillbirths, 1 amazing sister who offered to be our gestational surrogate and 1 miracle now safely here with us.

It's mixed emotions this year. Our little miracle is starting 'big' nursery on Monday - she looks so beautiful and grown up in her little uniform. It makes me wonder what her sisters would have been like starting school and starting nursery. Grace should be starting school today and Molly should be going into Primary 2. I can't believe that amount of time has passed us by.

Cara brings such joy and happiness to our lives. She really is turning into a feisty, amazing, funny little person. She brings us smiles every day. It's hard not to wonder if her sisters would have been just like her or completely different. We'll never know - they only grow up in my mind and I can only imagine what they would be like now.

It's a different grief now and it still changes. It's those days when the loss hits you in the face again out of nowhere, echoing back to that raw grief - those days are tough. It's the days when a rainbow appears or a butterfly or a white feather - some little sign that has us smiling to the sky. It's the writing of their names in the sand when we go on holiday, our way of having them with us. It's the loss of what might have been. It's the guilt that Cara will most likely never have a living sibling.

In fact, this is what I have struggled with most in recent months. No living siblings for Cara. Sometimes people ask 'is she an only child?' and depending on who is asking or what the situation is, my answer changes. Sometimes it's a simple yes. This is met with various reactions, worst one being 'you should have more, it's not fair on her being an only one.' Sometimes it's a hesitant yes but then a quick follow up that we had two little girls before her who died. That saves the follow up about having more and lets people know just how special she is.

Ultimately, Cara is enough. She is more than enough. More than I ever dreamed would be possible.

It won't stop my mind from sometimes seeing 3 little girls together... what might have been...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You can read my previous Right Where I Am posts by clicking on the links below:

Right Where I Am 2016: 5 years 4 months 3 days followed by 4 years 3 months 13 days
Right Where I Am 2015: 4 years 3 months 1 day followed by 3 years 2 months 11 days

Right Where I Am 2014: 3 years 3 months followed by 2 years 2 months 1 week

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

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

You can read more about my condition and my story here:

Massive Perivillous Fibrinoid Deposition

My Story

When loss keeps on happening...

Clara: Right Where I Am 2016: 5 years 4 months 3 days followed by 4 years 3 months 13 days

As always, I include my true title to remember my 3 little stars also…

Right Where I Am: 5 years 10 months followed by 5 years 4 months 3 days followed by 5 years 1 month followed by 4 years 3 months 13 days followed by 3 years 8 months 5 days

Molly should be starting school today.

I can see her in my head. Hair plaited, shiny shoes, green blazer, red and green tie, big smile... all set to go the the primary school both myself and her daddy went to.

Social media is covered in 'first day of school' posts. It hurts to look at them. My little girl should have been part of that too. The photo of the uniform, the photo at the front door, the photo at the school gates. I can only imagine it in my head, I will never experience these things with Molly. Or with Grace, who should be starting school next year.

I often wonder what life would be like with 3 girls running around. Our little rainbow Cara brings us so much joy and laughter. I feel horrendously guilty that she will probably never have a living sibling... a playmate, a friend to grow up with, a support in later life as we grow older. She has her cousins but she will never have a living sister or brother.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we just tried again... a tiny sliver of hope says go for it. But we can't. The treatments already didn't work, why would they work now?

In all likelihood, it would just mean another silent birth, another coffin, another name on a gravestone. So here we are nearly 6 years down the line since our journey began. Despite all the heartache, we got to meet Molly and Grace and our journey brought us to Cara. She is such a miracle and a joy and she makes us grateful every day. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You can read my previous Right Where I Am posts by clicking on the links below:

Right Where I Am 2015: 4 years 3 months 1 day followed by 3 years 2 months 11 days

Right Where I Am 2014: 3 years 3 months followed by 2 years 2 months 1 week

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

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

You can read more about my condition and my story here:

Massive Perivillous Fibrinoid Deposition

My Story

When loss keeps on happening...

