Expecting

I’ve never been someone who makes a fuss over Valentine’s Day, but last year it just happened to be the day I got my contraceptive device removed. My partner and I had wine with dinner—what I planned to be my last glass in long time—and we were happy.

Me and my partner sitting on the couch drinking wine.

This is the story of the year that followed.

A quick note of warning: none of this is supposed to be medical advice. It’s just what happened to me. And there’s a lot to get through. So sit back, get comfy, pour yourself a glass of wine—ha! Kidding. If your bits are involved in baby making it’s best if you stop drinking. Yep, even if you’re the one bringing the tadpoles to the table. You think that’s rough? My sweet summer child, this is only just the beginning.

First up, there’s is a whole story in how I got to the point of wanting a child.

Once upon a time I was a carefree uni student who was terrified of holding babies in case I dropped them or I touched the soft spot or they pooed on me or something.

Comic strip featuring me not at all keeping it together while holding a baby.

I did want kids of my own. Just … someday.

The whole Don’t Hand Me Your Baby aesthetic was working pretty well for me, until the day it wasn’t. My right ovary betrayed me Professor Quirrell style by growing an enormous cyst with designs on world domination. The ovary, cyst and associated fallopian tube had to be cut out of me. I was assured that my one remaining ovary and tube should be enough. I probably wouldn’t run into reproductive issues in the future because of what had happened.

I heard the italics loud and clear, and they frightened me.

They frightened me so much that I began to wonder about what Someday would look like. And when I realised it would take a long time for my life to look like that, I decided to get the process started immediately.

And then I developed a debilitating chronic illness. Even if my lonely ovary shot eggs like a machine gun, I might never be well enough to raise a child. I’ll spare you the full existential crisis that ensured. In short, one of the kindest cruelties of chronic illness is that it sharpens your priorities. I no longer wanted Someday, I wanted Now, and it looked like I might be getting Never.

But you already know it wasn’t Never. I was lucky. After a couple of years my health improved. Not completely (chronic illness rarely does that) but enough.

Giddy with hope and gratitude and still not quite believing I had reached this point, I had my birth control removed and …

Me looking at a negative pregnancy test with pee dripping off it. Speech bubble saying "huh"

… was not immediately pregnant.

Neither myself or my partner have nieces or nephews, and none of our friends had kids. Sex education in school led me to believe pregnancy was so likely it was almost impossible to avoid. I thought unsafe sex equalled BANG, up the duff, bun in the oven, here’s your free gift of a radiant glow, enjoy the giant tatas.

Not necessarily, it turns out.

You’d think this was basic uterus-owner know-how, but despite understanding the fundamentals of periods and cycles and whatnot, it never really clicked for me before this that you only get one shot at baby creation a month. That’s twelve or maybe thirteen chances a year. Obviously, I needed to track and better understand my cycle.

Don’t worry! There’s an app for that!

Actually, heaps of them.

A quick tip from someone who’s been there. Do not pick a period tracker app with a social media community attached to it. Do not pick an app that makes judgey comments disguised as ‘health insights’. Do not pick an app that asks personal questions about the state of your cervical mucus. (These guidelines can also be applied for choosing anything in life. You’re welcome).

I didn’t have anyone to warn me. I downloaded three. And that’s how I learned about TTC.

TTC stands for Trying To Conceive, but it’s more than just a text-friendly acronym. It’s a whole new world, a sub-culture for pre-pregnancy. It even had its own language which I had to spend a few hours decoding. You don’t do a test, you POAS (pee on a stick), and then the test isn’t negative, it’s a BFN (big fat negative). Or it might be a BFP (big fat positive). Or, maybe, a VVFL (very very faint line). Sex isn’t sex, it’s baby dancing, but preferably just BD. A period is tastefully referred to as Aunt Flo, and then even more tastefully abbreviated to AF.

All that probably helps some people. I can see how it could make you feel connected and how it might reassure you that everything you are experiencing and worrying about is normal. And if that’s you, fantastic. Enjoy.

