I am a member of a 'club' that no one would ever choose to be a member of, a membership that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. A club that is often shrouded in secrecy, shame and guilt. A club that I became a fully-fledged member of the day my first baby died and along with it all of my hopes, plans and dreams for our future life together.
It’s strange how much hope and promise can be contained within one building, how joy and heart-breaking sadness run simultaneously alongside each other, a building where people’s lives are changed irrevocably on a hourly basis. I often wonder how it must feel to work in such a place?
I can recall every detail of the scanning room at my fertility clinic, the white bumpy tiled ceiling, the blue curtain, the basket to put your knickers in (which I didn’t realise for a long time!) It always felt very awkward folding my knickers up and leaving them behind on the chair! The blue paper towel to 'protect your modesty' although I’m not quite sure why? When in a moment there will be no modesty left as you are scanned internally – a doctor awkwardly at your feet as you stare up at the celling, thinking 'Who knew trying to have a baby could be so complicated? This isn’t what they told us at school?'
I remember staring at the celling of the scanning room willing for there to be heartbeat but knowing that there probably wouldn’t be, there was surely too much blood lost for the baby to still be 'in there'. The unimaginable relief to be told despite the heavy bleeding there was a tiny baby with a heart beating away safely tucked up inside my womb next to a blood clot, a ticking time bomb that could take my precious little bean away at any moment. This was the moment I saw my daughter for the first time. Then going back three weeks later to see her growing and to be told the blood clot had “gone” – a true miracle. We finally 'graduated' from the fertility clinic and our daughter was safely delivered into the world nine months later. Nine months of holding my breath, of fear that at any moment all my hopes and dreams could be taken away once more.
I remember returning to that same room just over a year later following my second miscarriage to be told that there were 'no remains of conception' to be found within my womb – I knew already but there is always that tiny piece of hope that maybe you could be the fortunate one to have two miracles – greedy perhaps?
The next time I returned to that room I went fully prepared for the worst, but instead I was greeted by a tiny baby flipping around with a strong heart beating away inside of me. I remember the nurse coming to see me in the waiting room after my scan and giving me the biggest hug, the receptionist smiling at me as I left the clinic in total disbelief, I’d made it past seven weeks, the time I’d miscarried twice before and this time I had a scan photo in my hands and a baby with a strong heart beating away inside of me. Maybe this time would be our time?
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You never fully allow yourself to believe - baby loss takes away the innocent joy a positive pregnancy test can bring. Instead every day feels like a never-ending eternity stretched out in front of you, willing to make it through another day with your baby still alive. But everything felt different this time. I felt pregnant, everything felt the same as it had with my 'successful' pregnancy with my daughter, I had no reason to believe that anything was 'wrong'. I felt sick, tired and my tummy was swollen (I looked pregnant!) – as I walked in to the scan room that morning in March for our ten week scan I was nervous but I was also hopeful, within moments we would get to see our little 'pip' again and I was nervously excited.
Nothing can ever prepare you to hear the words 'I’m sorry there is no heartbeat'. I knew before the doctor said those heart breaking words that something was wrong, he couldn’t find the baby at first and when he did he didn’t need to say anything. I’ve seen what a baby at 10 weeks looks like and what the screen showed didn’t match that. I can’t remember the lines our kind Doctor used as it’s all a bit of a blur but I think it was 'I’m sorry your pregnancy hasn’t progressed as we would have expected, I’m sorry there is no heartbeat'. In that moment our world fell apart as I screamed out in pain, all our hopes & dreams for a sibling for our daughter were gone. How can this be happening again and why does my body still think that I’m pregnant? Previously it felt as though my body had failed, this time it felt as though my body was as desperate as I was to cling on to this baby and wasn’t going to let go.
