I’ve spent the past 5+ years trying to conceive a child, and I know that many of us are in the same boat. It can be a heartbreaking, exhausting, and isolating journey, so I’m sharing my personal journey to help myself and others feel less alone. Trigger warning: description of miscarriage is somewhat graphic.
I can’t remember when I first realised that I wanted to be a mum, but it was definitely later than most of my friends. It was more of a slow burn, something that came over me like a mild rash and within a couple of years, every cell in my body was craving to be pregnant.
While I had a Christian wedding at 22 and was definitely in the right culture for having kids early (IYKYK), having babies was FAR from my bucket list. Travelling overseas, being an anarchist, and visiting counter cultural communities was all I really wanted to do, so having children (I thought) would put a stop to all of that.
But when I really dig a little deeper, that wasn’t the real reason for me not wanting to have kids.
A couple of years ago at age 37 I was head deep in a communication course when all of a sudden I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. I had this powerful realisation that all along I’d had this unconsious belief that I’d make a shitty mum.
Now, there was absolutely no evidence to substantiate this belief, and I wasn’t even aware that I held it. It was pretty well buried under layers of workaholism, overachieving and relationship drama. But what I got to discover on that brilliant weekend course was that that belief was a lie, that I’d make an excellent mum, and that I was worthy of being a mum.
When I got all of that, my desire to start a family went from a mild rash to a burning fever, much to my ex-partners indifference.
All of a sudden I now craved an outlet for my love and nurturing, beyond my students and massage clients. I now saw myself as mum-material. I could visualise my babies and what our whānau might look like. Every cell in my body wanted this.
This also happened to coincide with the old body clock hitting 37 o’clock, which, wāhine mā, if you haven’t already hit it, believe it or not it will hit you too. The emotional change within was so dramatic, that even though I’d been warned it would happen, I didn’t believe it would happen to me.
A couple of years prior when my sister was encouraging me to freeze my eggs, I was still very much on the fence about whether or not to have kids. “If the universe wants us to have kids, they will come. And if not, that’s ok. I’m not going to mess with the universes' plan.”
That was my mindset at age 33.
Fast forward to 37 and my mind, body and heart were all in alignment. Forget about the universe. I was going to create this. The only thing stopping us, was actually getting pregnant.
We knew that at least one of us had fertility issues, so we’d never bothered with birth control. Plus, I’m not a huge fan of the pill, having been on it in my early 20’s and it seemed to worsen my depression.
But going from super casual ‘if it happens it happens’ to ‘this is something I/we want now’ was actually really stressful and a complete emotional rollercoaster.
I can’t tell you how many pregnancy tests I took over the years when I was a couple of days late, only to be disappointed with the arrival of Aunt Flo literally the following day.
A lot of this was happening during Covid, and trying to see a GP about our issues proved to be a nightmare.
We’d been seeing a fertility naturopath at Mother Well, who educated us about pre-conception care, diet, lifestyle and environmental factors and how we could naturally improve our fertility. After my usual hormone tests came back all good, Lydia recommended we get my fallopian tubes checked to see if they were all clear.
When I asked the male GP on the end of the phone if I could please have a referral for this, he told me no that’s not usual or necessary, and maybe I should consider applying for government funded fertility treatment which cuts off at 40, as I was then 39.
I felt brushed off and invalidated by that GP. The lockdowns were a really weird time anyway and tensions were high, so I could put it down to that, but throughout this process I have felt a lack of support and empathy by the medical system. Nothing tangible, but the gnawing sense that these overworked and often burned out health professionals just don’t care that much, and that I didn’t matter. And if that was my experience as a middle class Pākehā woman, imagine how much more isolating it may feel for Māori, Pasifika or immigrant women in Aotearoa, New Zealand.
The question of whether or not to go down the IVF path was one that my ex-partner and I had discussed at length, and was not a straight-forward one. I personally wanted to stay open to it especially with my time running out, but I was also wary of the additional stress it could cause. I’d heard lots of stories of IVF heartbreak from friends and colleagues, and as a holistic massage therapist, I was keen to avoid extra stress and try the natural way.
As it turns out, we didn’t go down that path, but it was important that we knew about it and had the option to choose it if we wanted. If you are in the same boat and are under 40, please ask your GP about your options.
Our journey of improving our fertility naturally was not without its stress. We cut out alcohol, caffeine, dairy, gluten, and excess sugar. We reduced plastics in our kitchen as there’s lots of research around plastics affecting male and female fertility. We both took lots of expensive supplements and I even stopped wearing purfume. Adding to these lifestyle changes, I had to remember to track my temperature daily. It all felt like hard work, and those almost monthly negative pregnancy tests got harder and harder.