Kazzandra: Right Where I Am 2016: 3 months followed by now

I suffered the loss of my first pregnancy in March this year at 5 weeks 4 days. Slipped away almost before I knew what was happening. I'm currently awaiting surgical management for the loss of my second pregnancy at 7 weeks 3 days (I should now be 10 weeks). I found out at an early scan yesterday that my baby's heart stopped beating at around 7 weeks 3 days. What a sucker-punch that was. We were so excited because we'd seen the heartbeat at 6 weeks, and I was sure everything was ok this time.

I met my new nephew yesterday. And I couldn't bring myself to hold him. Just couldn't do it, because that would have undone me. I put a brave face on you see, to help celebrate my father-in-law's birthday. How could I hold someone else's baby when my own was lying dead in my belly? No. Too painful. I smiled said 'maybe later' and was tasked by my other SIL to help bath my nieces. Kind, sweet, funny. They distracted me for an hour or so. Then I went back downstairs, and as the children went to bed, I couldn't stand to sit there anymore. Alone. I needed to be alone. And I felt so damn tired, it was a struggle to drive the two miles home. I crawled into bed at 8pm, fell asleep them woke two hours later, staring out of the window from the sofa. Finally went back to bed and slept from 3-6am.

Today I had it all again at work. The sympathetic faces, the platitudes 'It happened for a reason. You'll try again, don't lose heart.' I smiled kindly and thanked them for their concern, touched by the warmth of their hugs. Cake and a hot drink helped a bit, filled the empty space in my stomach and appeased the gnawing, raw hurt momentarily. The routine, getting through the day on autopilot, smiling a bit, laughing on cue at jokes. I'm not better yet, but I have come up a step from the dark depths of my pit of  sorrow. I'm raw, hurt and a bit stuck - the tears won't all come at once. But I've always believed that tears push out all the sadness and despair and make room for more happiness.

I want my husband, just to hold him and feel his solid, reassuring warmth, arms wrapped around me, holding me steady. Remind me I'm still a loving person, remind me I can still be loved without it hurting.

Will we try again? Yes, I think so. Underneath all the fear and pain, there is a heart still beating. That heart is strong and will keep on loving, no matter what. There's more than enough room to take what life throws at me, and enough love to love my angel babies as well as my take-home babies.

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

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

As I'm writing this it's been 14 weeks and 1 day since I lost my daughter, Esmae. I'm sure it's the same for everyone, but I shouldn't be here right now. I should be on maternity leave getting ready for my baby's arrival. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It's as if everyone else around us has moved on and has already forgotten about our little girl. Meanwhile those who were pregnant alongside us are still the centre of attention. But that's just life I suppose.

I seem to be moving forward through my grief much quicker than last time. You see it's been 1 year, 11 months and 18 days since I lost my son, Hunter. Three months on from losing Hunter we still didn't quite believe what had happened, we still don't believe what happened with Esmae, but it's different this time. Grief doesn't have a set path you can follow. You just take each day as it comes and you have to accept there will be some really dark days, when you feel as if everything has just hit you all over again. There will be good days too however, and you need to learn not to feel guilty about having a good day.

This time round my grief hasn't taken me on the same path, but it's a familiar one, it's easier to navigate. I'm not suggesting for a second losing my daughter has been easier than losing my son, in many ways I feel more cheated this time. What I mean is I generally do find it easier to get through each day, to find my way. I think this is true only because I know better how to cope. I've been learning how to cope each day for almost two years now, but at least this time around I already know how I'm feeling is 'normal'. The new 'normal'. In all honesty I don't remember what it feels like to be the old me. I'm not the person I was two years ago, I'm not the person I was fifteen weeks ago, before I found out my pregnancy would not go full term. I sometimes feel I'm just a shell of the person I used to be. I'm nearly always anxious about the most stupid of things, I've become extremely paranoid and I have lost nearly all my confidence.