But it wasn’t me. If I really must be discreet, I prefer having fun with it and tell people I’m collecting teabags for when Dracula pops round for a cuppa. And, more importantly, I was already scared. My previous health issues and single ovary had me off balance, and TTC gave me the final push. I fell down the rabbit hole and into a wonderland of anxiety.

Predictably, there’s a bunch of stuff companies sell you to help ease your fears.

One popular way to waste your TTC dollars is with ovulation predictor kits. You pee on one each day until you get a positive or your cycle ends because, actually, they’re quite unreliable and it’s very possible they’ll miss ovulation altogether.

I tried them for one cycle, and I not only never got a positive result, but I managed to accidentally pee on myself three times. I do not recommend them unless you would rather have pee on your hands than money in your bank account. (And if you really would prefer pee on your hands than money in your bank account there are probably more entertaining ways to accomplish that).

Another favourite cash-vacuum is special fertility-friendly lube. This is for when you learn that standard lube acts as a barrier that makes it harder for sperm to score a touchdown, and then you panic that even though you rarely use the stuff it will still mess the whole thing up for you somehow, you don’t know how, maybe via astral projection or by selling your facebook data? (Anxiety doesn’t have to make sense, Karen, gosh).

The fertility-friendly stuff comes in a box plastered in photos of minors (babies), and even if you throw the box away the tube itself shouts CONCEIVE at you in giant, baby-pink letters. It’s basically a weaponised cold shower.

My partner has put stickers on a tube of lube that feature the popular eggplant and peach emojis

Despite my fears, at the end of my first cycle of unsafe sex, I was convinced it had worked and I was pregnant. My period was late and I had a heap of pregnancy symptoms (which, alas, I had been Googling). Also, it was coming up to our first wedding anniversary, so it would be narratively satisfying.

The negative test hit me like a slap in my silly, smug face.

It turned out I was just late—really late—because it can take a few cycles after stopping hormonal birth control for your Overlook elevator to flow regularly.

For my second cycle, I again thought I was pregnant. Shark week started early. I tried not to let it get to me (but it did). I was beginning to understand that I might have to face this many, many times.

At the end of my third cycle, I knew I wasn’t pregnant. I just knew. I had my usual PMS and was mentally bracing myself for the communists to take the funhouse, but I peed on a test, just in case. Of course it was negative. In fact, I spotted blood onto the test, which seemed like a major Up Yours from the universe.

That was the first negative that didn’t just get to me, it felt like an earth-shattering disaster. Even though I had been expecting it, even though I knew three negative cycles wasn’t unusual or unlikely or anything to be concerned about, I cried. And kept crying. And crying. It didn’t feel normal. Anything and everything set me off. And, despite the spotting, my period was late and getting later by the day.

So I took another test.

Me looking at a positive test (with pee dripping off it) looking shocked and saying "eep!"

I promptly freaked out.

Growing up, I was led to believe that pregnancy was the worst thing that could happen to you. It came in just slightly above failing maths or wandering off alone at Halloween parties. Then, practically overnight, you’re an adult and you realise you never have to maths again unless you want to, but a large portion of the population will consider you an empty husk of a human if you don’t create a tiny screaming poo machine. Even so, you can’t just delete the knee-jerk Pregnancy Is Super Bad What Have You Done Your Life Is Ruined reaction from your mental operating system. (Sticking together at Halloween parties is always good advice, though; holiday-themed murderers only have to happen to you once).

On top of that, despite wanting a baby, I had never been sold on the whole pregnancy thing. To me it had always looked like level after level of throwing up, fainting and stretch marks culminating in a boss-fight of screaming, pain, vaginal tearing and pooing in front of people. Also, you might die. It’s a lot less likely these days, but still a pretty intense possibility.

Obviously I had signed up anyway, but I still had my misgivings.

I was right to. Unpopular opinion alert: pregnancy sucks.

