Two months before I was diagnosed with my ectopic pregnancy, I had a miscarriage.

(So, yeah, when I’ve described 2016 as a ‘bad year’, I really wasn’t exaggerating. And when I tell you that losing two pregnancies in the space of two months was definitely the worst thing that happened to me this year, but it was far from the only bad thing that happened, you’ll maybe come a little closer to understanding why there’s been so much vagueblogging, and so many references to Things That Cannot Be Mentioned on this blog lately….)

(Also, I’m sure this is obvious from the title, but, again, this post contains triggers, and if you suffer from health anxiety, or are pregnant/hoping to become pregnant, please don’t read any further!)

I was just under seven weeks along when it happened, and I’d only known about the pregnancy for three of those weeks. I don’t think ‘lucky’ is a word that can really ever be applied to something like this, but, physically at least, my miscarriage was a fairly straightforward one. As it happened at such an early stage, I didn’t require any medical intervention – to be honest, I didn’t even have any real pain. Physically, I got off lightly: it could have been a whole lot worse.

Emotionally, though, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me: I hadn’t even known it was possible to feel so bad. I’ve never had much of a maternal instinct: in fact, Terry and I had gone through almost ten years of marriage without even considering the possibility of starting a family. It wasn’t something we’d ever wanted, and even if it had been, I was convinced that my health anxiety would make pregnancy and childbirth impossible for me to even contemplate. And we were fine with that: really.

As time went on, however, and my 40th birthday approached, we DID start to contemplate it. I don’t really believe in the concept of a ‘biological clock’, and I can say with all honesty that there was never a moment when I thought, ‘OMG, I want a baby, and I want one NOW!’ As my friends started to have children of their own, though, and as I spent more and more time with those children, I gradually realised that my views on parenthood had started to change: and so had Terry’s. Now, rather than thinking, ‘No way, never!’, we found ourselves wondering, ‘What if…?’

There is obviously much more to say on this subject, but suffice to say that earlier this year, and at a time when I’d been anxiety-free for several years, and really felt I had I had my health anxiety under control, we made the decision that I would come off birth control, and just see what happened.

In all honesty, we didn’t really think ANYTHING would happen – and we were fine with that, too. One of the fun side-effects of health anxiety is a complete lack of trust in your own body. Despite being one of the healthiest people I knew, I’d spent my entire life convinced that I would not be able to get pregnant – and that, if I did, something would go horribly wrong (ectopic pregnancy was always at the top of my ‘Things to Worry About’ list, although miscarriage was a close second), and that it would kill me. I was so convinced that these things would happen that it took years of talking and thinking about it before we made the decision to give it a go – and then many more months of worrying about whether the decision was the right one.

To make a long story very slightly shorter, then, I viewed pregnancy as a huge, huge risk – an act of bravery so incomprehensible to me that I found it amazing that anyone was willing to risk it at all. Somehow, though, I decided I was willing to take that risk – and even now, I don’t really know where that courage came from.

Two months later, I was pregnant.

And I was delighted.

Which just goes to show what I know, huh?

why we need to talk about miscarriage

I knew about that pregnancy for just three weeks, and while I won’t pretend I wasn’t scared, I was absolutely amazed – as was Terry – by how well I handled it. I did not panic, or fall to pieces: I did choose to pay for an early private scan, as the NHS won’t normally offer one until 12 weeks here, and I was absolutely convinced that I was doomed to have an ectopic pregnancy, which I wanted to catch as quickly as possible.

Everything looked normal at that scan though: the embryo could clearly be seen, and was exactly where it should have been, so I left feeling reassured that my body seemed to know what it was doing, and that all would be well.  (As you know, it turned out that I WAS doomed to have an ectopic pregnancy… just not that time.). I knew the risks of miscarriage were still high, but the fact that I’d gotten pregnant so easily (Which seemed like something of a miracle, considering my age, and the fact that I’d been on birth control for over a decade), gave me a level of faith in my body that I’d never had before. For the first time in my life, I was hopeful that things might work out: that I HAD this, and that I was going to be OK.

Exactly three weeks to the day I found out I was pregnant, I miscarried. And I have never known a pain like it.

I feel almost embarrassed to say this: not because I don’t think miscarriage is a sad or traumatic time, but because I know people – many, many, people – who have had it so much worse, and I don’t want them to read this and think I’m trying to pretend I’m the only person in the world who’s ever gone through this. Here’s the thing, though:

At the time, I really felt like I was.

I mean, I knew the statistics. I’d read the book (In Scotland, when you find out you’re pregnant, the NHS gives you a book with the cringe-worthy title, ‘Ready, Steady, Baby!’ – which makes you feel a bit like you’re about to take part in some strange kind of reality TV show, as opposed to gestating a live human…) and the websites. I’d downloaded all of the pregnancy apps, and I thought I knew what I was up against. What all of those stats tell you is that 1 in 4 pregnancies will end in miscarriage: what most healthcare professionals will privately tell you is that, due to the under-reporting of early miscarriage, the reality is likely to be double that. Last week, I was told that, for my age group, it’s basically a 50/50 chance: it’s SO common that, in our area, they won’t even begin testing for possible issues until you’ve had at least three consecutive miscarriages – until then, they’ll tell you (as nicely as possible) that it’s probably just “bad luck”. Understatement of the century, huh?

This is what the stats tell you. The problem with statistics, however, is that they can be so easily contradicted by the evidence you see around you, and, in my case, what I was seeing around me told a very different story indeed. Miscarriage, you see, is incredibly common. Talking about miscarriage, on the other hand, is incredibly rare. To put this in context, almost every single woman I know, or have met, has at least once child. Out of all of those women – friends, family, even just passing acquaintances – I knew of only three who’d had miscarriages. That isn’t a stat of 50%: it’s not even 1 in 4. In fact, while I’m no mathematician, and I can’t even work out how many hundreds (maybe even thousands) of women I’m talking about here, I’d estimate the miscarriage rate amongst women of my acquaintance (that I knew about at the time) was probably more like 1 in 500.

The statistics told me that miscarriage was very, very common. The evidence I saw before me, however, told me that miscarriage was, in fact, incredibly rare: so rare that even I, with the weight of a lifetime of health anxiety behind me, was totally unprepared for it to happen – for me to be that one in 500 who would beat the odds and completely fail to do what every women I knew had apparently managed without any difficulty whatsoever.

I felt like a failure – a freak of nature. I’m agnostic, and have never believed in fate, but in the days and weeks that followed my miscarriage, I truly felt victimised: as if the universe had somehow set out to punish me – for what, I couldn’t imagine. Had I done something wrong? Did I somehow deserve this? Was it my age, my anxiety, the fact that I hadn’t been 100% sure – or not until I got the positive pregnancy test, at least – that I was doing the right thing? The hospital told me that I’d done nothing wrong, that it was ‘just one of those things’ – but still I felt so totally alone, that there were days when I literally thought I would never get over it: that it had changed me so completely that I would spend the rest of my life carrying this weight of grief that I could never, ever shake.

Why we need to talk about miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, and other pregnancy lossTerry and I had not allowed ourselves to REALLY hope that the pregnancy would work out: we’d always known there was a chance it wouldn’t, but even so, the moment we knew it was over, we lost an entire future that might have been ours, and the only way we could think of to try and fix it, and to regain that lost hope, was to try again as soon as possible.