I know my limits, I know what I can and cannot manage. There are times though when I think I'm being silly by not being able to lead a full and 'normal' life – going shopping in town on a whim, being around large groups of people I may not know well, going out for drinks to a busy bar. These are things I took for granted before and now the thought of putting myself through situations like those can bring me out in a cold sweat, sometimes it can even feel as if I'm paralysed with anxiety.

Surprisingly though things actually improved a bit whilst I was pregnant with Esmae. My husband even said he was beginning to see the old me again, but since losing her I feel like I'm back to square one – some days I don't even think I'm on the board! I sometimes feel as if I'll only fully get that confidence back when I'm proudly pushing a pram in front of me. Maybe that's because I'll finally feel like I have a purpose in life, something to live for.

I have spent all the time since losing Hunter building an emotional wall. Since Esmae I've had to build it a little higher, but it is helping me get through this all over again. I both love and hate my wall. It shelters me from most of the things in the world that I suddenly started noticing – baby adverts on TV, pregnant women, prams, toddlers, baby aisles in supermarkets, the list goes on...but it also blocks out a lot of the rest of my (old) world. I sometimes feel as if I'm only half living. My more recent memories all seem a little dull, they're all in the dark shadow of the wall. It's as if everything has lost it's colour since the wall went up. I don't dare take it down though.

My wall is not impenetrable however, there are some things such as seeing/hearing new born babies which it cannot protect me against – they filter their way through the cracks. At the same time it's not so high and solid that it doesn't let people in, or my emotions out.

I find it easy to talk to most people about my babies. I want to talk to anyone who asks and wants to listen about my babies. That there is the key point – I will talk to anyone who asks and is willing to listen. It's not a subject everyone is thankful you bring up and then there is the odd time when I don't want to talk.

I thought after losing Esmae that I might be able to open up more to my parents about how I feel, but up until now this hasn't been the case. This time I tried to tell them straight out that it helps me to talk about my babies, their grandchildren. At first this didn't seem to work, they were still looking for my lead all the time, but I had long since given up as my previous attempts to let them in had failed. I assumed they wanted to protect me, but by not mentioning my babies at all they left me doubting how they felt about their grandchildren. Hopefully since writing them a letter and sending them an earlier draft of this blog, which sparked a very tearful (on my part) conversation with my mum, things will become easier for all of us.

It had got to the point where my wall was always up around them, blocking them out, and I couldn't work out how to let them in. I didn't think they truly wanted to see what was the other side of my wall and although I thought I'd tried various ways to let them in, nothing worked, perhaps I was being too subtle. I was trying to find a way of letting them know I needed more from them without causing them unnecessary pain. (I say unnecessary pain, because there's no magic pill that will make this painless for any of us.) I think I still need to help them realise that pain is a natural part of the grieving process though and it can be cathartic. Exhausting, but cathartic. I don't see feeling pain/showing your emotions as a weakness, it just demonstrates you are strong enough to endure each day, strong enough to get out of bed and try to get on with what's left of your life. For the last couple of years I've really needed my parents to realise this. They've been trying so hard not to upset me, but they never fully understood that there is nothing they can do or say that will make me feel any worse. Saying nothing at all is the only thing (for me) which makes it worse.

I'm hopeful after talking openly with my mum that things will change. I still need to work on showing my true emotions in front of her and my dad, but I need them to not feel as if they are walking on eggshells around me and my husband all the time. Saying my babies names might bring tears to my eyes, but I love hearing people talk about them, it reminds me that they mattered. I still need to help my parents realise that it's ok for me to cry, it's ok for me to breakdown, to not be able to breathe because there's a pain in my chest which takes up all the space for air. These are all natural parts of grieving, it's not something I can suddenly switch off and get over. All those things are normal to me now.

Although they'll already know, from this blog, we've started trying again, I think it'll still take some time before my mum will feel comfortable discussing that with me. I want to be able to confide in my mum if I take a test and it shows up negative or tell her how depressing it feels when you don't even get as far as taking a test. I think she feels a bit useless though because she can't just wave a magic wand and fix everything. She has no frame of reference as she never experienced any problems during her pregnancies (although my birth was pretty traumatic, but she took that in her stride!) Sometimes I just need someone to listen, even if they can't tell me everything will work out fine in the end.

