Doctors told me to ‘flush it down the toilet’ when I miscarried – I had one in a nursery loo as my daughter held my hand

YES, I was prepared for the exhaustion, the sleepless nights and the sitting in soft plays that smell of feet, but I wasn’t ready for the complete numbness you can feel when you have a baby.

People call it the “baby blues”, but that doesn’t even come close to what I felt.

I would get those extreme highs from cuddles, then crushing lows when I was unable to get up the stairs because of my C-section scar.

My husband Matt [Farquharson, 45, author and journalist] and I went through three miscarriages before we had our eldest daughter Mae, now eight.

The doctors said I had a heart-shaped uterus – which quite a few women do — and that it creates complications.

Miscarriage was one of them. Each time I lost a baby — at eight weeks, 14 weeks and nine weeks — I was grieving the little lives I’d planned names, nurseries and more for.

As it was happening, I would say to the doctors: “What should I do?” and they would say: “Flush it down the toilet.”

It felt like they were minimising what had happened, as if I was overreacting. Calling it a “non-viable foetus” doesn’t sound like a human you’ve lost.

In December 2012, I went for a 12-week scan expecting that there would be no heartbeat. But although I had prepared for the worst, the best happened.

I had another two miscarriages after Mae was born in June 2013. One time I was 19 weeks, when I began to miscarry in a toilet cubicle at her nursery.

She was only four at the time and she held my hand through it. I had to explain to her that: “Sometimes, through no fault of the mummy, the baby just doesn’t stay in.”

It was a traumatic moment, weirdly made better by the innocence of my own daughter. I think it helped her later understand why I was so sad at times.

When I would cry she would call them my “black tears”, because of the mascara that would run down my face.

When I fell pregnant again in June 2017, I had a lot of anxiety because of my fear of miscarrying.

So when Evie arrived, there was this huge release of tension at the same time as that natural hormonal release.

Suddenly I just didn’t feel “there”, and I felt like I was watching myself going through the emotions, but wasn’t actually connecting with her.

I believed I wasn’t a good enough mother, so I retreated from seeing people. I was also reaching for social media and its dopamine hits over being present with my daughters. I would search #miscarriage and scroll for hours.

One day Mae said to me: “I don’t think you like me when you’re on your phone,” and it was a wake-up call. I knew then that I needed to get myself together for my girls.

Matt was supportive, but there’s only so much you can do to help someone who’s struggling. You can’t just say: “Snap out of it,” you have to sit with them in the hole until they’re ready to climb out. 

When Evie was two, I went to see my GP, who diagnosed me with postnatal depression (PND). That’s when everything changed from feeling like a figment of my imagination to something tangible.

It meant there was a process to go through and I was referred for cognitive behavioural therapy. I only started to really recover in the past 12 months, after having treatment for a year. After I was signed off, it felt like I’d started to turn a corner. 

Slowly I’ve allowed myself to be happy, and I can enjoy when Evie, now three, comes up and says: “Here’s a stone that looks like Peppa Pig,” rather than looking down at my phone. I’m a slightly shattered version of myself, but stronger.

I’m not an ambassador for miscarriage or PND, I’m a mum navigating this game of snakes and ladders, where you raise yourself up on one side, then you get pulled down the other.

There’s been a lot of joy with my daughters who did make it, and that’s what’s allowed sunshine in. 

• Anna’s podcast Dirty Mother Pukka is out now on Global Player.
• As told to: Molly Reynolds; Photography: Charlotte Gray Photography