We didn’t talk about any of this at the time: other than to each other, I mean. Terry urged me to tell our friends and families, and to write about it here on my blog: he thought it would help me. At the time, I didn’t believe him: for one thing, I was literally unable to talk about it without bursting into tears, and for another, I just couldn’t see how it could possibly help. I still felt like a freak: like the only one who had failed so completely to do this totally normal thing, and while I DO know people who have dealt with infertility, or very serious illnesses, I felt it would be crass to compare a 7 week miscarriage to years and years of infertility, or to invasive, life-threatening procedures. I still feel like that, to an extent: I know that there are many people out there who’ve gone through far worse experiences than I have, and I don’t want to diminish those experiences by making this all about ME, or by implying that I alone know what it’s like, because I don’t. Not by a long shot.

Above all, I didn’t want miscarriage to define me: to be the one thing people would think of every time they saw me. I didn’t want anyone to feel awkward. People don’t know what to say when faced with something like this: because, after all, there’s nothing you really CAN say, is there? I knew everyone would be kind and compassionate: that they would do their absolute best to help me, and that I would be grateful for that. I also, however, knew that I would likely burst into tears at the first kind word, and who wants to put people through THAT? I imagined my friends, all getting ready for some imagined meet-up, and thinking, “Oh God, do you think Amber will be there? What do we say, if she is? Should we mention it? Should we NOT mention it? What if she starts crying again?” I thought all of this because I knew that’s how I would feel, were the situation reversed: it’s human nature, isn’t it?

So, rather than being honest about what had happened, I just carried on as normal. I kept working, kept blogging, kept scrolling quickly past the photos that we’d taken when I was still pregnant, and which I can only now look at again without wanting to cry. Gradually, I got better. I don’t think miscarriage is something you get OVER, exactly, but I did start to heal. I started to feel more like my old self. And then, just two  months after that miscarriage, I found out I was pregnant again.

And this time it was ectopic. 

Talk about bad luck, hey?

This time around, I knew right from the start that there was something very wrong, and that I would likely have another miscarriage. Initially, I wasn’t going to write about that either: it would have been another set of vague-blogs, another few cancelled appointments with friends and families, and a whole ton of lies to try to explain why I’ve been such a bad friend and mediocre blogger (er, more so than usual) this year. When I found out there was a possibility of surgery, however, I knew I couldn’t hide that: and that I didn’t want to. As I mentioned in my ‘Dark Passenger’ post, we felt it would be wrong not to tell the people closest to us what was going on, so we did: and what happened next is the reason I’m writing this post – and will keep writing and talking about this subject for as long as I need to.

We have to be able to talk about miscarriage.

We have to learn how to push past the embarrassment and the fear, and speak openly about pregnancy loss, because here’s what I’ve learned over the last few days:

I am not alone: and you’re not either.

In the 12 hours or so after we told people our news, I received dozens and dozens of messages from friends and family members: many of them sharing their own stories, and telling me that they, too, had gone through the same things (both the miscarriage AND the ectopic pregnancy – which I’d assumed was even MORE rare than miscarriage, and made me even MORE of a freak for a having one), and had felt EXACTLY the same things I did. They had felt lonely, isolated and afraid. They had felt like they were the only people in the world to have gone through this: had looked at all of the pregnant women around them – at all of the newborn babies, and the happy, smiling, parents, and thought, ‘Why me? What did I do wrong? Why did my body fail me?’

Like me, they had read the statistics, and, like me, they’d thought they didn’t really apply, because the secrecy which surrounds pregnancy loss is so engrained that it’s easy to believe it’s something very rare, and extremely unlikely. The NHS tells you there’s a 1 in four chance of miscarriage with every single pregnancy: your life experience (if it’s anything like mine and my friends’) tells you that, nah, that’s not really true, is it? So if it DOES happen, you feel totally alone – when the reality is that you’re anything but.

I read these messages from my friends, and I cried for most of the day, knowing that people close to me had gone through the same experience I had, and had been unable to talk about it. It’s not fair. It’s not right. And, as hard as it is, it has to change.

We have to talk about miscarriage.

For many women, it’s a sad fact of life: and if it happens, it’s so debilitating and all-consuming that it feels almost impossible to survive. I’m not writing this to scare anyone, and I want to be very, very clear about that: yes, miscarriage is common, but it is NOT a certainty, and, for most people, the chances are high that everything really WILL be absolutely fine. In fact, if you’re young and healthy, the chances of you having a normal, risk-free pregnancy are far higher than the chances of you miscarrying – and that’s something to hold on to, and take hope from.

For those of you who do, unfortunately, find yourself dealing with miscarriage, though, I want you to know that you’re not alone. You might not think you know anyone else who’s gone through this, but here’s the thing: you know me. And if you need to talk, vent, or just know there’s someone out there who understands, I want you to know that you can contact me any time, and I really mean that.

I also want you to know that, in the majority of the cases I now know about, there IS, in fact, a happy ending. Unfortunately, that hasn’t been the case for Terry and I, and that’s something we will have to deal with in the days and months to come. But you? You’re not alone. You GOT this. And, if these past few months have taught me anything, it’s that there are people out there willing to do anything they can to help: I hope you’ll consider me to be one of them.

103 Comments
  1. Oh Amber. Thank you so much for having the courage to write this post. It felt like you had taken everything I have been feeling and put it all on the screen for me and it is amazing.

    I am so, so sorry you have had to go through this. I am well aware of how devestating it is, how you grieve and yet feel like a complete fraudster for grieving for someone that you were never able to meet. I know the anger, the confusion, the frustration and the ‘why me’ and the absolute, crushing sense of unfairness when you look around you and see so many other women for whom it ‘appears’ to come easy to. What I have realised is that you just never know what their own personal struggles have been, what they have gone through and what they have had to do to realise their dream of a family.

    I am on miscarriage no.3. We have just been diagnosed with ‘unexplained infertility’ and are now on the road to IVF. I’m 34 and I feel that clock ticking day after day when I look at my friends with 2 or 3 kids all under the age of 6. I have an irrational fear of being ‘the old mum’ at the school gates and every month a little bit of my soul dies when I find out that we have to wait another month to find out. It has been 6 years of trying.

    I have never felt like we can talk about it – I feel ashamed that my body has apparently failed its most basic female function and I don’t know why. I don’t have any answers, I can’t take any medicine to make it all better. I need control in my life and I can control most other aspects of my life and this is one area where I have no control. At all.

    You are so right though, we HAVE to be able to talk about it, cry about it and tell each other that it will be ok. We are not weird or abnormal, it is so, so common and, despite all the medical advances in this age, there is still so much they do not know about how and why some couples fall pregnant and carry pregnancies so easily and why others don’t.

    All I know is that hearing about other women who are feeling the same emotions that I am is comforting, not because I would wish this on anyone, but, in a very, very selfish way, it is comforting to know that there are others who understand and who can relate.

    It is also ok to cry – you don’t have to be strong all the time. Take the time to grieve and hit pillows. Believe me, it helps

    xx

    1. I just wanted to come by and say don’t worry about time passing by. At 34 you’re still quite young and still have a lot of chances of getting pregnant. As for the “old mum at school”, my mum had me 42, which made her at least ten years older than most mums, but it’s never been a problem. I’ve always loved having an older mum- a wiser, more experienced mum to guide me through. Don’t let that get you down, love, and keep trying. I’m sure one day you’ll have a bay to call your own. XX

    2. I understand why you might feel old at the school gates, but my daughter has gone through what you have. her baby was born when she was 34 and she is with mums of the same age and a few mums are older than her. There are many women who are having babies when they are in their 40s and with fertility treatment into their 60s.
      IVF is proving more and more successful, it was for my daughter and I hope it is fir you too.

