When I remember myself growing up, what strikes me now is how naive I was. I often imagined that the perfect family would just fall into place when I was ready.

I assumed that once I was finished definitely not having a family, I would have a family. It would be that simple. But I discovered, as many women have before me, that getting pregnant and bringing home a baby are not always the same thing.

The excitement my husband Ben and I both felt when I first got pregnant was unmatched. From the moment you realise you’re expecting a baby the planning begins. Even for the most level-headed practical types, everything starts to revolve around your due date, this incredible life altering experience.

Until it was gone. One Saturday morning 16 years ago, from nowhere, I was struck down with painful cramps. Ben was playing golf and I was about to meet a friend in Dundrum for brunch. Brunch became a visit to Holles Street, where I lay on the bed to have a very nice nurse turn quiet and, after an agonising silence, gently say those dreaded words: “I’m just going to get a second opinion on this”. It was confirmed: no heartbeat. I was distraught, experiencing a sadness I had never even imagined before. The hope, the excitement, the due date that everything was revolving around no longer mattered. My lovely husband and I cried for days, each one lifting the other out of it.

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