I was constantly exhausted, hungry, busting for the toilet and on the brink of vomiting. Most of my cravings were for food I wasn’t allowed to eat, e.g. soft cheese and cold ham, and most of my food aversions were for things I was supposed to be eating lots of, e.g. vegetables. I got acne instead of a radiant glow, I kept crying randomly, and to top it all off the very thought of a cup of tea—my absolute favourite thing in the world and only comfort in times of distress—made me gag.

I’ll just repeat that to let the horror sink in: I couldn’t drink tea.

Me, on my knees in a crowded street in the rain screaming "NOOOOO!". It's very dramatic.

Don’t get me wrong, I was excited, too. I ordered a pregnancy book and carefully followed what features my baby was growing, what whimsical food item it was comparable to in size, and what strangely mutated creature it looked like this week. And it wasn’t a secret. I simply didn’t have the skills to navigate tricky questions like “so, how’s things?” without exploding with the news that inside me there was a mutant dinosaur the size of a sesame seed which had an actual spinal column and tail.

A cute mutant dinosaur fetus.

Then I had some more spotting and was sent for an early scan. Everything looked fine. The foetus was a smidge smaller than it was supposed to be, but I was assured that in most cases that’s just because your cycle didn’t match the average. To confirm its developmental dates, I had a second scan two weeks later.

At this scan, there was a big screen on the wall. The first thing I saw was the heartbeat. It was a little white flicker. For the first time since seeing the two lines on the test, the low level panic faded away. For a moment, everything was perfect.

Two panels in a darkened room with a projector aiming for the fourth wall. In the first panel, my partner look forward in awe while behind us the sonogrammer is at her computer. In the second panel, the sonogrammer looks concerned and says "hmm." I notice, my partner hasn't yet.

She explained that it was still too small. In fact, it looked as if over the last two weeks it had only managed three days worth of growth.

“But it will be okay,” I said, because of course it would be.

When I got back to the doctor, she stressed that she’d seen cases like this where everything turned out fine. A heartbeat was good. Still, we should be prepared for a miscarriage.

I had to wait another two weeks for a third scan. I held on to that flickering heartbeat as hard as I could, but I felt like the box for Schrodinger’s cat. Was it growing, or was it gone? Was I pregnant or wasn’t I?

I didn’t cope well with the uncertainty. I spent every spare moment wrapped into an igloo of blankets either sleeping or reading so that I didn’t have to think about the fact that, no matter how hard I wanted to hold on, I could feel my body letting go.

My symptoms faded, and however unpleasant they were this was not how I wanted to be free of them. I started having cramps, constant sharp reminders of what was happening inside me. One night I bled, but not very much, not enough for it to be over.

I made it to the third scan.

The baby didn’t.

There was no white flicker, no heartbeat. It had stopped growing, only measuring five weeks and six days even though it was supposed to be ten weeks.

It never even looked like a tiny mutant dinosaur.

The sonogrammer left us alone for a few minutes. My partner hugged me, and I sobbed briefly because it seemed like the right time to do that. Then I put myself back together and proceeded to the next logical step.

I had to.

It wasn’t over. It was still inside me. I was a living tomb.

Two days after the scan, I had a surgical procedure called a D&C to remove it. I woke up feeling like I’d been having good dreams but couldn’t quite remember what they were. I was given a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea.

I am sitting in a chair in recovery post-surgery with a cheese sandwich and a cup to tea. A nurse is taking my blood pressure and asks, "how's the tea?" I respond, "good."

And then I could go home, and it was all over.

Only it wasn’t over.

It was a kind of horror story. I had taken a wrong turn and ended up in an alternate universe. At family gatherings people handed me glasses of wine, and I drank them. I ate soft cheese and deli meats. I lived the life of non-pregnant Lucy, knowing all the time that I was pregnant Lucy and everything around me was wrong. I knew when we should have been telling people, but there was nothing to tell. I knew when I should have started seeing a bump, but it never came. I knew we should have a nursery, but it was just a spare room.

We waited for several months before trying again.

But it still wasn’t over.

