It has been six months since I miscarried in November last year. Before I lost our first baby, if you’d have told me that I would become obsessed with getting pregnant, that I’d lose my entire being to the desire to have a baby, I wouldn’t have believed you.
I was never the kind of woman who dreamt of growing up and having kids. In fact, until I met my husband, kids were always a maybe for me. Something I figured I would probably have but would be at peace with if they never materialized. So, my transformation into a baby-fanatic took a few people—least of all myself—by surprise.
Conceiving the first time had happened all by itself…. a mixture of sea air and not enough caution.
Rebecca Sparrow speaks to Mia Freedman about pregnancy loss. Post continues.
Conceiving after miscarriage… that was a whole other non-romantic, peeing-on-sticks fueled story. The miracle of life became a science that I believed I could control. I researched and tracked and read entirely too much, believing that if I could just be pregnant again, I would be happy. I joined forums and Facebook groups. I knew exactly which day of each month I could begin testing. My lip wobbled when I read pregnancy announcements and I developed a Web-MD-based belief that there was something seriously wrong with me. I knew my obsession had gotten out of control, but I didn’t care. I had held my breath and dived beneath the waves of a dark, choppy ocean and I wasn’t resurfacing until I had my baby.
It took concurrent (and admittedly self-induced) heartaches for me to realise that I was drowning. I had sunk so far beneath the water’s surface that I couldn’t even see the outline of the life-raft above me anymore. My grief had led me to anxiety and depression. It had not led me to a newborn. I knew I needed to accept that having a healthy baby wasn’t in my control.