This is “The Stories We Tell,” a weekly series of true accounts in all things motherhood. These 100% vulnerable, raw and ferociously honest tales are from the LA-based storytelling event, Mothers Unleashed. This is Gemma’s story about the silent anxiety she suffered through after a failed first pregnancy. Gemma is mom to Brooks and the co-founder of Mothers Unleashed.

From the time I first fell pregnant to the time I delivered a healthy baby was 17 months. I know in the scheme of things this isn’t a long time… However, when your first pregnancy is terminated at three months (due to chromosomal abnormalities), and it takes you another five to fall pregnant again, the months, weeks, days, hours of waiting for that second pregnancy drag at an exceptionally slow pace.

This was true for me, anyway. When you get that first positive on the stick, you come to relish the thought of having a baby. When you’ve been pinged by some super serious and unrelenting morning sickness and everyone tells you it’s a good sign, that that babe is really digging in there… you don’t doubt for a second that this little soul will be yours to keep. Until you’re in the ultrasound room, probes searching your belly, and the doctor informs you there are some very serious problems with the fetus… and that these problems are fatal.

From the moment the D&C was over, all I wanted was to fill that empty space in my belly, in my heart… then perhaps that bottomless hole called grief that had swallowed me down so deep might let in a little glimmer of light. Surely, then I would feel whole again.

So, we tried. We waited until we got the all clear from the OB, and then we tried. Over and over and over. We did the whole thing... legs up on the wall, tracking ovulation. Whatever trick I could try, I did. But, I was empty. And, I had gone dark inside... like the walls of this grief pit were slowly inching in around me, closer and closer, every day. Every time I got my period, it felt like another death.

After about five months, it happened. I glanced upon the pee soaked stick and got the answer I’d been dreaming of. But, I did not hear the concerto of a heavenly choir or feel a warm beam of light shine down on me from the skies above. And in this moment, I realized, being pregnant again was not going to be the remedy I had dreamed of, and I would not get to feel the naive, joyous euphoria I had felt the first time I peed on a stick and gotten a positive. Instead, I was sucker punched off my feet with a cascade of anxiety, where every day had me trembling and unable to sleep. Morning sickness kicked in big time, again... so, despite people telling me this was a good sign, I knew in my heart that it didn’t mean anything. The first ultrasound at 6 weeks. Thank fucking God... there it was. A heartbeat. But again, I knew… this too did not guarantee a healthy fetus. The simple act of lying on the hospital bed, underwear discarded, legs spread, probe cold and searching my insides, brought back instant and irrational panic... like my body was remembering being at the mercy of grey and white blobs on the ultrasound monitor.

The second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth ultrasounds all ended the same way – with me in the toilet stall, uncontrollably weeping, my husband outside, yelling in, to make sure I was okay. My body refused to let go... each time I took my position on the hospital bed, the panic set in. Nobody told me about this part. Nobody talks about this part. Hell, nobody talks about ANY of it... and we are just supposed to carry this around, stuff it down beside our growing baby, and hope against hope that our stress will not deter this baby from wanting to make it into our arms, strong and breathing. Carrying this anxiety, this nervousness, while carrying a fragile, growing life, which is becoming more and more difficult to hide under cloths, was horrible. Faking delight when people started to notice my bump and asked me, "How are you feeling?", "When are you due?", "Boy or girl?", "Do you have a name?"… All I wanted to do was hide until I had my baby in my arms, alive and healthy.

I announced publicly that I was having a baby around six months, when it was simply too hard to hide my changing body. But still, I was anxious. We passed all the non-invasive prenatal screening testing with flying colors, and still I was anxious. I couldn’t shake it. I didn’t shake it. Not until I was well and truly into my third trimester and felt more certain that the baby could survive if anything bad was to happen.

At the end of the day, I am one of the lucky ones. And I count my lucky stars, continuously. I got my happy ending – not that my parental journey is anywhere close to over. But, I got my healthy, happy baby. And despite the anxiety and panic (that still rears its head), I get to be a Mother. But those months of waiting... waiting for the D&C, waiting to fall pregnant again, waiting for each ultrasound to check, and then check again that the baby was still there, still developmentally normal, were excruciating. And now, with my baby boy at 17 months old... I contemplate trying for another. I don’t know what this is supposed to look or feel like. I don’t know that it will feel any different than it did when I was growing him. But, I would love a second baby. And although it was really tough, I got through the pregnancy. Maybe the next time, if I am lucky enough to have a second, I’ll be better equipped to deal with the anxiety? I guess the only way I’ll know is… when I’m in it.