Every time I got my period, I was lying back on a wheeled bed in a darkened room watching a heartbeat on the wall. Every time, I was plunged back into that moment of broken wonder that wouldn’t end. Every time, I came apart. And every time, I had to put myself back together so that I would be ready to come apart again, next month.

And then it was Christmastime, and I couldn’t bear it anymore.

In that alternate universe, the one I accidentally stumbled out of, I would be eight months pregnant. In this new world, my period was due and I dreaded it. If it came, I was going to have to stop.

I was aware, however, that if it didn’t come, if I was pregnant, then the time with the highest risk of miscarriage would be Christmas and the due month of the first pregnancy. When I explained this to a friend, she said, “It would almost be better if you weren’t pregnant this month.”

But I was.

I am looking at a positive pregnancy test. I am emotional. My smile is wonky.

My cyclic depression stopped. It seemed miraculous, a gift. It came at just at the right time to save me.

(Although it wasn’t over. The night before Christmas I dreamed of blood. It was so vivid I could smell it, and I woke up in the darkened room with the heartbeat on the wall.)

I had an early scan again.

A quick note about early scans.

Everything is so small at this stage that it’s difficult to see. It helps if your bladder is full, so you are instructed to drink water beforehand. But if you drink too much, drink too little or vomit up all the water, then you might need an internal scan to get a clear enough picture.

Internal scans are exactly what it says on the box. And they are … weird. Jelly is involved. The ultrasound thingamie is an intimidating size (but don’t worry, just the tip). There is that element of violation you get from anything of this sort that, even if you have okayed for practical reasons, you are not super enthusiastic about.

But I had a heap of them through this whole business, and (at least for me) they weren’t that bad. Pap smears are more uncomfortable. In fact, my first tampon was worse.

The awkward stuff out the way, the sonnogrammer told us that this time it was twins.

Not one little mutant dinosaur, but two.

Twin cute mutant dinosaur foetuses.

I never thought I would have twins. There are no twins in my family, none at all, and I had thought (wrongly, it turned out) that having one of my ovaries removed would reduce the chance even further.

Twins was some kind of magic.

I had tried not to get too attached early in this pregnancy, but knowing it was twins made it impossible. (It was impossible anyway). I started looking up the meaning of names and thinking about double-prams and bracing myself for the c-section that was way more likely now.

Twins also meant double symptoms, and my symptoms had not been minor with a single pregnancy. The only thing that helped the nausea was eating, and the up side to this is that I understand food now. You have not experienced food in its truest form until you’ve eaten a burger while pregnant with twins. My partner insists otherwise, but I’m pretty sure the clouds parted and a beam of sunlight transported me and that burger to heaven. Eating chips was like soaring through nebula on a cosmic narwhal. Bacon was beyond the capabilities of the human mind.

Bacon being experienced. I kind of psychadelic wonderland of colours. There is a large me a two smaller mes flying.

I was due to have a second scan on the same day my first baby would have been born, but I couldn’t do that. (It wasn’t over). We booked it for the day after instead.

I could see it on the screen even before the sonnogrammer explained. I was somewhat familiar with ultrasounds by this point. I could see the sacs that had been on the previous scan. I could see they were significantly larger. I could see there was nothing in them.

Two empty amniotic sacs.

I have heard people say that you aren’t a proper adult, or university student, or city person, or anything until you have broken down and cried in public and been too far gone to feel any shame. I have done that, with a blood nose thrown in the mix for extra points, and I don’t think it has anything on ugly crying in a tiny room in front of a stranger and not having any emotions left over to care that they’re wiggling a condom-sheathed ultrasound thingamie inside you.

Again, we were told not to give up hope and sent home to wait two more weeks for a third scan. Again, that final scan confirmed what we already knew.

Our twins were not there. They had never been there.

In a darkened room after the ultrasound. The sonnogrammer pats my leg and says "at least you know you're fertile".

Three asterisks

I want to take a quick break from the story to check in with you. How are you coping with all this? Are you doing okay?

