Rushing to the toilet, for what seemed like the 10th time in a minute, I had an overwhelming sense that I’d find blood every time.
And glimpsing at my underwear, I was right.
Staring back at me was a familiar scene that I had witnessed before – and a deflating, sinking feeling quickly filled my stomach.
What’s wrong with me? I thought, a question I was also used to asking.
For this wasn’t the start of my monthly period – I was having a miscarriage.
And over the 18 years that me and my husband Ian, now 45, had been desperately trying to start a family, using IVF to help us get there, we had been through eight previous losses – never making it past the six-week pregnancy mark.
Despite always having a maternal instinct, playing with dolls as a toddler and claiming that I wanted a whole brood of children, it