      1. Just to add to this, almost all of my friends had their children in their 30s – many in their mid-to-late 30s… I know we might just be unusual, but it’s becoming much more common, so don’t lose heart ❤️

        1. Thank you Myra, and Amber, massive, gorilla hugs to you and Terry. I’m in awe of your courage, it takes a LOT to write what you have done and for both you and Terry to put something so intensly personal up on your blog. You didn’t have to, but you did and in doing so you have opened up a way of communicating for a lot of women (and men) who visit your corner of the interwebs. Thank you xx

    3. I’m so sorry to hear this Becky, and I completely relate to the lack of control, and that horrible knowledge that, even in this day and age, there seems to be so little help available. We’ve been dealing with the Early Pregnancy Unit at our local hospital (who have been fantastic) throughout all of this, and last week the nurse there told me that one of the hardest parts of her job is having to tell people that no, they don’t know why it happened, and no, they don’t know if it’ll happen again, or how to stop it. I think it’s quite unusual for most of us (or it was for me, at least) to come up against a problem that literally NO ONE can help you with. Even when Terry was diagnosed with kidney failure, it was a case of, “OK, this is absolutely horrific, but here’s what we can do about it, and here’s what YOU can do to help.” When I had my miscarriage, though, I called the hospital and was told (in the nicest way possible) that there was nothing they could do, and that I should just go lie down and wait to see what happened. To me, it felt like the biggest emergency in the world, but to the hospital it was just one more miscarriage amongst many: with the ectopic, they DID treat it as an emergency, but again, it was a case of “we’ve no idea why this happened, and we might never know” – it’s just so hard to get your head around!

  2. Amber if anyone know what pain you gone through it me – I miscarriage due to having dangerous leveled of preeclampsia a total of 4 time. I’m told i can’t carry full term as my body would reget it and cause me to have preeclampsia at an early stage. It was painful and heartbreaking but step by step, day by day you get through it all and you naturally learn to heal. I wish I could give you big big hug and be there to comfort you. xx

  3. I’m so sorry you’re going through this, I’ve had 2 miscarriages, one of which was a suspected ectopic (turned out to be incomplete miscarriage) that involved spending 8 weeks going for regular blood tests in the run up to Christmas last year. I had people tell me that they didn’t know anyone else who’d miscarried, when the reality is people just don’t talk about it.

  4. While pregnancy isn’t on my radar at the moment, I know that it would scare the hell out of me too. Thank you for discussing your miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy, I know that my friends who miscarried also felt alone and like their body failed them. The more open we are, the less stigmatized it will become. Sending healing thoughts your way, to both you and Terry.

  5. Thank you!
    For this act of kindness. For your words that reached me in ways I did not know words could. For the courage to hit ‘publish’.
    Thank you.
    You are a lot stronger than you know. Whatever happens next, _you’ve_ got this!

  6. Thank you for writing this. Miscarriage is such an underreported and un discussed topic. I am very sorry about your loss, and hope that whatever you decide to do now works out well. Good luck.

  7. I miscarried my first pregnancy three weeks ago, and like you the pain and isolation I felt was inconceivable. I didn’t want to tell anybody – we’d only told our immediate families that I was pregnant, and I somehow felt like I had let THEM down as much as myself and my husband. They, of course, were enormously supportive and understanding, but I felt like a total failure anyway. Everything you’ve said here is exactly how things were (and sometimes still are) for me. I’ve bounced back pretty quickly emotionally but things are still pretty rough sometimes.
    You’re right, we absolutely need to talk about it, because we’re all in this together really. I truly believe there’s a happy ending coming for both of us, but we do ourselves and others a disservice if we don’t acknowledge the full story. Thanks so much for sharing yours. I hope 2017 brings good things for all of us in this position.

  8. Blimey you have been through the ringer Amber, I’m so so so sorry to read this. I can’t think of anything else to say, I just hope that once your treatment for the ectopic is complete, if you and Terry are still after starting a family then you have the very best of luck with it xx

  9. It’s like being in a hole, isn’t it? A deep, dark hole. But eventually you realize it’s a tunnel. I’ve lost more babies than I’ve given birth to, so know that others are with you as you go through the dark.

  10. I miscarried in ’99, but my body still thought it was pregnant. I lost the baby at five weeks and at nine weeks, I had to have a D&C. It was then I discovered just how often this happens and how few people realize this fact. (Afterward, a co-worker treated me like I had the plague–as if it was something she could “catch”.) This has to stop being a secret. Thank you for this post and hugs to you during this difficult time. ❤️

  11. dear Amber,
    I’ve read all your posts on what you’re going through now but this is the one that’s made me weep. The fact that, even at this time, you can offer support to others is a massively strong and generous thing. I have a group of six close friends and ONLY ONE OF US HASN’T had a miscarriage and yet this is still such a hidden thing as if it’s something to be ashamed of. We need to talk about miscarriage. Yes. We really do.

  12. Amber, I’m so sorry. I’ve never dealt with anything like you so I can’t comment, but I hope from now on, everything will work out well. And if it makes you feel better, I’ve been following your blog for a long time and I seriously did not know you were 40? I’ve always thought you were in your 20s!

    Best of luck,
    Charmaine
    http://charmainenyw.com

  13. Amber, I have written and deleted several comments at this point. I can’t seem to say what I want to say. I truly admire your courage and kindness in writing this post. Women all over the world will be nodding in agreement as they read your words because someone understands. Someone gets what they are going through. They are not alone. I wish I had read something like this years ago when I was convinced I was so alone.

    I hope you and your husband get all the comfort, support, and understanding you need. My thoughts are with both of you.

  14. Hi Amber….. I am so, so sorry that you lost your first wee baby in the early stages of pregnancy, and then, now having to go through the task of dealing with an ectopic pregancy. I do feel your pain, and like any other woman who has suffered a miscarriage, I found it so strange that I was so utterly bereft after I lost a baby at 12 weeks (between having Rebecca and Jenni). I also couldn’t believe how emotional I was…. I didn’t know I had that many tears in me! If anyone so much as smiled at me, I was in bits. My Mum bought me some shopping…. I cried! Christine bought me a ticket for a concert…. I cried! So, cry, cry, cry….. and then cry some more. I truly believe it is good for the soul. Then you will gradually get your strength back, both physically, and emotionally, and you can move on to the next chapter. I also echo what everyone else is saying and feeling… I hope that you will, in time, get pregnant again, and have a wee baby to love. I know that you and Terry will make absolutely amazing parents. If not… you have each other, which is absolutely wonderful in itself. You both have a truly, special relationship. I am so glad you are writing about this, and will keep writing! All good. Sending you all my love, hugs and good vibes. I am sure 2017 will bring much happiness! xxxx

    1. Thanks, Helen: for some reason I have cried multiple times now just at the sight of Rubin doing perfectly normal things, that he always does: it’s so strange the way the mind works, sometimes!

