'For the first trimester, I was frozen in fear.' The complicated feelings in pregnancy after miscarriage.

I was lying on the plastic exam bed with my toddler’s damp, chubby hand gripped inside of my own. She was sitting on my husband’s lap. I felt a bit nervous for the first time that pregnancy. My husband sensed it, "relax", he mouthed and squeezed my shoulder. 

"I’m a big sister!" our daughter announced proudly, breaking the tension as the ultrasound technician squirted a big dollop of gel onto my belly. The technician laughed easily and switched on the screen, gliding the wand across my abdomen. 

A beat went by. Then another. 

I looked up at the tech, and her smile was gone. 

"Are you sure about your dates?" she asked.

Watch: A tribute to the babies we have lost. Post continues below.

I was positive. We’d been trying to conceive for six months. I didn’t take chances; I used every trick in the book. Timing my cycle, tracking my temperature, the apps, the ovulation tests. I’d been living in those endless two-week increments that anyone who has tried to conceive would be all too familiar with. Why was she asking this?

In the months that followed, I reimagined that moment in my mind over and over. Thinking of all the ways I desperately wished it played out. 

The technician laughs and swings the monitor towards me – "It’s twins!" she announces. My husband and I cheer and embrace. We can’t believe our luck. "We’ve always wanted twins!" we tell her, joyfully. Happy tears stream from our eyes. 

"You’re actually FOUR months pregnant!" She tells me in another fantasy. "Sorry to scare you! Your baby looks perfect. Here – let me print you several dozen pictures."

But in the real world, in my world, the scene played out exactly as you’d expect. 

"I actually can’t find a heartbeat," she said kindly, and in that moment, I wondered if my own heart would fail too.

I can’t quite remember what came next. There was talk of late ovulation, of more scans, of not getting ahead of ourselves. She gave me the grace of hope, something to hold on to while I waited for answers. 

I didn’t have to wait long. Just six days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I miscarried.

A unique muddle of grief and depression and rage filled me in the weeks that followed. It felt like the most devastating event of my life, but also like nothing at all. 

I was embarrassed by my sadness. 

I kept it tucked away in hidden corners of my life. The drive to work, the long showers, the quiet hours in the middle of the night when sleep felt impossible. I was ashamed this had caused my world to fall apart when I knew people who had strength through much worse.

Emilie's ultrasound photo. Image: Supplied.

My doctor told me it could take eight weeks for my cycle to return to normal. To try again. 

"Your pregnancy symptoms might take some time to go away," she warned me. "Don’t read into it."

That’s why, six weeks later, I thought nothing of it when I woke up with the familiar cotton-brained nausea. Lingering HCG, I told myself, as I collapsed in front of the toilet.

But the symptoms intensified and the torture of not knowing was all-encompassing. A few weeks later, I booked an ultrasound. 

As it turned out, what took us six months of detailed planning and timing, had happened by chance. I was five weeks pregnant, again. 

I wish I could say I felt relief, but I didn’t. I felt weary and cautious. Like the universe was setting me up just to knock me right back down again. 

For the first trimester, I was frozen in fear. Every time I went to the bathroom, I expected to see blood. Every small pain was the start of it happening all over again.

In the pregnancy we lost, we’d told our families with big, surprise announcements and secret cameras recording their reactions. This time, when the 12-week safety net passed, we whispered it cautiously, begging them to not get too excited "just in case".

As the weeks dragged by, I kept the pregnancy at arm’s length. I didn’t download the apps or track the markers. I had no idea what sized fruit or Parisian baked good the baby was that week. I had decided that what was happening inside of me was none of my business. I expected the worst to happen at any moment, at every moment. 

And then, one day, it changed. 

I can’t pinpoint the moment; I wish I could. Maybe it was when I went in for the anatomy scan. When I watched his little heart pumping strongly. When I counted his fingers and toes as he twirled around evading the ultrasound and the tech called him a "cheeky bugger". Maybe it was when I finally felt movement. A sharp jab one night as I was lying in bed, followed by those big, surreal tumbles that are impossible to ignore. 

"What about Harry?" I said to my husband, opening the conversation we’d both been avoiding. 

He smiled. "Ugh, too royal. John?"

Relief and gratitude rushed in fast, and I finally found myself trusting that this might actually happen. I might actually meet this little baby in a few months' time. 

Then I freaked out, obviously, writing list after list of all the things we needed to get organised. 

I’m not at the end of the road, yet. There’s still 12 more weeks until I’m due to meet my baby boy. I still think about the pregnancy we lost. Every day, in fact. 

But I know that when this baby comes, when I get to hold him for the first time and his little hand wraps around my finger, it will all make sense.

Emilie Reynolds is a former journalist turned communications specialist and mother of one. She lives in Adelaide with her husband and daughter.

Feature Image: Supplied.