A confession. I could have told this story differently. I could have cut out the jokes about apps and fertility friendly lube. I could have mentally prepared you from the first line, signalled sooner this was a tragedy and half the cast would be dead (would have never existed) by the final curtain.

But no one warned me.

After the first miscarriage all the doctors and nurses and sonnogrammers told me this was common. I heard different statistics. Sometimes it was one in six pregnancies end in miscarriage, sometimes one in four. The pamphlet the hospital gave me said one in three. Whatever the exact number, it means that there are a lot of not-quite-parents out there.

And yet when I went into that first final ultrasound, I had never had a conversation with someone who I knew had wanted a pregnancy and lost it.

I have since. They had been there all along, hiding in the foreground. It’s like belonging to a secret club. As soon as people know you’ve had a miscarriage, they let you know about theirs or their friend’s or their sister’s best friend’s cousins. But there’s some kind of block—a taboo—about discussing it with the uninitiated.

That taboo meant that when it happened to me the first time, I had no idea what to expect. I had no idea what to do or how to cope in the two weeks between the second scan and the final one. I didn’t even realise waiting and uncertainty could be part of a miscarriage—I assumed you either thought everything was fine or knew it was over. That taboo meant I was afraid doctors would think I was weird for crying, and I was afraid they would think I was callous for not crying. It meant I had no blueprint for how to grieve, and I had no reassurance that everything I felt was normal.

So I’m breaking the taboo. I’m talking about it. And if you end up in that dark room with too few heartbeats, then at the very least you’ll have one story in there with you.

(And if it’s not you in that room but someone you know, then you won’t say “at least you know you’re fertile” because you will understand that some things are not replaceable, some situations are too broken to run smoothly a second time, and some silver-linings are so sharp they cut.)

And besides.

My babies (foetuses, empty sacs) do not have birthdays. They do not have death certificates. They do not have tombstones. They only exist in my medical records and in the space they carve out in people’s minds. They only exist if I tell you about them.

And they exist more if it hurts.

Are you doing okay?

Three asterisks

I had a second D&C. I woke up feeling as though I had dreamed good dreams, and then I remembered where I was and why I was there. I ate my cheese sandwich. I drank my cup of tea.

And the next day was Valentine’s Day, again.

We stayed in, again. We sat on the couch, again. We had a glass of wine, again.

My partner and I sit on the couch with a glass of wine. We are no longer happy.

Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

And it isn’t over.

*********************************

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233 responses to “Expecting”

  1. iamstillmenomatterwhat Avatar
  2. Jenni Ho-Huan Avatar

    O, I am so sorry. Such a hard thing. I have found this writer very helpful – http://www.motheringspirit.com/2013/08/on-carrying-and-missing/
    take care!

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Pete Mercer Avatar

    Funny, gripping and heartbreaking. Beautifully written Lucy.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Forever Day One Avatar

    Wow this was hard to read, yet I couldn’t stop. You have a tremendous amount of strength to deal with all of this. I know people probably say this all the time…. but don’t give up. Or maybe I should say don’t focus on it but who are we kidding, we are woman and it’s our instinct even if we pretend it’s not. So I’ll say this: keep laughing and writing because your attitude is about all that you can control and starting with your happiness is no better place to start when trying to make a baby. Best of luck ❤️

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 And thank you for commenting. I won't be giving up.

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Bloom Avatar

    You are one strong lady. Admire you for sharing this.
    Love and best wishes!

    Liked by 2 people

  6. bingewatchinglife Avatar

    Thank you for your powerful story. I do believe in telling these stories we open each others’ hearts to what being human really is. That loss is such a part of life is something we all try so hard to forget, and bury under the rug, and hide from each other. But remembering is vital for our humanity. And “laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” (Robert Harling)

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 This is a lovely comment.

      Like

  7. Aak fictionspawn Avatar

    Hey! Congratulations with the discover-promotion! Well deserved ;)

    Liked by 3 people

  8. habarko Avatar

    Thank you for sharing your story. You are an amazing writer. I can only imagine what you have been going through. I hope that blogging is therapeutic, I really feel like for me it is. Keep up the wonderful writing!

