After a few months of taking progesterone, we had a meal out planned with friends and it was around the time my period was due.
Although I wasn’t yet late, knowing we had planned to have a few drinks, I decided to do a quick pregnancy test as a possible accidental pregnant piss-up is never desirable.
When the test was positive, we were happy but scared, with a dash of added hope as I was now on progesterone.
We tried to take each day as it came, not wanting to plan too much for fear of disappointment.
I remember the early weeks were full of anxiety. It was during the London Olympics and I went with family to watch the hockey at the Olympic Park. A normally exciting day was marred by worry and constant trips to the toilet to check for bleeding. When on one occasion near the end of the day when I thought I spotted blood (it was nothing), I spiralled into a complete panic attack, shaking and unable to get onto the tube and feeling like a burdensome irrational wreck.
I was able to have two early scans because of my previous miscarriages, each one providing a bit of reassurance.
I tried to take things easy, working from home when I could, battling between the conflicting emotions of not wanting to give the impression that pregnancy was somehow an affliction I couldn’t cope with and allowing myself to slow down and calm down.
I religiously took my progesterone tablets, occasionally falling into chasms of anxiety that I had forgotten a dose or taken too many, and beating myself up that the one thing I could control I was somehow going to do wrong.
As our 12-week scan approached, my recollection of how I felt becomes hazy. On the actual day, I remember being incredibly nervous, sitting in the waiting room with my husband and preparing myself for what we would do if the news was not good.
And then we went into the scan room. And there was a baby on the screen. And everything was ok with it – and so were we.