My confidence and self-worth were on the floor, my heart was broken, and despite the love and kindness I had been shown by those I had shared with, I still felt so alone and lost
This was our second loss in six months, five of which I’d been pregnant for. We found out later that the baby was a girl, a little sister, our daughter. I didn’t know how I was going to pull myself back up again but I knew I didn’t have a choice I had our daughter to look after. Coming home from the scan I’ve never been so grateful to be able to hug her so tightly, I’m equally grateful for the fact she was too little to remember the huge sobs that escaped the moment I held her as I got home and as I watched my friend Gemma's confused face as she tried to grasp what was happening.
My confidence and self-worth were on the floor, my heart was broken, and despite the love and kindness I had been shown by those I had shared with, I still felt so alone and lost. Was it normal to feel such grief for babies I’d never had the chance to meet or hold? How long should I feel like this? Why did this happen to me? What did I do wrong? Why had my body failed? Why couldn’t I keep my babies safe? I needed to do something to get 'me' back. I’d been riding the rollercoaster of trying and failing to have babies for five years and at this point I had no idea who I was anymore.
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I started running in a bid to try and help myself feel better and I couldn't believe how much of a difference running made to my everyday life and how happier it made me feel. When I run, my mind gets a break from my grief, I am so focused on getting to the next point/ goal/ focusing on my breathing, listening to my music I become 'lost' in the moment. I finally found a new confidence in my body, a body that I'd previously told over and over that it was failing and that it wasn't good enough, because I couldn't get pregnant or deliver my babies into the world. I've never been a sporty person so this was revolutionary to me and I thought if it could help me this way ,then maybe I could help other women going through similar experiences to feel better about their bodies and to help with their mental wellbeing too. So, the idea was formed.
I founded the Rainbow Running Club last July - a community for women who have experienced baby loss and infertility, following my own five-year journey of unexplained infertility and baby loss.
We held our first run in September 2019 and over 25 women came and joined us. Which far surpassed even my wildest dreams! Over the past year pre-covid I travelled around the UK holding runs in different locations once a month - women have also gone on to set up their own groups where they live. We would meet, run or walk (there's never any pressure to run as I would like our group to be open to all women regardless of their fitness abilities) and then go for cake afterwards. Getting out and exercising together is a real ice breaker and really helps everyone to feel more relaxed and comfortable in each other’s company, meaning when we get to the cake part (the best bit!) everyone is more relaxed and the conversations flow more freely.
You may think that it could be really sombre being in a room filled with women going through the hardest moments of their lives, who have endured such heartache. But in fact it is incredibly uplifting and freeing to know that you are no longer alone, to finally feel heard and understood. Until last year I had no idea just how much that would really mean or how much this would help me to heal.
When covid hit and lockdown forced all of our plans to come to a grinding halt I needed to think outside the box to keep our community connected - during a time when we all needed connection more than ever. A time when fertility treatments were cancelled mid cycles, put on hold with no start date in mind. When women were going through baby loss in hospitals on their own without their partners by their sides, where they weren't able to access support from friends and family. So, like most of the world we moved online to zoom and started hosting Mid-Week Mindfulness sessions each Wednesday evening where we either practice yoga or a guided meditation.
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I never would have thought to hold online events but it really has propelled our 'club' forward and has helped to reach so many more women as it doesn't matter where in the UK (or world) you live, you can join in. And if the thought of being 'seen' is too daunting you can join in anonymously with your audio and video off from the safety of your own home. I was worried that the sense of community would become lost online but if anything the fact that we now see each other weekly it's only strengthened it.
In September we celebrated our first anniversary with 70+ women taking part in a 12k run/walk across the UK and it really was such an incredibly powerful experience.
Over this past year I have learnt, thanks to the incredible ladies that I have met, that Rainbow's don't necessarily have to mean babies, they can also be the moments that bring you joy and happiness and glimmers of light after the darkness.
The Rainbow Running and Yoga Club is my Rainbow - it has given me a safe space to pour all of my heartache and grief into, it has helped me to find my passion, to rediscover who I am (outside of infertility and loss which consumed my life for so long), who 'Lucy' is. What brings me joy? What makes my heart sing?
To find out more please head to www.rainbowrunningclub.co.uk or on Instagram @mother_of_one