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 It was hard to write, but I'm glad I did. I do think it's been helping me process everything.

      Like

  9. sjvernon Avatar

    I think… and I have to say “think” because I can’t possibly know… firstly because while I have known some family members who have gone through a bit of this, it was long ago and some even before I existed so I only “know” thirdhand… and secondly, because I can’t “know” directly in the same way as you do, since I am a dude… and the closest would be if I was with a partner and she went through it… so anyway… I *think* that you’ve probably been discovering that whether the news is good or bad, progress or setback, you’re not as prepared no matter how much you prepare… and each time is its own experience I expect too. I also think, and this I feel closer to “know”ing… that you deal with everything however you deal with it… there is no right or wrong way. The important thing, to me, is that it seems like you are handling everything in a manner that seems to be working for you and your writing conveys a sense of being in a good mental place. I think that’s all you can do… and know that you’re handling things as well as you can be expected to handle them.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 I think I am in as good a mental place as is reasonable under the circumstances. That is, a really bad mental place, but keeping afloat.

      Liked by 1 person

  10. Mandy S Avatar

    Thank you for being real.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      It’s the best way to be.

      Like

  11. mirchandanisgirls Avatar

    So sorry to know your story..Strengths to you…god bless you…you are brave to deal and tell to everyone.

    Liked by 2 people

  12. PETWONE Avatar

    Funny images! There are plenty of ways to do good and feel good this Valentine’s Day.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you :) This year Valentine’s day was a grieving day for us. Maybe next year.

      Liked by 1 person

  13. missb Avatar

    This is eye-opening. Thanks for sharing. I’m newly married and we’re thinking of trying by end of the year or early next year, fingers crossed.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Good luck! (It really does work out fine for most people).

      Like

  14. Jen Biggs Avatar

    Wow. Awesome story. I’m only 21 and I don’t even WANT kids but your story still really spoke to me. It made me tear up. Thank you

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3

      Liked by 1 person

  15. vincentoday Avatar

    Congratulations , love the post .

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I’m afraid I’m not entirely sure what I am being congratulated for (being featured on WordPress Discover?), but thank you :)

      Like

  16. Jess Stranger Avatar

    So genuine. I don’t know if you know how much this impacts people in this exact situation or in one similar.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I’m beginning to get some idea, but I had no idea when I wrote it. I just needed to turn the mess inside me into something better.

      Liked by 1 person

  17. craftymenyc Avatar

    I came across your story because I woke up today and decided to share mine in my blog today too. For a very long time I stayed away from the topic even though I know it too well. You are absolutely right when you say that it isn’t until you experience this that you learn that it isn’t very uncommon. Thank you once again for sharing. I wish you the best.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I’m so sorry for your loss, but I’m glad you have got to a place where you can talk about it. Talking helps, I think <3

      Liked by 2 people

  18. nonsenzavino Avatar

    Thank you for writing this and for putting into words what others may have difficulty to do. I’m currently struggling with infertility and I’ve never felt more alone and vacant. Hugs to you!!

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I’m sorry to hear you’re experiencing that. These issues can be very lonely. I hope that things work out for you. Thank you for the hugs and for commenting <3

      Liked by 1 person

  19. @bellaxwords Avatar

    Sending virtual hug all the way from the Philippines. You are brave and you are light. Thank you for sharing this and adding tons of humor into it.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 I think 'you are light' is one of my favourite compliments.

      Liked by 1 person

  20. Aisling Avatar

    This was a gut punch, and then another. I lost my first pregnancy at 12 weeks, and am still in the precarious phase with my second – it’s so so hard. I still cry over my lost baby most days – it isn’t over for me. My grandmother had two miscarriages and one stillbirth, and for her, well into her 80s, it wasn’t over and she suddenly started talking about it out of nowhere one day. Never let anything other than your own heart dictate how you feel about things, and know that there are many many more of us who are mothers in our hearts even though we haven’t made it to motherhood (yet). Much love to you, your strength and grace shine through. Thank you for sharing xxxxxxxxx

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I don’t think there will be a time when my miscarriages do not hurt. It also took me a long time after my first to have a day where I did not cry over it (and the opposite with the second–I went numb).

