Getting to that first scan at 12 weeks is the all-important milestone for pregnant women.

It is from this point that lots of people announce their pregnancy and I had been secretly thinking about how I would announce mine when the worst thing imaginable happened.

After two very early miscarriages, I had dared to hope that I was home and dry with this pregnancy as I got to the 11 week mark.

I had the beginnings of a bump, I had lots of symptoms and I had had my booking-in appointment with my midwife, who confirmed everything appeared as it should.

It was the day after my appointment that I went to the toilet as I was getting ready to go for a walk with friends and noticed some very, very light pink on the toilet paper.

I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t been looking for it, but after the experience of two previous losses, I always had to check.

I told my husband and tried to rationalise it and keep calm, deciding to get on with my day as planned.

When we came back from the walk, there was a bit more pink.

I felt physically sick. It was like I was falling and there was nothing to break my fall. Ever.

I phoned my community midwives who told me not to panic but to keep an eye on it and go to the emergency department if I got any fresh blood.

It wasn’t until lunchtime the following day that there was some.

We dashed to A&E and was sent through to the Early Pregnancy Unit.

I had blood tests and a cervical examination but because my cervix was closed and I was not in pain, I was sent home with the diagnosis of ‘threatened miscarriage’.

They wouldn’t scan me because I was not urgent enough and because my 12 week scan wasn’t far away.

I was told that I just had to wait to see if things were going to be ok or not and was instructed to return to A&E if the bleeding got worse.

That evening, night and the following morning were emotional agony. I Googled everything I could think of to do with threatened miscarriage, searching for stories with a happy ending.

I looked for private clinics that could scan me that day or the next, to tell me if my baby was alive, and I barely dared to move in case something happened.

It was early afternoon when I suddenly started to cramp. It felt like bad period pains and I knew this was bad news.

When I went to the toilet there was quite a lot of blood and I just collapsed into sobs, shouting to my husband that we needed to go to hospital.

I knew then that it was all over.

We drove to the hospital knowing our baby was probably dead.

I can’t fully describe the feeling in your stomach that is the physical embodiment of this anguish.

Typically we arrived just as visiting times were starting and there was nowhere to park anywhere on the hospital site.

Expecting a long-ish wait at A&E, I got out to book myself in while my husband waited for a parking space.

I had only walked a little way when I felt a gush. I stopped dead, fearing to move, not wanting to lose my baby then and there.

I started to cry and slowly shifted forward and through the hospital doors.

I could barely get my words out at the desk, but explained what had happened and that I had just lost a lot of blood and needed help.

A nurse went to get me some large pads and I was told to go round to the urgent treatment centre waiting room to be seen.

I had started to make my way there, taking little steps, when there was a second, much bigger gush of blood and clots.

I froze.  I couldn’t move because there was too much blood. I shouted out for help, sobbing with fear and despair.

My jogging bottoms were soaked and I was all alone. Everyone who was sat in the waiting area was looking at me and I didn’t know what to do.

A lady sitting nearby came to my rescue.

I told her I was having a miscarriage: I will never forget the gasp she made when I turned round to show her I was bleeding.

She got a nurse to come to me and I was encouraged onto a trolley.

I was put in a bay in A&E until a bed on the ward attached to the Early Pregnancy Unit was found for me.

I passed more clots and more blood over the next few hours and my blood pressure crashed, dipping to 70/50 at its lowest.

Because they didn’t know if I had passed the foetus or not, I was on nil-by-mouth in case I needed surgery, kept hydrated through a drip and given painkillers when I needed them.

Surprisingly, the pain wasn’t actually that bad at any stage.

Maybe it’s because I have had a child before or maybe I was just ‘lucky’, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected.

The next morning, following a night of interrupted sleep, the consultant came to see me and told me I was finally going to be scanned because nobody had seen the foetus.

Shortly after the doctor had left my room, I was sitting up in my hospital bed when I felt something strange.

I went to the toilet and felt something large literally drop out of me. I thought it was my baby but it was a large clot, as big as my fist.

I called for a nurse and before she arrived the sensation of something else passing came again.

This time I passed my baby into a cardboard bed pan on a hospital toilet.

The nurse told me not to look but not before I had glimpsed the umbilical cord above the level of the bedpan.

My heart broke. It was over.

Later that day, as my bleeding settled down, I was allowed to go home.

There isn’t really much after care for miscarriage.

Physically, your body heals itself. The bleeding continues for two to three weeks and is a constant reminder of what you have been through and what you have lost.

Being told to take a pregnancy test after a certain amount of time to make sure your hormones have returned to normal rubs salt into the wounds.

One day you are pregnant, the next you aren’t.

It takes a while to accept that and to get over it.