London - There’s no moment quite like it. Holding the pregnancy test, hands shaking, you stare at the space where the blue line will be. Or maybe it won’t?
Gradually it appears, as if by magic. It’s a wonderful feeling finding out you are pregnant. Even now, aged 42, I remember the first time 13 years ago so clearly. If there’s anything more precious, it’s sharing the news with your husband, your mom and a few close friends.
You might even want to shout it out and tell the whole world.
But no. Tradition has it that you should wait until the 12-week point before spreading the joy. That’s almost two more months of holding it in, this life-changing secret. Two months more of awkward lying to friends and colleagues on a daily basis.
It’s just what you’re supposed to do. I did it without a second thought during my first three pregnancies. But now I’m against this secret keeping, because when I was pregnant for a fourth time things went horribly wrong.
It may seem greedy that we wanted another child. My husband, Justin, 47, and I were perfectly happy. We had a respectable income thanks to his work as a BBC journalist and mine as a writer.
Our four-bedroom, semi-detached house in North London was never dull, what with Eva, now 13, Zola, 11 and Elsa, eight. They have since been joined by Will, four.
But we couldn’t help wanting a larger family. So we tried for two years. That was two years of popping oh-so-breezily into the local chemist for yet another pregnancy test. Two years of false alarms and grimly starting over again.
Then, finally, it happened in January 2009. The blue line in the plastic window. I was bathed with that invisible, internal glow of confirming a new and secret life.
Then, eight weeks later, the worst happened. There we were, gripping hands in a darkened hospital room having the 12-week scan.
My tummy was covered in that squirty gel and we stared at the screen with an intensity that hurt. The minuscule beat that had throbbed so heartily during the previous check-up was nowhere to be seen.
“Please check again,” I begged the technician. “Just one more time.” I was praying for a miracle, willing the tiny cluster of cells to start beating again.
They didn’t. The pregnancy was over. Before I’d even gone public, my private joy was snatched away.
The medical procedures that followed were devastating. I went under general anaesthetic while what are officially termed “the products of conception” were removed. When I came round, I was aching all over.
The next few days were a blur. I felt numb and isolated. I took as many painkillers as I was allowed, and felt like a failure.
I felt it was my fault - that I must have done something wrong.
Having kept my original happiness at being pregnant a secret, I was trapped in that secrecy, unable to share the burden of loss.
Staggering around in my own private pain, I wasn’t even sure how upset I was supposed to be. I found myself asking if this even qualified as a bereavement. Despite medics telling me this is something that happens all the time, it felt like a hidden and unspoken affliction.
Finally it struck me that part of the problem was the secrecy itself. So, I decided to break with tradition and go public. I ended up sharing my grief with pretty much anyone who asked me how I was. The responses were overwhelming.
I could not have anticipated how common my experience was, that I would encounter so many other women who had been through the same trauma. At times I wondered what on Earth I had tapped into - how had all this pain gone unnoticed?
At any given moment, thousands of women and their partners are suffering this loss in silence. People I scarcely knew welled up as they told me stories, many far more harrowing than mine. Some had suffered miscarriages much further on, or had faced dilemmas surrounding a severely disabled baby.
This brings me back to the three-month rule. We’re advised to wait, just in case. In case of what, exactly? People finding out that having lost a baby you’re really upset?
According to the Miscarriage Association, miscarriage is so widespread that at least one in four pregnancies end this way. My American friends tell me that, in the US, people take a more relaxed view of announcing their pregnancy straight away.
That way, if something goes wrong then at least those around you know why you’re not OK. Even the word miscarriage doesn’t carry enough weight. It doesn’t seem to express the fear, pain and shock that follows when you know that a little life has ended before it even really began.
This is why I went around declaring my wretched state to all and sundry.
Was it helpful to talk about it? Perhaps it was selfish to plunge innocent acquaintances into my sadness. All they wanted was a quick “Fine thanks, and you?” But I found there were benefits.
First, it explained my zombie-like state. I was too sad to socialise, and I looked like I’d been punched in the face. So this explained my appearance.
Second, it seemed to move me along. It felt as though repeating the experience aloud was making a small difference. Like a scary story, it lost impact with repetition. The psychological aftermath of a miscarriage is horrendous. Something has died, but it had yet to live. You miss it. It’s a strange loss because how can you mourn something that never made it into existence? The plans, daydreams and feelings of love come to nothing.
You see newborn babies, shop windows full of heart-breakingly tiny shoes, and glowing pregnant goddesses on every street. Your body is awash with hormones, you have swollen breasts and can’t do your jeans up. But it’s all come to nothing.
Third, it was curious how each telling was different. Sometimes I was delicate, to the point of vagueness: “We lost a baby last week.” Sometimes I was blunt: “I’ve just had a miscarriage.”
Sometimes I sobbed. Other times I didn’t feel much of anything. There was one funny moment, when after a deep breath I informed my children in a breaking voice there would be no baby. The seven-year-old cheerily replied: “That’s OK. I don’t mind.”
Often it’s a mystery when a pregnancy ends, and mystery isn’t something we meet very often these days.
It’s baffling, even infuriating, to come up against something that has no explanation. Why did my baby die?
The answers I got from doctors were: “There could be a genetic abnormality,” “Your body rejected the foetus,” “It’s very common at this stage of pregnancy,” and once, with unbearable kindness, “I just don’t know. I’m so sorry.”
I feel strongly that women should share the joy of their pregnancy from early on. If you’ve had a miscarriage, let people know. If you are ever on the receiving end of someone sharing this news, try not to be embarrassed.
Give her a hug, put the kettle on, ask how she feels. I wouldn’t go as far as saying a problem shared is a problem halved, but maybe you can reduce it by just a fraction.
I’ve asked many friends why we bother sticking to the tradition of not telling in the first trimester. Some don’t want to be treated differently at work. Some enjoy the feeling of a secret.
I respect both positions, but let’s consider the alternative.
The three-month secrecy rule is misguided if its only defence is “in case things go wrong”.
When things go wrong you need the support of the people around you. Women are endlessly bossed around in all aspects of pregnancy and child rearing. I say dump the tradition.
If you see that blue line and you want to share the news, go ahead. - Daily Mail