Joy Attmore shares her experience vulnerably and honestly.

The rhythm of a heartbeat is the most beautiful sound and evidence of life. We all know that movie scene where the hero/heroine lies seemingly dead and all breath is bated as we await the moment where the love interest checks their pulse for the faintest sign of life. There is nothing quite like the feeling of resting your head on a loved one's chest and hearing the steady assurance that all is well within them, a sense of safety sinking deep within you. Wherever the heart beats there is life and wherever there is life there is beauty to be celebrated.

On Saturday December 17th, 2016, my husband and I heard the loud and startling sound of our first baby's heartbeat. It was startling because it was the first moment when everything truly felt real. Up until that moment the only evidence of our pregnancy that we had was the word 'pregnant' printed loud and clear on the digital pregnancy test at home, the blood test results from the doctor and my raging hormones and ravenous appetite. Now, in a small 3D ultrasound clinic in East L.A., we could actually see and hear our baby for the first time. I grasped Phillip's hand in mine, a sense of unease still fairly close to the surface. I had been bleeding for four days now and I was anxious to know why.

The technician gently encouraged us to go to the local hospital and undergo thorough testing to determine fully what was going on and sent us off with a new parents gift box and pictures of the ultrasound showing our tiny human growing inside of me. Within an hour I was being admitted into the E.R at LAC+USC Medical Center, put into one of those sexy hospital gowns that always flap open and show your bum and having an I.V inserted into my hand. For the next several hours I underwent all of the thrilling examinations you can possibly imagine are required when looking after pregnant women, and soon forgot to be embarrassed about who was looking where. Then, when they were all over, I sat with Phillip and we waited for the results to come in. I was wearing my wedding flip flops that day and I sat staring at the silver glitter of my straps as they caught the light, lost in thought over our first year and a half of marriage.

Eventually my name was called and we stepped out of the waiting room to consult with our doctor. The results were positive but also fairly inconclusive; everything had come back looking good and normal. The baby was fine, positioned in the right place and had a strong heartbeat. There was no reason, that they could find, as to why I was bleeding so we were sent home with instructions to rest and see what the next few days brought.

I think we both felt relieved, definitely exhausted, but also somewhat victorious. We had arrived at the hospital doors unsure of what was happening and, although we were leaving in some ways none the wiser, we at least knew that our baby was alive and well. In our minds, Baby Attmore was going nowhere. As we waited for Phillip's Mom to come and collect us from the hospital, we played Skip-bo and thanked God for keeping our baby safe.

On Monday morning I awakened with what felt like the kind of cramps I would occasionally experience during a period. I was scared of partnering with the wrong belief system, therefore encouraging a negative outcome, so I calmly told Phillip what I was experiencing and carried on getting ready for the day, trying to push away the fear and warning bells that each cramp triggered. We were going to a memorial service for a dear friend's mom an hour's drive away and so, in the company of a good friend, we made our way there filling the car with prayers as we went.

I've been to several memorial services and funerals over the years, some of which have carried the heavy weight of sorrow over them and others that have managed to gather people together in celebration of life, amidst the tears of loss. This service felt like a homecoming; an honouring of a woman who had lived and loved well. For the majority of the time, I sat with my hands on my stomach silently praying that my baby would live and not die, bravely trying to believe that everything was ok and attempting to ignore the dreaded signs my body was making. A couple of times I slipped out and made my way to the ladies room, interceding with every part of me for the life within. Phillip joined me both times and together we stood in the bathroom stall declaring life in the face of all the odds, uncertain if what we were seeing and experiencing was what we were so desperate for it not to be.

Looking back, I see this moment as one of the most beautiful and vulnerable moments of my life. We were both so heart-wrenchingly desperate for a miracle, stood in that bathroom stall, Phillip's hands on my womb, holding each other and praying for life. I watched a father emerge from my husband in that ladies' bathroom and, regardless of the outcome, a father he will always remain. Beauty can always be found, even in the midst of the darkest brokenness.

I passed a blood clot and Phillip and I stared into the toilet bowl. Was that our child? Did that contain the precious heartbeat that had stilled our own only two days ago? I hesitated then pressed down on the handle and watched it all flush away. Surely not, surely everything was okay and all we had witnessed was simply that, a blood clot. Surely I would know if I had just watched a life wash away.

We rejoined the memorial service and stood at the back, holding one another, as it came to a close with an old hymn about dancing on the streets of heaven. Phillip gathered a small group of our faith-filled friends who were present and, as people milled around feasting on the buffet and chatting in small groups, they prayed life over me and our baby, speaking out against fear and encouraging our spirits with truth. After several minutes I felt joy returning to my heart, I felt victorious! Even after everything that we had just seen and the turmoil my body had been experiencing, I had a deep sense of victory. It had been a close call but we had come out triumphant, Baby Attmore was safe.

Another week went by and the bleeding continued but by Christmas Day it had all but stopped. We hadn't been back to the hospital since as, due to not having health insurance coverage in L.A, we decided to wait until we were back in NYC where we could see our doctor. I also felt that whatever had happened on that Monday wouldn't be changed by waiting an extra week so we remained in a faith-filled limbo as 2017 began, believing that all would be well but not having any concrete evidence that that was true.

January 10th was a cold and snowy one and Phillip and I gingerly made our way uptown for our first doctor's appointment since being in the L.A hospital. We were both pretty quiet and reserved, I think we knew deep down what today's results would be. I sat on the examination table, my stomach exposed as our lovely doctor searched for sound that would assure us all that Baby Attmore was well. The minutes ticked by in painful silence, the only noise being heard was that of my own heart.

I redressed and joined Phillip and the doctor for several minutes of consultation where she carefully and sensitively talked us through the tests she was going to send me for and the possibility of what to expect. I was feeling numb, unsure as to whether I should engage in the faith that I had been holding on to all of this time, or whether I was now meant to give in to the likelihood that the worst case scenario had actually happened. I was suddenly realising that I didn't feel pregnant anymore, it was like I was suddenly playing catch up with myself. But maybe this was all just a big scare, maybe everything was fine and soon we'd be laughing and praising God for the miracle of life and health.

A nurse came into the room and handed me a pee pot, leading me down the corridor to the ladies' toilet. Ever since that first evening when I discovered I was bleeding, going to the bathroom had become a form of torture as I prayed for everything to just return to normal and instead was faced with endless red stains. Now, after this visit, I would discover the truth of what was happening. My heart was somewhere on the floor, weighed down by the fear of broken dreams.