      I’m so sorry for your loss. I know that being pregnant after a miscarriage can be overwhelming and very frightening. But congratulations :) My thoughts are with you, and I wish you a healthy and uneventful pregnancy.

      Liked by 1 person

  21. disha1779 Avatar

    I don’t know how you got through all of it and I think it takes a great amount of strength to do that. And I admire that a lot. You shared your story in such an amazing manner that it feels like you’re on a rollercoaster ride. You’re awesome!

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 It just happened to me. Before it did, I thought of miscarriage in terms of "I'm so lucky that won't happen to me because I'd never be able to cope!"

      Liked by 1 person

  22. bforresterauthor Avatar

    Thank you. This resonated so much. I could have written this. So many women could have written this. I’m sorry for your losses.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3 I'm sorry for your loss(es) also.

      Liked by 1 person

  23. Daron Enock Barttlet Ray Avatar

    You are such a good narrator. Long read but you kept me hooked.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you :) I don’t usually write Silence Killed the Dinosaurs quite that long, but it felt necessary in this case.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Daron Enock Barttlet Ray Avatar

        Haha it’s ok. Keep the reads coming in

        Liked by 1 person

  24. kskev90 Avatar

    This hit close to home. I’ve got two beautiful girls, but I’m lucky to have them. I had a scare years ago and it’s just not that easy for me to get pregnant, or to carry full term.
    Being another who was part of the baby free forever lifestyle before my first born I totally understand how powerful that shift is. I never realized how badly I wanted to be a mother until I was told I might not be able to have them.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3 I'm sorry to hear you've had a hard time with pregnancy related issues. It can be very difficult.

      Like

  25. The Stories We Don’t Tell Avatar

    […] Grove-Jones has suffered multiple miscarriages, and she draws and writes about them in an illustrated essay for her site, Silence Killed the Dinosaurs. It’s a deeply […]

    Liked by 2 people

  26. The Self-Help Whisperer Avatar

    I had one miscarriage. I didn’t grieve until years later. I still grieve it. And this is fantastically written. I laughed out loud at the Overlook elevator. I need to read more now. ♥️

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I’m sorry for your loss. Grief is such a varied experience. My first miscarriage I felt right away, but the second left me numb. It’s starting to creep out in odd ways.

      Liked by 1 person

  27. LifeAmazing Avatar

    I am so sorry. Words cannot express how sorry I am. I am a loss survivor too, my story is sad and tragic also. Somehow we are strong though there are days we don’t feel like we are. You held your babies inside you for every minute they lived, take some comfort in that. HUGS to you both.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 I'm sorry for your loss too. Hugs right back at you.

      Like

  28. auntbaggy Avatar

    Thanks so much for being brave enough to share your story so candidly. As someone who drifts in and out of that ‘don’t hand me your baby’ stage you’ve given me lots to think about.

    Good on you for opening up the conversation and reminding us that it always helps people to talk, I don’t think I’ll feel as hesitant to discuss the topic in future with those friends of mine who’ve been in your shoes.

    Extremely well written and illustrated too.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3

      Like

  29. jennyahmedauthor Avatar

    My goodness! You certainly hit the head of the nail! Excellent writing and I was really in the same boat.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you <3 I'm sorry to hear you had a similar experience.

