When the dream of motherhood dies

For many women the prospect of a baby is shattered by the nightmare of miscarriage.

"Do you want children?" is a question I dread more than any other. Mostly I anticipate it in time to respond with appropriate nonchalance, but sometimes it catches me unawares. Its suddenness makes me go hot; makes every drop of blood stand to painful attention. "Do you think you'll ever have children?"

Mention your age - early 30s - and people feel compelled to ask about your family plans. The trouble is, in my case, I don't feel able to reply honestly. Miscarriage is not a subject I can discuss with casual acquaintances - only trusted friends. The depth of my fears about never achieving motherhood remain hidden, along with the pain.

I always wanted a family but postponed it throughout my 20s - assuming I had all the time in the world. Turning 30 was the trigger to start trying. Then, a few weeks after my birthday, I got pregnant.

I was pleased, if apprehensive. At that stage I had the luxury of being able to question whether I was doing the right thing or not. My partner Mark felt the same. My parents were delighted because they sensed the first real chance that they might have a much longed-for grandchild, like all their friends. Then six weeks later I woke up one morning and the dream had shattered.

I had started bleeding during the night. By the time the duty GP arrived at 8am that Saturday morning, I was sobbing uncontrollably. Apparently it was the sudden plummeting in hormone levels caused by the loss of the baby that made me feel so emotional. "Let it all out dear, it's perfectly normal to feel upset," he said. It wasn't particularly physically traumatic - I was only in the first trimester of pregnancy. But I was mentally prepared for becoming a mother and that had been stolen from me. Telling family and friends made it even more distressing.

Then began the search to understand why it had happened. When you have had a miscarriage doctors rarely find an explanation, so your imagination fills the gaps. You are on a quest for knowledge but information is scarce. Was it that extra glass of wine before I knew I was pregnant? Or electromagnetic radiation from the VDU? I'd heard about studies from Germany that advise against working on screen when you are pregnant - and I worked at my computer every day. Or was it the noxious fumes from the paint stripper when I had decorated the living room? Doctors dismissed these fears but they still lingered.

Finally I had the courage to try again. I was 31 this time. Almost a year later to the day I fell pregnant relatively easily, but this time was different: I kept it silent. No phone calls to my parents and friends (how could I have been so stupid as to tell everyone at such an early stage last time?)

And no joy, just anxiety. Anxiety every morning when I woke up, and every time I let myself think about it during the day. I was totally preoccupied, comparing my feelings each stage of the way with how I had felt before. I feel nauseous in the mornings this time, went the thinking. Maybe it's because my hormone levels are higher - a good sign, surely?

But it wasn't a good sign: it happened all over again. I was seven weeks gone when I had the second miscarriage. This time I was ready for it and to be honest, I coped better because I knew what to expect, knew I would get through it. But when I felt well again I wasn't content with a "go and try again" from my GP. I wanted to be sure there was nothing wrong that could be simply treated.

Since then I've had so many tests I've lost count. Chromosome matching, hormone tests, rhesus tests, lupus tests, but none of them came up with any explanation. I even tried hypnotherapy after reading a study that showed that more women achieved a successful pregnancy after miscarriage when they went for hypnotherapy. I have every self-help book on miscarriage going but, like the doctors, they don't have any answers. . And all the doctors can really give you are the statistics: most women who have one or more miscarriages go on to have a successful pregnancy, but the risk of never achieving this increases slightly with each miscarriage.

My second miscarriage was 18 months ago. I can't recall when I stopped feeling just worried and frustrated and became desperate and angry, but it must have been a few weeks afterwards. There have been times when I crossed the street to avoid women with prams, or felt so jealous that I had to turn away. The sound of children laughing in the park or the news that a friend has had a baby still makes me cry. Contemplating my body in the mirror, it seemed like an imposter, an alien. Instead of working with me it had turned against me.

Since my second miscarriage I have not been pregnant again. At first I gave myself a breathing space - to find the courage to try again. But some of the time, even now, I don't have the courage: I put off making love at the right time, tell myself I've had too much coffee that month. At other times, I am obsessed with getting pregnant.

The tension of childlessness affects your relationship. At first we confronted things together. We kept saying: "It will be okay next time, we'll just try again," and tried to relax. Then, as our lovemaking became less about us and more about conception, we had to fight hard not to resent each other. Mark said I was becoming too obsessed with the idea of being pregnant. I felt he was slowly withdrawing his support. He accused me of eating badly, drinking too much and spoiling our chances of success. I replied that I felt as if my life were in limbo - I could neither concentrate on my career as a journalist nor focus solely on getting pregnant. As many women who suffer infertility or miscarriage soon discover, the pursuit of successful pregnancy can easily come to dominate your life. This unplanned train of events, in which having children occupies many years instead of months, can be difficult to survive emotionally, when you know that only a successful pregnancy will "cure" you.

Thankfully, time and optimism help. I can even hold other people's babies now.

And the real answer to that question I dread so much? Yes. I desperately want children - more than anything else. I think about it often and I am still sure it will come good for me one day - hopefully sooner rather than later. But if I can't have children, then I hope I'll be able to adjust and build a fulfilling life without them.

The Miscarriage Association, tel: 01924 200799.