  15. Amber, you’re so brave writing about all this and admirable for doing it in the hope it will help others out there. I feel so fortunate not to have experienced what you’ve gone through, but then that’s partly because I’ve never tried to conceive. I have no idea if I can, even, at this point. And that mere thought alone is terrifying enough, without throwing in the worry of miscarriage etc – which I know would be racing through my head on a loop should I ever get pregnant. It’s definitely a good thing to raise the issue and help people to feel like they’re not going through this alone – should the worst ever happen to me I already know I’ll be re-reading this post. I really hope things will be on the up for you now and that should you try again, this time everything will happen without incident and you’ll have your own happy ending xx

  16. You’re absolutely right. We NEED to talk about miscarriage. Women who have miscarried need to know they’re not alone, need to feel supported and loved and we can’t do that if we refuse to talk about it. I’ve always been one to think that the more horrible a truth is, the more important it is to talk about it. Not talking about death, illnesses, mental health, miscarriage, sexual assault and gender violence, etc only raises the stigma around it- and that makes the victims of those things feel even worse.
    I remember a teacher in my school miscarried about four times in two years, all those times either just before or just at the beginning of the second trimester. She still put on her best face, tried her hardest to seem ok and kept on working, but you could see the sadness and the sorrow in her. It was heartbreaking. This year I found on Facebook a picture of her with a big seven-months pregnant belly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so happy and I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy for someone.
    I also think we have to talk, alongside miscarriage, about child death. My mum had severe pre-eclampsia in all of her pregnancies(I’m really sorry if this is a trigger for you) and her first baby was born through a C-section at only 24 weeks because both him and my mum were at high risk. He died three days later. It’s been over 20 years now and my mum had my sister and me afterwards (still with a bit of risk but not as much) but I don’t think she’s ever really moved on from that. As she says herself, it’s against one the most basics laws of nature for a parent to bury a child. Even animals grieve when a baby dies.
    As horrible as all of this is, there’s still hope. As you said, you’re not alone and there are plenty of women out there who’ve gone through the same and had children afterwards. And don’t worry too much about your age and “you biological clock ticking away”. Sure, the more time passes the hardest it is to conceive, but my mum had me at 42 and I was the healthiest of her children, and I know of women who’ve had children at 45. If Terry and you really want to start a family, keep trying. It may be hard but it’s well worth the risk and the effort if it’ll make you happy. Tons of love, hope and support sent you way, Amber XX

    1. I’m so sorry – I can’t even begin to imagine how awful that must be, and no, I don’t think it’s something you could ever get over, really 🙁 Unfortunately, although I didn’t have any fertility issues before this happened, ectopic pregnancy can cause infertility (and I also now have a much higher chance of another ectopic, even if my fertility isn’t affected), so it’s now not so much about my age as it is about how much (if any) damage this situation has caused. We’re hoping the hospital will be able to give us some answers on that, but I think it’s one of those situations where there isn’t always a definitive answer, unfortunately!

  17. <3

    As someone who suffered from the equally shady business of infertility, thank you. Thank you for opening up and talking about miscarriage/infant loss, and thank you for offering yourself to others who are going through the same experiences.

    Sending lots of love and healing vibes to you and Terry. xxx

  18. I’ve not been through all the pain and sorrow that you have Amber so I want to say firstly that I am sorry that you and Terry have had to deal with both miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy so close together (and if women don’t talk about it, it is even rarer for men to be open about how they are feeling). And secondly I want to thank you for being so honest about how it has all been. It will help me in supporting other people I know who are dealing with the same horrible issues.

  19. You managed to get tears in my eyes again, twice in a few days… Thank you for being so brave and sharing a pain that I can only imagine and tremble by just trying. I send a big hug to you and Terry. I tried to write more, but everything seems pointless. So I’ll just write that I look forward to your next post, wether it’s an outfit post, a beauty review, a picture of Rubin or a moving diary entry.

  20. Thank you, Amber, for your thoughts and your courage and willingness to share yourself with all of us. I’ve been through miscarriage before (and had a healthy child afterwards). I try to talk about it with people because I wholeheartedly agree with you – this is something much more common than people might think and talking about it will make women feel less alone when going through it. I also really hate it when people ask other women “are you pregnant” or “when are you having babies” or “when will your child have a baby brother-sister”? because you just never know what the other person is going through and if she wants to talk about it with you, she will but no one is supposed to ask these kinds of questions.
    One of my favourite blog entries about this topic is http://lovetaza.com/2014/03/are-you-pregnant/. There was this other article I can’t seem to find right now, but it was about women supporting each other and how we need to be kind to ourselves and stop judging, commenting and asking questions when the time is just not right.
    Crossing all my fingers for you Amber to get well soon and heal your body and mind as much as can be done then decide for yourself whats best and share only what you want/need to share with us readers.
    Your blog is an inspiration and you are, too.
    Sending lots of love,
    Lucie

    1. Oh, absolutely – I’ve always believed that you should NEVER ask people if they’re pregnant, or really anything relating to their reproductive choices at all: you just have no idea what they might be dealing with! I quite often get comments on Instagram (always in relation to either my high heels, or my white walls) from people saying, ‘Haha, I can tell YOU don’t have any kids yet!’ – I know they don’t mean anything by it, but I just wish people would realise what a sensitive subject something like that might be!

  21. Beautifully written love to you both ❤ the moment the lines appear on the stick you automatically plan this person’s life, your new life and your heart grows bigger. Then to lose that, it truly is a dark place. Stay strong and don’t give up. You will get there xx ❤❤

  22. I’m sorry that what you are going through has been the trigger for this. Know that you are not alone and by doing this you are reaching out and helping someone else. My thoughts are with you and Terry.

  23. Okay, now I do want to hug you. If your husband is a secret ninja, SAS commando, im in Cardiff so he’s going to have to plan the whole storming my place thing. 🙂

    Brave, honest and true. You’ve been public and open here but I wanted to ask first before sharing your blog post. I believe in the breaking down of the stigma of talking about mental and physical health but you may not want a wider audience so thought I’d best ask first. If you’re happy for me to share your blog post to my friends let me know.

    And your 40th birthday? Surely that’s decades away? (I’m not kidding. You don’t look that old. I’m 35 and look like phill Mitchell from Eastenders long lost twin who votes liberal and reads The Guardian).

    1. Lol! Thank you, and yes, I’m happy for it to be shared – I’m blown away by the response it’s had, and I’m more convinced than ever that it’s a subject that should be talked about more openly!

  24. Thank you, and yes, I’m happy for it to be shared – I’m blown away by the response it’s had, and I’m more convinced than ever that it’s a subject that should be talked about more openly!

  25. Sending lots of love to you, Amber and Terry. My sister had a miscarriage and my sister-in-law an ectopic, so I’ve seen the sadness that surrounds these situations. Remember no matter how much worse you perceive other people’s situations to be, you are in yours and no one believes you shouldn’t be sad. Wishing you both all the best.
    ❤️ xxx

  26. Amber – I have read all of your recent posts and was too mute with dismay on your behalf to say anything. I am so sorry for your losses and am full of admiration for you for being able to write about what you have experienced with such clarity and power. I’ve never experienced a miscarriage but two years ago, my sister had what she thought was a miscarriage. She was pregnant, but when she went for a 12-week scan there was no heartbeat. That was devastating enough, but shortly afterwards she was diagnosed as having had a molar pregnancy – this is where a fertilised egg that isn’t viable due to abnormalities or lack of a nucleus implants itself into the womb lining, and in my sister’s case, her body miscarried at 8 weeks. She was utterly heartbroken – it was a terrible experience anyway and then she was told that what she lost might not even have been a baby and that there was no way to know for sure, so her grief was very complicated. In addition, her body continued to think it was pregnant for some weeks afterwards – this is common with molar pregnancy and can result in chemotherapy being needed – so she had to have frequent blood tests to monitor the level of pregnancy hormones in her body. It was an isolating experience made more difficult by the fact that my sister-in-law was pregnant at the same time. My sister is religious and that helped her, but just as much, talking about it (to me, my mum and her mother-in-law, who is a midwife) helped her too.

