Joy Attmore shares her experience vulnerably and honestly.

I returned from my 'pee-in-a-pot' expedition to find Phillip waiting for me in the nurses' room and, after handing my specimen to the large nurse in charge, I took a seat next to him, rolling up my sleeves in preparation for blood samples to be taken. On the other side of the room, she began testing my urine, examining the results as she looked at me. "Are you pregnant?"

"Um.." her question caught me completely off guard and I looked at her, unsure of how to formulate a response.

"Uh-uh, no sweetie." She shook her head and turned around to finish putting her instruments away. I don't think she had any idea of how devastating her response was.

Phillip looked at me, "What did she say?"

In shock and with every angsty reaction rising up in me, I couldn't look him in the eye. I think I gave a dry laugh before saying, "I'm not pregnant".

It wasn't until we were in the elevator, making our way downstairs to schedule a sonogram exam, that I wanted to cry and promptly hid my face behind my medical records to try and contain the sobs that were threatening to break me.

I don't think we talked much on our journey home. I was suddenly exhausted and all I wanted was to bury myself under a duvet, to be still and do nothing, to cry and scream and wail. All of my confidence and hope that 'everything was going to be ok' was crumbling away at the speed of a mighty avalanche. Baby Attmore was gone and there was nothing I, or Phillip, could do about it.

A couple of days later I received a call from our lovely doctor who gently informed me that my blood test results had come back and no trace of the pregnancy hormone had been found, so therefore the baby had completely passed. I broke down in tears as the reality of our miscarriage was confirmed. I didn't have the heart to tell her that she wasn't actually the first person to inform me of my empty womb.

Over the next few weeks, Phillip and I trudged through life one day at a time. Adoringly, and at times irritatingly, he went into fix-it mode and began reorganizing our lovely two bedroom apartment, spending his feelings each day in Home Depot and Michaels. My emotions were less productive and I found myself waking up with heavy grief each morning and not knowing what else to do with it but take myself to the shower and cry into the water until I had exhausted myself.

My heart was confused and angry, my inner justice radar screaming with indignation at our loss. The few pounds that I had gained over that 10 week pregnancy period taunted me in the mirror every day and I began to look at them with hate, wishing they had fallen off and gone swimming down the toilet drain also. None of it made sense to any part of me and my regular helpless cry to the heavens would consist of, "I don't understand! I just don't understand!"

Sundays were my hardest and often worst day of the week. I couldn't sing the declarations of faithfulness and the goodness of God with any integrity. I couldn't get through the message without crumpling into tears. I couldn't fake the 'happy Christian' in post-service conversations or receive any well-worded and beautiful prayers because I had been thrown into questioning it all. Being around too many people made me feel anxious and triggered a desperate desire to run and hide, so I would look for the quickest way to exit and make our way home, back to the safety and security of our apartment.

I had been in such faith that God was going to save our baby, that then learning the harsh reality that I had miscarried him/her, left me feeling utterly floored. I was angry at God and felt completely let down. It felt like I had been foolishly living in make-believe for the best part of a month and now the world was watching and laughing. I had failed; I hadn't passed this test. The joy that I had felt just weeks earlier in being pregnant, was now turned to shame in being empty and childless.

As people close to us began to learn of our loss, we started to hear familiar words of comfort as they tried to console and understand. A response that I have heard countless times is, "I'm so sorry for your loss but you know it's really common, you'll get pregnant again soon." There is no easy way to be a friend to someone who is grieving and so therefore there is not necessarily a wrong way to respond, but I found these words to be some of the most triggering. The reason being is that although it was comforting to know that there were others who understood my pain, it was angering to know that there is such a large epidemic of children passing away before they are even able to be held by their loving parents. The injustice of it all incensed me. I also didn't just want another baby. I had lost this one. We had lost our firstborn and nothing or no one could ever replace him/her.

'There is a season (a time appointed) for everything and a time for every delight and event or purpose under heaven-
A time to weep and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn and a time to dance.'
(Ecclesiastes 3:1-4)