Natasha Kaplinsky: 'Nothing prepared me for the trauma of miscarriage'

I had always been a career girl. Through my 20s and early 30s, I was focused on my work in broadcasting and had given precious little thought to marriage or babies. It was something I assumed would just happen.

By the time I neared my mid-30s, most of my friends were married and had already started having children. It was around this point I met Justin, at the opening of my friend’s wedding shop. From the moment I saw him, I just knew he would become my husband. It was quite an extraordinary feeling.

Sure enough, five weeks later we were in the Maldives and engaged. We married shortly afterwards and I couldn’t have been happier.

I was, and still am, head over heels in love with Justin and had a sudden, desperate, biological urge to make him a father. On our first anniversary, we returned to our wedding venue of Babington House in Somerset. I was overjoyed to learn I was pregnant. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have met the man of my dreams and to be carrying his baby.

I was totally unprepared for my first miscarriage. I had assumed everything would unfold as it should. So when we attended our first 12-week scan and the sonographer excused himself, offering us “a moment alone”, I had no idea what he meant. Once I had understood that what he was saying was ours was not a viable pregnancy, I felt stunned and utterly devastated.

Each pregnancy I had after that was shorter than the last. I didn’t know then that a worsening medical condition was causing my multiple miscarriages. Neither the name of the condition nor the number of miscarriages I had are what matters here: the reason I have finally decided to speak out is that the trauma of losing a baby, or babies, remains too great a taboo.

This is why I have decided to tell my own story here and in a documentary. I promised myself at the time that if I was ever successful at having my own children, I would use my voice to help others.

No one can be prepared for the experience of a failing pregnancy. The emotional heartbreak and the horror of what happens is frightening.

In my case, the horror was deepened by media attention. At that time, I was anchoring the BBC Six O’Clock News and was the holder of the first Strictly Come Dancing glitter ball trophy. I did not announce any of my pregnancies which had not gone beyond the 12-week mark. So I was left reeling when a journalist was patched through to me on the news desk, just moments before going on-air, to “offer me her deepest condolences for the baby I had just lost”.

I had no idea how she knew. Confused and dismayed, I accused the clinic of breaching our privacy; I accused friends of failing to support us; I even cut ties with some of those who I believed had betrayed me. Only eight years later did I learn from the police that my phone was being hacked by The Daily Mirror.

But as violated as I had felt, this was not the worst of it. My real shame was the feeling that I had failed Justin as a wife. I felt barren, responsible for taking away his chance of becoming a father.

I honestly think I could have dealt with my own disappointment. It was the sense that I was responsible for Justin’s heartbreak that felt the worse, and I was haunted by the fear we would never be the parents we wanted to be.

Meanwhile, I was holding it together for the outside world. There was no time off work to process the grief of our disappointments. Instead, after each failure, I would force myself back into work clothes and with a slick of lip gloss and a well-practised smile, continue my very public job while concealing the searing pain as best I could.

As any newly-married will tell you, everyone expects you’ll be starting a family soon. The weight of that expectation bears down ever more heavily each time you lose another baby. At the same time, everyone I knew seemed to be producing healthy adorable babies. It became almost unbearable. I was unable even to see our nieces for a while – they served as too strong a reminder of what I couldn’t have. In the street, everyone but me seemed to be pushing a pram.

We were lucky that our relationship didn’t suffer. In fact, our shared grief seemed to bring us closer. We had resolved to adopt – a journey we were excited to be pursuing. At the same time, we sought medical support from the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic at St Mary’s Hospital in west London under the expert care of the indomitable Dame Lesley Regan.

We made some life changes. I left the BBC. I took some time off work and had major surgery. A few months later, by what felt like a miracle, we conceived again – and that is the start of where our journey, very happily, changed direction. I was about to start a new job, taking on a revamp of 5 News. When my pregnancy made it into the media (again, courtesy of the phone-hacking) I was heavily criticised for taking a job and immediately falling pregnant. This led to a series of national debates on the morality of such a “choice”. Little did anyone know of my continual fear that I was about to miscarry again. I kept my silence and prayed.

I did not dare let myself feel excited until our son Arlo was safely delivered and in my arms. Just as nothing had prepared me for the trauma of miscarriage, nothing could really have readied me for the overwhelming elation I felt when we finally had our baby. I felt I had given birth to a prince.

It wasn’t long before I fell pregnant again, with our daughter Angelica, my princess. Once my body had worked as it should, I wasn’t going to give it a chance to mess up again. Arlo is now 12 and Angelica 10. Despite the promise I made to myself that I would speak out, it has taken me this long to feel able to share the heartache. I do not do so to indulge in self pity, but only to try to offer hope and encouragement to other women – and men – to know they are not alone.

It’s shameful that the beginnings of pregnancy remain so shrouded in secrecy. If we felt able to talk about it more, women could support each other better and we might all have an improved understanding of quite how common miscarriage is. It is estimated that about one in four recognised pregnancies end this way.

I have kept all my positive pregnancy test results, including those that were not successful. I still have the scan pictures of the babies that did not make it. I will never forget that they existed. My children say I am overprotective of them. But they know what I went through to get them – and they know they are my most cherished prize.

As told to Rosa Silverman

Miscarriage: Our Story airs on Channel 5 on Oct 15 at 10pm; Baby Loss Awareness Week runs until Oct 15 – for more info visit babyloss-awareness.org

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