I’d always told my ex that when I turn 40, I’ll stop trying to get pregnant. Well, you know what happened when I turned 40?
Nothing at all.
My desire was burning as brightly as it had at 37, perhaps even a little brighter. Which definitely caused tension in our relationship as we clarified what we each wanted, and we decided to part ways soon after.
There I was, 40, single, flatting, back to square one and still hoping to create a family of my own having never once fallen pregnant. Was I delusional, desperate, or courageously hopeful? Not sure, but I definitely went through my own pity party for a few months.
So I went to a 10 day Vipassana silent meditation retreat to heal my broken heart and prepare myself for my next relationship, but what I really got out of that was a sense of perfect contentment with my current situation. All cravings for babies/relationships had disappeared, and I was just happy being me.
A couple of months later, knowing that I was still committed to creating a family, I decided to get back on that wagon. After all, I was 40 and my ovaries weren’t getting any younger.
Having binge watched all seasons of Love is Blind prior to attending Vipassana, I was well-prepared with quality, husband-screening questions for my first Hinge date. As it turned out, I didn’t need to pull them out.
When my date opened up about his prior relationships, I followed suit and laid all my cards on the table. His vulnerability allowed me to share my hopes and dreams about starting a family, and as I found out he shared the same dreams. We were both in really good places emotionally and were able to go all in 100% without fear of things not working out.
That was 1 year ago, and we’ve since bought a house together and have been trying for a baby since we first met. I get that the speeding up of the process may warp some people's minds here, but every relationship is different and we just knew what we wanted. Plus, we didn't have the luxury of time. So why muck around?
Soon after moving into our first home and starting major renovations, the wheels of our lives fell off and before long, ovulation timing and temperature tracking was forgotten. We just stopped trying because we found ourselves in what felt like a survival situation, and reproduction was not a priority.
You know what happens next, right?
We both came down with Covid and were stuck in bed for a week. A couple of weeks later around the time my beloved nanna passed away, I randomly took a pregnancy test and it was positive. We’d stopped trying, virtually given up on the dream, and it happened.
Having said that, I can’t tell you how unhelpful that wisdom is when you are in the thick of throwing everything you’ve got at having a baby. I’ve heard it from countless well-intentioned friends and it does feel like a slap in the face. Especially as the older you get, the more it feels you have to do to increase your chances.
So to be told: “It’ll happen when you stop trying”, is not helpful and if you have friends who have been trying for a while, maybe don’t say this kind of stuff to them. People have to go through their own journeys and figure things out for themselves, even if it seems like they are taking the long road. The best thing to do is offer empathy, empathy, empathy all the way.
The day we found out we were pregnant was the happiest of my life. We were on cloud nine and blissfully unaware that much could go wrong. On the first pregnancy its natural to hope for the best and feel like everything is going to work out as there's nothing to compare it to.
We found out at 4.5 weeks, when baby was the size of a poppy seed, and every week we excitedly checked “What to expect” for a progress update. I’d started getting nausea, bloating and indigestion at about 5 weeks, and was really feeling pregnant by 6 weeks. The fatigue was next level and I had to pace myself between massages, and had cat naps after kura (school).
We decided not to tell our families until 9 weeks, at Christmas time. What a cool Christmas pressie that would be.
We’d had a dating scan booked in for about 8 weeks, which we nervously attended, not knowing what to expect. When the young lady technician told us that baby was measuring 6.2mm, and was roughly 6 weeks and 2 days old, I knew straight away that something was wrong. After all, we’d been checking “What to expect”, and knew that baby should be the size of a raspberry, not a pea. Wrong food group.
When I looked confused and asked her to explain how this could be, she kept repeating like a robot, “I’m just telling you what the computer is telling me.” No emotion, and seemingly not much empathy.
She informed us that there was no heartbeat detected yet, but that could be because baby was just too small. My brain was melting really fast and I kept repeating myself and probably not making any sense. She asked us when the first day of my last period was and because we’d stopped tracking, I couldn’t tell her.
But I could tell her the date of conception.
I could tell her when I first started feeling nauseous.
I could tell her the emotional bond we’d already formed with our much loved and much wanted baby.
None of this made any difference to the job that she was doing.
She kept repeating that it’s too early to know anything, and to come back in two weeks for another scan.
What followed was the longest, most unsettling week of my life as I tried not to worry but prepared for the worst news.
