70-mile ultra-marathon in honour of my 7 beautiful angels

Before I had experienced a missed miscarriage, I had no idea what they were, nor that so many people suffered them. The first time we were aware of it was when we saw our baby during our first 12-week ultrasound scan. I vividly recall sitting excitedly in the waiting room with other expectant parents, imagining what it would be like to see our baby for the first time. When it was our turn, we were told there was no heartbeat, and the baby was too small for the date of the pregnancy.

I’ll never forget walking out of the room back into the reception area only to see a woman proudly sharing her scan photo to her family. After that I seemed to only see pregnant women, or mothers with their new babies.

I desperately squashed my emotions deep down inside, waiting until we had made it to the safety and privacy of our car. Although once alone, just the two of us, I realised I couldn’t catch my breath, let alone cry.

From 2017 to 2020, we experienced the process 7 times. In some ways we felt lucky because it was not hard for us to conceive. To feel able to try again I needed to believe that this time it would be different, this time it would be a successful pregnancy. The repetition of getting our hopes up, hanging on every word and piece of advice each medical specialist told us, doing exactly what they said we should do and avoiding everything they advised against.  

In between each pregnancy we travelled to different parts of the country, to different parts of the world, to have more tests in the search for some answers of why this nightmare was repeating itself over and over.  This
included being under the care of Tommy’s where I took part in a clinical trial. The nurses, midwives, and Professor Quenby were always extremely caring, warm, and thoughtful. 

What kept us going was trying something new, truly feeling that this time it felt different, it was going to be fine. Visiting week after week to have early scans to show that everything was fine. I would hold my breath and try to read every movement on the face of the Sonographer, only exhaling once I had heard the words, “I can see a heartbeat” whilst they turned the screen so that we too could see our growing and living little one again!

Whilst of course I must have done, I don’t recall breathing during those desperate times that I heard “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat”.

Failure.

Feelings of being a failure are what I grappled with in my darkest moments, of which there were many.  I had to have done something wrong. I would painstakingly go through when the miscarriage must have happened, recalling what I had been doing, what had I eaten, had I been too stressed? Had I been working too hard or not getting enough rest? This had to have been my fault. I needed to find an explanation, otherwise how was I going to find the strength to try again? 

When do you decide that’s enough and stop trying? For us, it had to be a mutual decision. Which could have been challenging, considering we feel differently about it at different times of the day. Thankfully, we arrived at the same decision at the same time. For us, there were no answers, and we agreed to stop when we had exhausted every test we could find. We did not want to keep going through the same roller coaster cycle without trying something new which could give us a successful outcome. As with everything in life I suppose you hope that whatever choice you make now, you won’t regret it in years to come.

We are very lucky to have incredibly loving and extremely supportive family and friends. I have also turned to my profession – being a psychologist and coach. Many amazing, gifted coaches have helped me through this journey of the highest hopes and the lowest sorrows. Experiencing this has hugely expanded my range as a coach.  I can now go much deeper, and be with clients in much more difficult spaces, than I could before.

Whilst I would not wish such heartbreak on anyone, there are many gifts which have come from this experience for me. I am a better person, and far more resilient and empathetic.

Through our ultra-run my brother and I raised over £4,000 for Tommy’s charity. The training was painful, but it was also healing. I found the regular rhythm and training regime comforting. Sharing my story publicly to raise funds also helped me to grieve. It feels wonderful that the short lives of our little ones have been openly honoured and through them we have raise money to support others.  

In the words of an inspirational and courageous friend, life is not better or worse if you don’t have children, it is just different. It doesn’t need to mean that we live a ‘plan b’ life, it just means our path through this current life will be different than we had planned.