    It is incredibly common and it’s awful that there is a stigma to it, which I wonder is to do with the fact that death is something we find hard to look directly at in general. You’re doing something important for your own healing in talking about it and I’m proud of you. My best wishes to you, dear Amber and Terry xxx

    1. Oh Roisin, that’s awful – I’m so sorry your sister (and the rest of your family) had to go through that 🙁 Molar pregnancy is one of those things I didn’t even know existed until a few months ago, when I (stupidly, given my health anxiety!) signed up for a bunch of pregnancy apps and forums, and started reading about it, and all of the other things that can go wrong. I think the fact that your body continues to believe it’s pregnant for such a long time afterwards is one of the hardest things to deal with, too: when I had my miscarriage, I was told to take a pregnancy test two weeks later, just to confirm that the hormone level had dropped. At that point the test still showed a very faint positive, which I found very hard to deal with – as you say, it’s such a complicated set of emotions, and there are so many different aspects of it that it can be hard to even know how to begin to deal with it. I’m really glad your sister had such great support, though – sometimes just having someone there to hug you and tell you it’ll all be OK is the only thing that helps.

  27. I’m so so sorry you have been through this emotional blender ! One of the most hideous experiences a lady can be dragged through ‘. So pleased you and Terry have each other xxx. Hoping all your dreams come true in 2017 xx

  28. Thank you so much for sharing this! You are awesome for talking about it so openly! I know how hard it must have been.
    I can relate to so much of what you wrote, including the not wanting children part. I know this post is not about that but I honestly don’t know anybody that didn’t want children. But I “knew” you. I could relate to so many things that you wrote about, over time. We are also about the same age and are both introverts so in my imagination we could totally be friends. I have been reading your blog for many years and I catch up with your blog about once a month and I know everything that goes on in your life, what you share, of course. Sorry if this sound creepy, that was not my intention, but is the truth, nevertheless.
    Anyway, I have suffered 3 miscarriages (one of which was an ectopic pregnancy). I know the pain and I know how hard is it to talk about it. Even though, at this point, I could give lectures about it, I just got so used to all of it. For me, the reason I didn’t talk about it (except with my family and closest friends) for a long time was that it was a topic so sensitive and so “mine” that I did not want or cared for anyone’s opinion on it. Also, people tend to tell you that you will be fine, that you will get over it and soon you will be pregnant again and I HATED that. Maybe some people find this reassuring but I did’t. I felt that this attitude just trivialized what I was going through.
    As I said, I never really wanted children, neither did my husband. We are both introverts and value our space/time alone. I also have endometriosis, which meant a great chance of infertility. So I was fine with not having children.
    But then it happened: almost an year after my endometriosis surgery, I got pregnant, on my own, with no drugs. We were so, so happy, like this was the plan all along, all of a sudden we imagined how it would be like to be parents and we loved it. And everything was fine up until my 12th week ultrasound. There was no heartbeat. I had to have an induced abortion the next day, a suction I think it’s called. I was “lucky” because I felt no pain in the following days but I had to take time off work, anyway. I just couldn’t see people, let alone talk to them.
    After exactly 2 more years of trying, I got pregnant again. This time was “easier”, I had a miscarriage at 8 weeks. And then, 6 months later, I had an ectopic pregnancy. There was no specific reason for any of this miscarriages, just “bad luck”.
    We are still trying now (the infertility is a whole other story) but I am terrified of the pregnancy. First, because it might end in miscarriage and second, I know too much now about what can go wrong.
    So, there is no happy ending for me. I see it all the time though: on the blogs I read, on forums, even in my circle of friends. It seems like eventually, after several miscarriages, the women get pregnant, and even more so, when they have lost all hope (I have lost hope sooo many times, and still didn’t happen; I even lost hope on purpose, maybe it will happen!). And more importantly, they all have a healthy pregnancy in the end, taken to full term.
    I am sorry if I overshared but it felt good, in a way, to write it down. I do not dwell on it, life goes on, of course. And I always joke about the things that are too hard to swallow, it makes it easier for me. But I guess I will always carry this sadness with me, of what could have been.
    I hope I have not triggered any of your fears or have been insensitive. I apologize if I did.
    I wish you good health and peace of mind!

    1. I’m so sorry you’ve been through all of this – how absolutely heartbreaking! I also really relate to what you say about trying to get pregnant, but being simultaneously terrified of it: both times it happened for us, I ended up feeling like I’d been “cheated” out of the experience we’re led to expect from TV, the internet, etc. I felt like it should have been this happy, exciting time, but instead I knew so much about all of the things that could go wrong that it was just plain terrifying. Even Terry, who is the most optimistic person I know, was too scared to get his hopes up – I can’t even imagine how much worse if would be if we tried again, knowing the increased risks etc!

  29. Thank you for sharing your story, Amber. I am so sorry for your losses. You are so right that many women secretly go through these things and are afraid to talk about them. A dear friend of mine went through a miscarriage earlier this year; now she is pregnant again and very cautious, afraid she might lose this one, too. My husband and I are trying to get pregnant but haven’t been successful yet. At 37, I’ve questioned whether I’m too old. There are also those women that made a decision early in life to have an abortion and now suffer silently with regret and unspoken trauma, unable to find healing because of the stigma. All of these issues need to be addressed. Women need to be able to talk about it without fear or shame.

    1. Hi Grasshopper,

      I fell pregnant at 37 and I have long-term health issues but had absolutely no problems during pregnancy. In fact when I went into labour my midwife was so impressed with all my stats because they were perfect (something I’m very proud of haha ;)). When I found out I was pregnant almost 3 months into pregnancy (oops) I did everything I could to be as healthy as I could, I went swimming, I stayed within sugar/caffeine etc levels so don’t worry too much about your age. As I said I had no problems whatsoever xxxx

      1. Thank you, Trona. It is good to know that others had babies a little older and everything went okay. It’s just hard to keep waiting for it to happen.

  30. There is a Miscarriage Association which provides support for miscarriage – I didn’t even know it existed until this year so perhaps other people don’t know – http://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk

  31. I had a miscarriage several years ago and I know quite a few other people who have had them too. Do you know Mother Pukka? she and her husband recently went through one and have been writing about it too. It’s a heartbreaking and a strange kind of loss. I hadn’t been too fussed previously about starting a family but when I found out I was pregnant with my son I was absolutely delighted, the mind is a funny thing isn’t it? I hope you and Terry get through this and get the outcome you want. Thinking of you <3

  32. That made me feel very sad 🙁 I’m sorry your going through all of that . Your not alone but I understand feeling you that way when your going through this as its your body and your life .so your allowed to cry feel upset sad angry everything because it’s happening to you . You don’t need to apologise for it or compare yourself to people that you think may be worse . your pain and sadness is relevant .look after each other . Hope you can stay strong and not give up even when it feels impossible.xxx

  33. You do have this. I have not had a miscarriage but secondary infertility and it’s devastating and it does define you. Years after we’ve quit trying and did happily add a second child to our family through adoption, it defines how I feel about my body. It let me down. I’m so so sorry you’re going through this and you’re right: people don’t talk about it. Not to whip right around and be all: lalalalalla but a miscarriage and a second pregnancy, both of which ended sadly, does mean you’re quite fertile. You yourself do have this. If you can deal with the health anxiety, which I know is so completely no small thing and I don’t mean to minimize it at all, the world is in your favor. But I completely understand you’re likely feeling as you can’t face any more of that. It wears you down and flattens you, which is why I can’t understand why more people don’t talk about it. About the months of being let down, the pain of miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy. We are all in this together. My thoughts are winging their way toward you in Scotland from northern U.S.