So I called a few friends who had experienced miscarriage as I had a sinking feeling that’s what this was. They generously retold their stories in great detail, and while it was hard to hear, I’m grateful for it because it emotionally prepared me for what was happening and what I might need to do to prepare physically.
When I spoke to my midwife, she sounded concerned and made sure that I was booked in for another scan in a weeks time, so that we could have certainty before Christmas.
That week was an anxious, uncertain time. I still felt pregnant, though now I’d started sensing less symptoms. My partner was holding the hope flame alight, whereas my intuition was telling me to prepare for the worst.
I’d been praying that we didn’t get the same robotic technician for our next scan, and there must be a god because we had a really lovely, human one this time.
I’d drunk so much water I was about to pee my pants. When she swizzled the thing around and showed us the tiny embryo she took ages to say anything, so that she could be 100% sure. She finally told us that baby hadn’t grown and there was still no heartbeat.
I had a cry in that dark room with that kind young lady who obviously cared about us.
When it was over I asked to go for a pee, and was shocked to find only one toilet which was occupied for a long time. Slight emergency, and another health system failure! Seemingly the place was designed by men.
My wonderful midwife (from Mama Maternity) explained to me the options when you have a ‘missed miscarriage’, which is when baby is dead but the body takes a while to recognise it.
We had Christmas to get through so we just waited to see if things happened naturally, which they didn’t. At 10 weeks I decided to go down the medically managed miscarriage route, to help the body to pass the baby.
A kind nurse at the Early Pregnancy Clinic explained our three options really clearly. Let things happen naturally, medically manage it, or have a D & C (dilation and cutterage).
The latter option wasn’t an option as the name put me off, and I personally wanted to be conscious for the passing to help me emotionally grieve our loss.
And the former option, we’d tried and to be honest, I was sick of feeling fatigued and pregnant when I wasn’t any longer. I was emotionally and physically ready to let this baby go, so I opted for the medicine. No option is any better than any other, they all have their pros and cons and it’s up to each individual to choose what's right for them given their own circumstances.
It’s important to know that the medically managed option can be very painful and intense.
For me, the painful part of the process took place over about 5 hours. The first pill the day before softened the cervix, and the second pill started contractions which were painfully crippling and came in waves, bringing nausea, sweats and weakness. I’d say the pain I experienced was close to a 9/10, and it was right on the edge of what I felt was bearable.
Luckily, my mum and partner were there to care for me, and mum knew just what to do the whole time.
As hard as it was to go through, I’m so grateful for my mum’s presence there in the bedroom, grabbing me a bucket to spew into, and rubbing my feet when the pain got too intense. I felt such a close bond with her, and I knew that it was just as hard for her seeing her grandchild pass as it was for my partner and I to say goodbye to our baby.
The bleeding was really intense that first day, and every time clots and tissue passed the contractions intensified. I managed to catch the greyish purple placenta and possibly the tiny foetus, which we saved to bury on our land. The cramps and bleeding eased over the next 2-3 days, and within a week the bleeding had stopped completely and I started to feel like myself again.
The whole experience not only brought me closer to my mum and partner, but with all of womankind over history.
I thought of those women who had to go through that experience on their own.
I thought of those women who had dangerous illegal abortions due to society's shaming of unwed mothers.
I thought of those women who had many, many miscarriages on their journey to motherhood.
And I thought of those many women who died in childbirth before our medical advances.
Several weeks on, and the emotion is still fresh. But underlying the sadness is pure hope.
I can get pregnant.
Having our own family one day is not only possible, but probable.
Most of the women I've spoken to who miscarried their first baby, went on to have a second, healthy pregnancy and live baby. And some women I spoke to experienced many, many miscarriages, which is hard to comprehend right now. It's such a sad thing to happen once, let alone multiple times, yet it just goes to show the strength of women to endure all of that pain for the fulfilment of a dream.
My friend gave us a red hibiscus, which we’ve planted on top of our baby in the corner of our garden. Mum told me that in Samoa, red hibiscus flowers are given as a welcome to guests.
Our red hibiscus is a symbol of hope. That one day, when it is in full bloom, we will give a flower to our baby, our special guest, to welcome it into this world.
Mauri ora x
If you or anyone you know has experienced miscarriage and would like some support, here are some free services:
Provides advice regarding grieving and tips about helping others who have experienced miscarriage, books, helpful resources, personal stories, information for men, suggestions from health professionals and more. (0508) 72 63 72.
Pregnancy, baby and infant loss support. Network of parent-run, non-profit groups supporting families who have experienced the death of a baby. Including over 25 groups/contact people around the country. Phone support, meetings, newsletters, counselling, resources, support packs and more.