      Like

  30. The Stories We Don’t Tell – Perspective Avatar

    […] Grove-Jones has suffered multiple miscarriages, and she draws and writes about them in an illustrated essay for her site, Silence Killed the Dinosaurs. It’s a deeply compelling, […]

    Liked by 2 people

  31. The MegaFool Avatar

    Wonderfully illustrated! I could feel the air through the reading moments… thanking you Lucy!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3

      Liked by 1 person

  32. PurplePlissken Avatar

    My miscarriage played itself out at my friend’s wedding. It was horrendous. There was so much gin and even more fake smiles when people’s tiny children in suits and poofy dresses were paraded around.
    The silence behind miscarriage is deafening, thank you for making a noise 💜

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3 I'm so sorry for your loss. Having it happen in that situation must have been particularly awful.

      Liked by 1 person

  33. Tove Essayman Avatar

    You are very brave for sharing this, and I admire how your words throughout this post show that you’re not giving up – it’s incredibly well-written! Best of luck for the future!

    Liked by 2 people

  34. justyouraveragesnowflake Avatar

    You are wonderful for writing this! I felt every word <3

    Liked by 2 people

  35. Alison Avatar

    Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

    Liked by 2 people

  36. Ti01 Avatar

    Thank you for sharing this. I can only imagine what you are going through but this really touched me. Stay strong, and best wishes to you!

    Liked by 2 people

  37. plainjanelbug Avatar

    This is so beautifully written, it all sounds so familiar, thanks for sharing x

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3

      Liked by 1 person

  38. Anna Scaife Avatar

    Your story is beautifully told. We had a series of miscarriages and I can relate to so much of what you say, particularly how you approach it with humour. So many laughs originate with pain. This is how we got through some very tough stuff. Thank you for the post.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I’m so sorry for your losses. Thank you for commenting <3

      Like

  39. Ajay Avatar

    Again a humble remainder that every normal thing about life is a luxury.Thanks for the beautiful article.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Ajay Avatar

      Sorry that’s “reminder”.

      Liked by 1 person

    2. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3

      Like

  40. reggiesjuicebox Avatar

    I am so sorry you went through all this.Thankyou for breaking the taboo.We need people who are as brave asyou to let us know that we are not alone in this.Thanks for sharing.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3

      Liked by 1 person

  41. […] via Expecting — Silence Killed The Dinosaurs […]

    Liked by 1 person

  42. Just Simple Reviews Avatar

    Oh, we could write an entire book of the strange, awkward, or judgmental comments we received during our years of infertility. We started by getting somewhat offended or sad then moved to the “whatever” phase followed by a “let’s have fun with this!” period…and then our three beautiful children came. =-)

    Liked by 2 people

  43. LT Avatar

    This is written so beautifully. Funny but totally heartbreaking. Big hugs to you X

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Hugs right back <3

      Like

  44. Accidental Spacegirl Avatar

    I have a severe hormone imbalance. I’ve had three miscarriages – maybe more – and I was lucky that my body held on to the son that I have (ironically, the fact that I started bleeding five weeks before he was born is what saved his life).

    Wishing you much luck and love in the times ahead. Thank you for writing this xx

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      I’m so sorry for your losses <3 Carrying your son my have been very emotional–especially bleeding at that stage! I'm glad to hear that he was born healthy. Thank you for commenting.

      Liked by 2 people

  45. Strictly Lighthearted Avatar

    Powerful yet heartbreaking. Beautifully written! :(

    Liked by 2 people

  46. aHorseForElinor Avatar

    Breathless after reading.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3

      Like

  47. Erika C Avatar

    Oh my gosh. I just found your blog and I am captivated by your writing and your story. (Actually, I’m horrified by your story, but that’s also why I’m captivated.) I’m so sorry that you’ve gone through all of this, but I thank you for sharing. My husband and I have been in fertility treatments for a year and a half, none of them successful, and I have not yet faced that dark room with the ultrasound and too few heartbeats. I pray that I never do, but if that is what lies ahead, I do sincerely appreciate the partial inoculation your story gave. Thank you, and again, I am so deeply sorry for your profound loss. <3

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Lucy Grove-Jones Avatar

      Thank you for commenting <3 Best of luck with everything. I hope you get some success.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Erika C Avatar

        Thank you. I hope you do, too. ❤️

        Liked by 1 person

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