One

The number of children I have. The smallest number. I realise the vastness that exists between 0 and 1 when you’re talking about children, and I am forever grateful that she, for reasons I’ll never know, made it when none of the others did. I’m astounded and supremely grateful to have her.  

When you are a parent to one child people make assumptions that you’ve chosen to have one child. You live half a life where you’re a parent and you’re part of all the conversations and decisions that come with that. But you’re not a part of the conversations about baby number two, or three, or four, or more. Most people don’t see that. So you spend a lot of time on the receiving end of unintentionally upsetting questions and topics.  

It’s like you’re a member of Parent Club but with restricted access.

Three

It’s reported that 1 in 100 people will experience three or more miscarriages in a row and will therefore be considered to suffer from recurrent miscarriage.  

In the UK you have to suffer those three miscarriages before you are referred for any sort of tests, before you can identify as someone who has suffered recurrent miscarriages, before you are likely to be offered any additional support in subsequent miscarriages.  

Three.  

I can’t think of any other issues you have to endure three times before you are given any sort of investigation or diagnosis. (“This is the first time you’ve broken your arm? Sorry, come back after you’ve broken it three times and we’ll see what we can do.”)  

Strictly speaking, I don’t count as someone who has had recurrent miscarriage because my miscarriages have been broken up with one successful pregnancy in the middle of them. My messy experience doesn’t fit neatly into the defined framework.  

The ‘problem’ with miscarriage is it’s not seen as a problem that needs to be solved because in most cases it self corrects. Wherever you read about miscarriage you’ll find a statement like ‘most early miscarriages are one-off and there’s a very good chance that your next pregnancy will be successful’ or words to that effect. The treatment is to get pregnant again and hope you are in the happy majority.  

And if you’re in the ever-depleting percentage of people who go on to have another miscarriage, and another, and another? Well, despite the cataclysmic impact that might have on you, there seems to be a care and advice dead-end.  

Four

This is the number of pregnancies I have had that have ended in miscarriage. The general figure that gets bandied around is that 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage. We’re told it’s very common, more common than you think. And I can vouch for that, having walked that road 4 times now. But being common, or frequent, doesn’t make it any less upsetting. In many ways my latest pregnancy loss has been harder to bear because I’ve had so many, because I’m given no reason each time, because I’m at the end of my fertile years.  

“It’s more common than you think” is little comfort and is too often given in lieu of meaningful support, let alone any answers.  

Forty-two

Let’s address the elephant in the room; I’m no spring chicken. In fertility terms I’m very much in my twilight years. This is irrefutable.  

Except there has to be more to it than that. We rely too heavily on the idea that age is a reason and not just a factor. I had my only child when I was 39; already on thin ice where fertility is concerned. I had two miscarriages when I was 37. If age related fertility decline is linear, then why did those earlier pregnancies end in miscarriages? I don’t have a scientific through-the-lens perspective on this, and I’m sure I could be awash with statistics and medical reasoning for why a woman’s age is the single-most important factor in their ability to conceive and carry a pregnancy successfully to term if I were to open the floodgates. But, to be basic about it, I don’t fully buy it.  

Are we looking closely enough at why some people conceive naturally in their late 30s and 40s and others don’t? Are we looking closely enough at individuals before we throw the blanket ‘it’s your age’ reasoning at every fertility and pregnancy complication that comes post 35? I fear the answer is no. I believe we need to look beyond age and consider other factors and the interplay between them if we’re ever likely to move beyond this unhelpful obsession.  

When I had my latest miscarriage the lady who scanned me to tell me the bad news, Amy, was kind enough to say “You have a healthy lifestyle. You’re not overweight. You’ve just been incredibly unlucky”.  

That she didn’t tell me my age was probably the issue made me want to throw my arms around her and sob into her shoulder.  

Infinity

Recently someone said to me “well you’ve obviously not got a problem getting pregnant, so what are you going to do?”. It was well meant but inaccurate (it has been 2 ½ years since my last miscarriage). And while it certainly wasn’t meant to wound, it is a variation of the clumsy ‘at least you can get pregnant’ categories of things not to say to someone who has had a miscarriage.  

Yet there is a taunting hint of truth in there. I did get pregnant, albeit unexpectedly. No one can tell me categorically that I can’t get pregnant again. Or that it’s guaranteed that I’ll have another miscarriage if I do. It’s living with the torment of a door you can’t close. Because of all the things a miscarriage leaves in its wake, it’s the provocation of hope that continues to echo.