  34. First of all, I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through. No way are you near 40, I don’t believe it for a second!

    Second, I’m also dealing with infertility, debilitating health issues but seeing you talking so openly and freely about this sensitive topic is important. We should talk about miscarriage and as bloggers, writing really does help us deal with our feelings. Stay strong Amber and Terry.

  35. I couldn’t agree more, I wish miscarriage was something people could talk openly about since it is more common than people realize. I had a very early one at just 5 weeks after my first round of IVF and even though it was so early and I only knew I was pregnant for sure for one week it was still heartbreaking to lose it. I remember going to work and trying to act normal like nothing happened and I just felt so lonely. Sending you lots of love.

    1. I’m so sorry… One of the saving graces for me is the fact that I work from home, and have been able to essentially just hide away from the world this week. I can’t even imagine how hard it must be to have to go to work and act like nothing has happened 🙁

  36. I’ve been trying to think of something appropriate to write but keep deleting my comments – this isn’t something I have direct experience of but it’s obviously incredibly traumatic and I have nothing but admiration for the women (& their partners) who have to cope with miscarriage. One thing I DO know is that you shouldn’t feel guilty because other people have it worse – that’s like saying you shouldn’t feel happy because someone else has it better.

    You’re so brave for writing this, it’s obviously something that needs to be talked about more – I personally know only two people who’ve definitely had miscarriages but, statistically, there have to be many more. Of course no one should have to talk about it if they don’t want to, but overall I think it can only be a good thing if people can be open and honest.

  37. Ohh, all the hugs. I’m so sorry you’ve been through this. I had one miscarriage, at the time I didn’t know I was pregnant so I went to the doctor because my period was late and then weird and I really took it to heart about going to the doctor if something’s wrong that they teach you on health class, and when she check me she finished and left and then came back and said she debated telling me because I didn’t know but I’d been pregnant and must have miscarried.

    It was a complete slap in the face, I hadn’t been trying and had been vocal about not wanting anymore children and then I felt like I didn’t have the right to mourn this baby that I hadn’t wanted and didn’t know about. It messed me up for a long time. And then I told a friend and she said she’d had something similar happen, and I told another friend and so on, and slowly I found out I wasn’t alone, and one friend it had just happened to too, so we would get wine rent a movie and then cry. And slowly I healed. But it took time, and sometimes when friends announce I get a pain in my chest wondering what could have been.

    But it does need to be talked about. Openly. I went from feeling so very very alone and scared and horrified to realizing I wasn’t nearly the only one and that almost every woman I knew had had at least one.

    I’m so very sorry that you went through this, I just wish I could give you a great big hug and a really big bottle of wine.

  38. Amber, I am so sorry that you are going through such an impossibly tough time, please be gentle with yourself, and Terry be gentle to himself too.

    All of the above need to be openly discussed, difficult though it may be. I think people don’t know what to say and so difficult topics become taboo. I have never experienced a miscarriage so I have no idea of how you may be feeling but please accept a virtual hug from me, and tissues and a cup of tea if you need them.

    Also, please don’t think that your horrible life events are any less than somebody who has had several miscarriages or is suffering a lifelong condition. Each individual’s experience is just that, individual, and no “better” or “worse” than anybody else’s. I hope that reading all the wonderfully supportive comments have helped you.

  39. Girls in my family have gone through the same situation as you. They each now have beautiful toddlers. I truly believe that your happy ending is waiting for you. Please don’t let fear hold you back.🤗

  40. I am so sorry to hear what you have been going through Amber and I hope very much that the future brings happiness for you.
    I agree so much that talking about this is good. I just wanted to add a word of encouragement about pregnancy later in life. I had children when I was 37 and 39. I stayed well throughout and the babies were fine. I’ve never felt like an older Mum and in fact they’ve kept me active and feeling young! My daughter tells me that in no way has she ever thought of me as an older Mum despite me being a lot older than some of her friends’ Mums.
    I hope the coming year will be a good one for you.

  41. Amber, my heart goes out to you, and I will pray y’all get what you need. I don’t have miscarriage experience, but the best advice I got when both my parents died within a few months of each other is that everyone is an individual, all relationships are unique, so grieve how you need to and don’t let anyone else tell you it is wrong or your timing is off. It isn’t anything you ever get over, but it is something you get through. Eventually. As for older parents, my mom was 40 when she had me back in the olden days when most women were married and mothers by age 23 or so. When I first went to school I was self conscious about my older parents. Then I realized I didn’t care because they were great and there was nothing to be done about their age. Plus, it was a definite advantage to have smart well established parents who had both been to college and had careers instead of diving straight into marriage and children right after high school.

  42. Wow, Amber. My heart truly goes out to you and Terry for having gone through all this. Regardless whether your experience is the same as others makes it no less traumatic. I admire you for having the courage to talk about it and bring it out into the open. Huge hugs and well wishes to you both.

  43. Dear Amber, I have been reading your blog for about eight years and have always admired your bravery, honesty and eloquence. The last few entries were incredibly heartbreaking and I hope you will recover without any further bumps in the road. You might feel like broken heap of nerves right now, but you are stronger than you probably give yourself credit for. To open up like that and offer support to others during such a vulnerable makes a superwoman to me. Sending you love, strength and a totally non-creepy virtual hug.

  44. My heart has broken reading these posts. I work at an ultrasound clinic and see so many women who are having miscarriages and I feel so bad for them. I’m so surprised you don’t usually get a scan until 12 weeks, it’s routinely done at around 6-8 weeks here for dating the pregnancy and confirming it’s not ectopic etc. Thank you for sharing your experiences, most people just truly do not realise how common it is, especially at the early stages. There are probably even more who it happens to but they just don’t realise that they’re pregnant if it’s early on and they haven’t been testing/tracking their periods.

    1. I found it really surprising, too… If I were to get pregnant again, I would be scanned much earlier as I now have a higher risk of having another ectopic pregnancy, but in most cases your first interaction with the NHS (at least in my part of the country) would be at 12 weeks, which I found quite shocking when I found out. As I said, I paid for a private scan at 6 weeks with my first pregnancy, as unless they have good reason to suspect an issue, the absolute earliest the NHS would do it would be 8 weeks, and even then they’re reluctant to do a scan without a good reason! I really admire people like yourself who work in this field, though- it must be wonderful when you can give people good news, but absolutely heartbreaking otherwise 🙁

  45. I’m so sorry. As you know, I’ve had a miscarriage and a successful pregnancy. The grief from the miscarriage was like nothing I could have ever imagined and I went back and forth about whether or not to risk going through it again (I’m glad I did, obviously!); it faded after a while but would still hit me now and then, out of nowhere; these days, it’s far enough behind me that I *could* make myself upset by thinking about it in great detail but it doesn’t feel like a defining part of me any more. Anyway, what I actually wanted to say was that, after the miscarriage, I couldn’t talk to more than a handful of people about it; once I was halfway through my second pregnancy, I could, and I’ve made a point of saying to almost everyone, “We were unlucky once before-” because I don’t want miscarriage to be something people feel they have to hide and I want to play my part in making it a part of normal conversation – nobody, not a single person, has ever reacted in a way which made me feel pitied or uncomfortable; it has made me wish I’d trusted them to support me much earlier, and I hope other women going through this are able to find that support, too.