Trying to conceive again after a loss is so tough. It can consume your life. We felt last month that we were ready. I think we both sometimes feel the months ticking away and although I feel guilty saying this, I do feel as if we're another year down the line and many more months have been wasted. Unfortunately our first month of trying again didn't work and I thought I'd be ok with it, but during those few days last week I just felt in limbo and it brought back memories of how desperate I felt all those months after Hunter, trying without success. It just hits home again that I should be heavily pregnant right now with Esmae and getting her nursery together.

Perhaps some would say if I feel this way then maybe I'm not ready to start trying again, but it's hard to explain the overwhelming urge to keep on trying to someone who hasn't suffered the loss of a baby, the loss of three babies. We started trying again about three months after losing Hunter and to be honest I sometimes felt a little relieved when we didn't conceive (just for those first couple of months though). I realise now this was probably because we were still so deep in our grief that we weren't quite ready. When we eventually did get pregnant it unfortunately didn't last long. Finding no heartbeat at 7 weeks and then passing the baby three weeks later. The 'Little One', as we refer to her (we feel she would've been a girl), had given us the hope we needed, a definite sign not to give up. We were then lucky enough to conceive Esmae almost straight-away – it was like she was meant to be…

We are now two and a half years further down the line from where we began and although I don't know what the future has in store for us, I do know I'm ready to try again. I'm ready to let it consume me again, to become my life again. It's the only way I can keep getting out of bed each morning trying to move forward.

Karen: Right Where I Am 2015: 4 years 3 months and more

Have been meaning to do this since I was first introduced to this blog.

Not having a good day today, so thought it would be a good idea to get it all down & "self counsel" myself.

So where I am today? June 1st 2015.

I am 4 years 3 months from Angel one, my wee boy Dinky.

I am 2 years 3 months from Angel two.

I am 1 year 4 months from my second known wee boy Angel three.

I am 7 months from Angel four and a few weeks away from what was my due date.

I think that is why I am feeling particularly 'blah' today.

It is now June, the month I should be excitedly preparing for my fourth rainbow pregnancy to end and to finally meet my rainbow baby. I say ‘finally’ because my trying to conceive journey for baby number two began in September 2010.

I am fed up. Fed up of all these months of just wanting my husband for his sperm. Fed up of two week waits and then the tantalising 'am I?' when Aunt Flo decides to torment me & come a few hours or days later than expected. I am fed up of getting that exciting BFP and the subsequent nervous breakdowns I feel wondering if it will continue. I am fed up of seeing my wee bean wriggling on the ultrasound screen only for it to be snatched away from me within weeks. I am fed up looking at countless announcements on Facebook of people I know & of celebrity pregnancies, and I am fed up by passing three due dates and nearing due date number four with no baby to show & no pregnancy underway. Anyone get the impression that I am 'fed up’?

I have been diagnosed as having an under active thyroid with antibodies in January and I am on treatment now for this. My body more than likely had been attacking my wee babies and this is horrible. I am totally to blame. Nobody else. I am piling on the weight which is probably a lot down to the fact my thyroid is screwed, but also because I am eating as I am sad. I need to get a grip. If I was pregnant I would be putting myself & my baby at risk of all sorts being so overweight.

I know how lucky I am to have my gorgeous daughter who is six. I hear all the time how I should appreciate how lucky I am. I DO!!! I would actually be lost without her. I hear should we not just give up & accept what we have.  My daughter has kept me from spiralling into despair, but it does not take away the need I have to extend my family. I am not ready to give up. I do not want to let this beat me. I have spent money getting a uterine biopsy to check I do not have high uterine killer cells and, as far as I know, the only issue I am dealing with now is my thyroid which is under control. The main problem now is getting my husband and I in the same place at the right time.

When is enough enough though??

