This post deals with miscarriage and might be triggering for some readers.
From as early as I can remember, I wanted to be a mother.
The instinct first arrived around the same time as my little sister did. It was as if my doll had come to life and although I thought of it as mothering, I’m sure to most it more closely resembled smothering.
I’d fuss over my dolls and my sister, while waddling around the house with a basketball under my dress mimicking the beautiful big pregnant belly I had seen on my mother and my favourite fictional characters.
Watch: Be a good mum. Post continues below.
Motherhood and pregnancy seemed easy to me.
So, as an adult, when my husband and I decided to start a family, I naturally assumed it would just happen. I was 28 and just as I had expected and assumed, I fell pregnant on our first try.
From the moment I saw the two pink lines indicating a positive pregnancy test, it was like my mind had jumped into hyper speed.
Within a few hours I had decided she was a girl, we imagined she would have my hair and Tristan’s eyes, we named her, pictured her, planned our future around her and loved her.
These were blissful and beautiful moments together spent staring at the life we imagined growing somewhere behind my belly button. I constantly felt nauseous and exhausted but was full of pride knowing I was growing our baby.
Around the six week mark, I woke up early one morning and everything felt different.
As I got up and walked to the bathroom, I felt something thick and warm trickle down my leg. As I sat on the toilet, my dreamy haze immediately turned into a nightmare as I noticed the bright red blood drops on the bathroom tiles.
Then everything went into slow motion. I looked into the toilet bowl which was stained with bright red blood. I screamed out to my husband for help. He told me not to panic, but I knew it was too late.
The cramping came on almost immediately and was growing in intensity.