    1. Sarah, I went back and read your post on this when I had my miscarriage, and it was one of the reasons I decided to write this one. It took me a long time to feel able to talk about it (and, to be honest, I was hoping that, like you, I’d have been able to end it on a happy note!), but your post helped me so much, so thank you again for writing it. And you’re absolutely right: between my last few posts, and the messages I’ve had from ‘real life’ friends, I’ve had at least a couple of hundred responses to this, and not one single person has reacted in a way that’s upset me: not one. People do want to understand and help, but of course they can only do that if we tell them what’s going on in the first place!

  46. I am so extremely sorry for your loss. Thank you so much for sharing your story. I had a miscarriage in April 2013 after three healthy children and I was devastated. I went on to have a fourth baby afterward, so please do not lose hope. Your blog continues to be more and more inspirational. Thank you so much for sharing your story.

  47. I’m so sorry to read this. It’s a terribly sad thing to go through. I have had a couple of miscarriages, my oldest sister had to go through IVF and my twin had a stillborn little girl. You’re right: Pregnancy loss (and infertility) needs to be talked about. Its far more common than i ever imagined. Devastating every time. My sisters and I are all mothers now, we have four boys and a girl between us. But I still think of the little dots I lost (and I think of my niece every day) I don’t know you (I mean not really – I’ve read your blog for years) but you and Terry seem such a committed and supportive couple to each other that I imagine you’re helping each other through this horrible time. And I know how horrible it is. Thank you for sharing and offering your support to other women. You seem like a lovely person.

  48. …can I stick my hand up and say never go back to writing about fashion, because your recent posts have been so important and so incredibly written and my heart is in my throat for you AGAIN…

    …I kid, I kid, I’m here for(ever) Amber.

    I suppose that this is a weird one for me to comment on because I have never and have never wanted to be pregnant, but I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you sharing such a devastating and personal thing. Because you’re right: we DO have to talk about it. I seem to be reading and hearing more about miscarriage this year, from Nicola Sturgeon to my feminist podcasts, and I appreciate every single one of those women sharing their stories and helping others not to feel so alone.

    I hope today has been a good day for you, Amber.

    x

  49. Thank you for speaking up about miscarriage.
    I had one before I had my little boy, and I felt exactly the same as you’ve described. Like a failure, and also didn’t want to make people think I was milking it compared to other more life threatening conditions. Oh, and there’s the fact that people make you feel like you shouldn’t talk about it lest you ‘wish it’ upon someone else (I can think of several other super powers that would be significantly more useful than conjuring a miscarriage just by saying the word!)
    It’s a shit situation, and I still don’t know what else to say. I think I spent the two weeks following my miscarriage sitting on the sofa, knee deep in tears and biscuit crumbs. I think I thought if I ate enough of them it might numb the awfulness, but sadly the only thing that can really help with that is time.
    Lean on Terry and Rubin and the rest of your family, and take care of each other. However your family ends up looking in the future, I hope that you’re all well and happy.
    And I’m so sorry to have to welcome you to one of the crappiest clubs in existence xx

  50. Take heart, Amber. In the summer of 1946, when she was 39, my mother had a miscarriage. Her only child was 12 years old and I do not think she had had another pregnancy in the intervening years. I was born in September of 1947, when Mama was a few months shy of her 41st birthday.

    Hugs.

  51. Amber I am so thankful you wrote this post. A week yesterday, last year I had a miscarriage at 7 weeks. It happened while I was at work (I work in retail) during holiday madness and we were having a big store walk from the head honchos. My manager was on the war path and had taken several digs at me already that day (I accidently smeared a bit of lipstick on my shirt drying tears, and she continued to berate me for being sloppy on such an important day…) and I spent my 9 hour shift running up to the ladies room every hour on the hour. It was horrific, and I would never wish it on my worst enemy. My best friend was working that day and thankfully filled in every time I needed to run away, but other than that I suffered in silence.
    I spend the next two weeks dealing with the aftermath, all the while working a hellish Christmas in retail, but the worst part was I had no clue what do to? Countless searches online left me with more questions than answers, and asking someone meant talking about it which I couldn’t bear to do. For the next 3-4 months my body went through several pregnancy like symptoms, which was even more upsetting! The weight gain, cravings, headaches and nausea assosiated with early pregnancy without the baby made me feel like the world was playing a cruel joke on me.
    When I did finally open up to a very small select few about it, I got ridiculous reactions like, “well it obviously wasn’t meant to be” and “at least it was early” it some sort of screwed up attempt at soothing people. I am always amazed how poorly people react to other’s loss and grief. I remember my sister in law stating once years ago when she got pregnant in a blink of an eye that she couldn’t understand what the big deal about being upset after a miscarriage – it was just like having a bad period after all. Perhaps if more women felt comfortable opening up about the process, the hurt, the grief, the pain and the emotional turmoil there wouldn’t be such ignorance.

    I am so sorry to hear of your losses, but I can’t thank you enough for so eloquently discussing it here on a public platform. We’ve been currently trying to conceive now for the last 4-5 months with no luck, and with the timing currently being a year past miscarriage I can’t help but feel a bit down in the dumps. I needed this post Amber, thank you again.

  52. Hugs beautiful lady, and thank you for being so courageous to share your story. The one time I miscarried was in between babies ~ my period was quite late (two weeks), but though I never confirmed the pregnancy, I couldn’t shake the sense of loss and… emptiness I felt. I grieved and cried for the baby I lost, though I didn’t even know it was there until it was gone. I hope you and Terry do not feel alone in your grief, and that you can move on and heal in your own time.

    xox,
    bonita

  53. My thoughts are with you, Amber and Terry. I have known a couple of ladies who have miscarried, and, you’re right, it’s not something anyone ever talks about, but should. I never knew how common it actually was until reading this post and all the amazing comments. Thank you for sharing, and I do hope this helps with your healing process. What a wonderful post for any others going through this as well. (You are such an exceptional writer.) Sending you a great big hug from Tennessee.

  54. I’m so sorry that you’ve gone through all this. One of these things on its own is absolutely devastating. To experiences two losses in such a short amount of time is beyond words. I completely agree with you; there really is a sort of stigma and shame attached to miscarriage. I know someone who has had trouble conceiving and has miscarried three times and has been told by various people close to her that she shouldn’t talk about it because it makes people uncomfortable, and shouldn’t disclose her pregnancies “too early” because it’s hard on people when they find out she’s miscarried. I think that’s absolutely ridiculous and people should be able to talk about their pregnancies and miscarriages as they see fit. You’re very brave for having written about all of this. Sending you and Terry my very best wishes.