I am not ready to give up! Should I? Should I accept I am only meant to be a mummy to one & four angels? I don't think so, but can I go through more heartache? Is my head going to be able to deal with another loss? I'm getting older now. Am I too old at 36? Physically I know it's possible. I am a midwife, I see it every day, but will it be possible for me?

So while this is a 'fed up' post & I am sorry for bringing anyone down, I feel I need to continue. I think I will know when enough is enough. I am hoping that I won't get to that stage though. Is my rainbow take home baby out there for me? I hope so. I need to believe it.

(written 1st June 2015)

Emily: Lightning Never Strikes Twice

They say lighting never strikes twice but for me it has, more than twice.

My journey to motherhood and through it has not been easy. You see, everyone else falling pregnant and having children so easily with none of the heartache and pain along the way, makes that jealousy just rise up from within me. From a badly managed missed miscarriage, years of infertility to the devastating loss of my 2 boys at 21 and 16 weeks 9 months apart.

I was promised that after losing my little boy Georgie it was just very bad luck, no definite reason found so was completely reassured to go ahead and try again as the odds were in my favour already having 2 living children my body knows how to do it. Lighting never strikes twice, right?

Wrong!

At least I'm falling pregnant fairly quickly, it only took 6 months this time. No need to involve the infertility department at the hospital and it all seemed to be going better than last time. Less bleeding, more scans and midwife appointments, every appointment showing a healthy baby growing.

Why, then, at 16 weeks then did my little boys heart just stop? Why am I having to go through this agony again? What have I done to deserve this pain again?

My head is just full of why me, why again.

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 2014: 3 years 3 months followed by 2 years 2 months 1 week

I am in a very different place from last year, a place I never thought I would be. After 5 losses, I am a mummy to a living child.

This time last year I had decided enough was enough. It felt like massive perivillous fibrinoid deposition had us beaten. I had tried every treatment plan available including treatments that had not been used at my hospital before. I had put my body and soul through hell. All to no avail. We had buried 2 little girls and lost 3 more in early pregnancy.

There was the tiniest sliver of hope though…

Because the girls were perfect and it was just my body that had let them down, our consultant suggested surrogacy. We could still have our own biological child if we could find someone to carry them for us. I knew of a friend with the same condition who was going down this route and all was going extremely well so I was hopeful. However, I felt I couldn't ask anyone to do this for me.

And here was where my little sister stepped in. She offered, she offered again, she kept offering... and we decided to give it a go. We transferred one embryo to my sister and our little miracle was born 2 months ago.

She is such a blessing and I still cannot believe she is here to stay. She has brought us such healing and she reminds us so much of her big sisters. I am in love.

The arrival of this little miracle has also brought to the fore a whole new set of feelings. I now KNOW what I am missing out on with Molly and Grace. I grieve for all the little things I'll never get to do for them that I get to do for their little sister. I grieve for the fact that Cara will never know her big sisters. I wonder what our life would have been like with 3 little girls running around! I also grieve for the fact that I will never carry a healthy baby to term - my body just won't do it. I always felt there would be something healing about being able to give birth to a live baby but I have accepted now that this will never happen and I am so grateful that my sister was able to keep my little lady safe for 9 months.

Mostly, I feel so very blessed to have Cara. I miss her big sisters every day but I would not change a thing. Having Molly and Grace has blessed my life in more ways than I could count. The people I have met, the relationships with family and friends that have been cemented, the legacy they have left to us…

I look at my little miracle and she reminds me of her sisters in so many ways. She has 'piano fingers' just like Molly had, she furrows her wee brow just the way Grace's was. I love that I can see them in her but she is still her own wee person. A little bundle of healing.

And we are healing. We will never be 'better', we will never 'get over it'. At the end of the day, two little girls are always going to be missing from our family but Cara has returned happiness and hope to our lives and for that I am so very grateful.

Right where I am... so bloody glad that I did not give up.

You can read my previous Right Where I Am posts by clicking on the links below:

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

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

You can read more about my condition and my story here:

Massive Perivillous Fibrinoid Deposition

My Story

When loss keeps on happening...

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