  55. I nearly didn’t write this comment, as I didn’t feel I had anything to add, and have had no personal experience with miscarriage. I have never been particularly maternal, and like you, I am terrified at the thought of being pregnant – the changes it makes to your body, the things that can go wrong. If I was in a stable relationship I might feel different about it, but right now I’m not, so it’s not something that’s on the table for me at the moment. But your post got me thinking about miscarriage, and how many women have been affected by it. I know my own mother had a miscarriage, after her family was finished. I never even knew about her miscarriage at the time, one day years later she just quietly mentioned it in conversation, and I was stunned – that she had been through that and had said nothing. Two of her sisters lost children about the same time, one with twins which were over halfway. I don’t know if that’s why she never said anything at the time, maybe she didn’t want to take away from her sister’s ‘bigger’ loss. I have never really thought much about it since, but your post has made me want to go and talk to her about it, if she is also willing to open up about it. I hope she is. Like you, I think more people need to be talking about it, rather than pretending nothing happened. The stories of people having miscarriages at work and feeling they have to carry on like nothing happened, make me shudder. And when I think that just in mum’s family there are 3 sisters and her sister-in-law who have had miscarriages, makes you wonder if the statistics may be even higher than are thought! Sending you virtual *hugs* and I hope it all works out in the end for you 🙂

  56. Thank you for your openness, Amber. I wish you and Terry all the strength in the world and all the best for your future.
    I’m totally with you regarding the fact that we as a society need to acknowledge miscarriages and lift the stigma surrounding it. I know it’s an uncomfortable topic, but it is part of life, and the pain is very real for the no-longer-prospective parents. Let’s let them know that they are not alone.
    *sending good thoughts to you*

  57. Thank you so much for sharing this. I’ve never had a miscarriage, but have infertility that has not been helped, even with fertility treatments. After every round and nothing, it felt as you said like “we lost an entire future that might have been ours”. Meanwhile in the years we were trying to have a child together, dozens of babies were born within the circle of people we know. Like it is just so so easy. Obviously it is something wrong with me now, when pregnancy happens so casually for most people. Just typing that brings tears to my eyes. Definitely hitting a nerve, there. I’ve felt like I should be happy I didn’t have the pain of the miscarriage, since I never got pregnant again in the first place. I feel like I shouldn’t be sad since I’ve at least had a child (my son is a teen born before I even reached 20). I guess my point is that there is an inherent unfairness in the world when it comes to stuff like this, and that not being able to talk about it just makes people feel alone. Anyway. Thank you. It isn’t and should never be about comparing whose pain must be worse. The stats don’t lie. Most of us have felt this in some way. We are in this together. Thank you.

  58. Hugs from overseas! You are so brave to write about this. Thank you for your emotions, your candor, and your gift as a writer. And I, too, never would’ve imagined your age. I am truly hoping that 2017 is a better year for you, Terry and Rubin.

  59. I can think of nothing to say other than I am so sorry you have been going through this, and I really hope that some women going through similar troubles find your post and know that they are not alone. 🙂

  60. Amber, i feel close to you for one reason to start, my baby boy who is now 2 years old, was born with only one functioning-working kidney; and since Terry had a kidney transplant, i somehow feel related to you; my boy is perfectly healthy, we just have to take him to a doctor specialized in kidney once a year and so far, he is just as normal and healthy as any other baby his age.

    Now that i learned about your ectopic pregnancy and miscarriage, i have to tell you that with my baby boy I had to spent almost all pregnancy off work because in the 2nd month, i almost had a miscarriage, i bled like crazy and had to be on hospital almost a week, without hope; and at the end of the pregnancy a scan revealed the missing kidney of my baby, and we heard the words: still can not know for sure if his condition is going to be compatible with life …

    In the end it was up to God, and He decided my boy will live.

    But my big sister, two years ago, she had an ectopic pregnancy on may and she had to take some pills and spent three days hospitalized just to get well; and next october she got pregnant, but decided not to tell us until she was almost mid pregnancy, because like you, she did not want to deal with people talking over her if something bad happened.

    her baby boy was born in july 2015, big and healthy (she was 34 years old at that time), and I can only tell you to be brave, positive, take follic acid pills and expect the unexpected, and accept my hugs and kisses all the way from Monterrey, Mexico !!!

  61. Hi Amber,
    I have been reading this blog since the Shiny Media days, but never commented. In this time many things have changed – one of them never wanting to have children, and then having two one after another. I am the same age as you.
    And I remember what a loser I felt when there were any pregnancy problems: everyone I knew always said their pregnancies were fine, and fun, and a joy! When I started sharing with people how I really felt, they started opening up about their own experiences. It was a revelation: I knew many of these people for years, I saw their pregnancies, but they never even hinted at any discomfort. It was shocking: I asked them “how are you?” so many times in the past, and, obviously, no one honestly replied about even tiniest of problems.
    So yes, we need to share. Thank you for opening up. All the best to you. These things can be terribly hard. You’re lucky to have a supporting husband and family.

    Anna.

  62. First of all, I want to say that I am so sorry for what has happened to you. I don’t think the Universe is punishing you or what. Miscarriage can happen to anyone.
    And second, I really feel you, Amber. I just got married the past couple of months and now I’m approaching 30. Problem is, we live in Asia. So families and friends often ask me, -oh and this is the most annoying question ever, “Have you been given God’s grace?” that makes me want to reply, “I want to live my life. I’m not a hen, living this life just to deliver babies.”
    Well,even before our marriage, we have discussed that we want to postpone having children, that we want to see the world first, visit England, Scotland maybe, climb the Great Wall of China and even see auroras. On top of that, I’ve never felt that really strong maternal instinct. Like when I see babies, I whisper to myself “She’s so cute. I want one”. I have even given up the idea to have children if we can’t fulfill our dreams in time.
    To make things worse, when I was 12, I’ve heard that my cousin labour was so painful, it still makes me cringe to this day. Just like you, I’m so afraid that if I have babies, something terrible might happen. Something like miscarriage, or I’ve got to have C-section.
    Sure, I want to give it a try. Someday, maybe. And sure, I like children, being a teacher and all. So we finally settle on if we can’t have our own, or if I’m too scared, maybe we’ll just adopt. And I think, it’s kind of grace on its own.
    Reading your story, somehow, gives me courage. That I’m not alone. Many women I know makes pregnancy and labour look so easy that I thought I was the only weirdo for not jumping into the pregnancy train.
    Thank you for sharing this with us. I do hope the best for you and Terry.

    Love from Asia.

  63. Luckily I come from a very open family, and we don’t have any subjects that we don’t talk about. I know that my mum and all her sisters had miscarriages and I have friends who have also had them. I’m a very open person and I think by massively oversharing with people, they feel like they can open up to me. However, that has left me with the opposite feeling, rather than thinking it’s rare I am of the mindset that it happens to everyone at least once. I am almost preparing myself for having to go through that, if I am ever lucky enough to get pregnant.

    However, the worrying about telling society thing I still get. My Dad died in June and I am a total and utter mess. However, I feel like I have to put on this brave face and be ok as it was months ago. Hopefully, as we all learn to open up, even more, we can start taking care of ourselves and admit how we are feeling.

    Thank for for your post.

  64. Hi Amber,
    Firstly I am so sorry that you had to go through all this. Pregnancy seems to be something that everyone thinks is easy and steady flowing – and it can be for some, but for others it’s difficult. I feel like more people like you need to talk about miscarriage and teach people about it, because not many people know a lot about miscarriage. I miscarried in September of last year – we had only been married just short of 6 months and we were so surprised and thrilled that we fell pregnant. It was very early in the pregnancy when I told my family and close friends, but I wish I had kept it to my immediate family – breaking the news to people further than that was so difficult and upsetting.

    I was asked to write an entry on my best friends blog – and the topic I chose was based on my miscarriage. Talking about my miscarriage openly on the internet was a big step for em and it took a lot of courage – so you are so brave to so openly speak about it here. When my blog post was published, I received so many lovely messages and I found at that a lot of the people I know went through the same struggle as I did and that really made me feel so much better – just by knowing that I wasn’t alone. I have had so much support from family and friends that I am so grateful for. I then went on to write a post on my own blog.

    Things will get better – You are so blessed to have a husband as caring as Terry and he will always be there for you. You are surrounded by so many people that look up to you and love to read your thoughts on your blog. I love your blog and this post really stood out to me so thank you for that.

    Onwards and upwards dear xx

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