Our Missed Miscarriage
*TRIGGER WARNING*
This post is an extremely emotional (and graphic) one, that could cause upset and distress to others who may have experienced something similar.
Please stop reading at any point if it is too much for you right now. Sometimes reading these types of stories help, sometimes they really don’t.
I’m writing because miscarriage isn’t spoken about enough. In fact you don’t really hear about how common it is until you go through it and suddenly a whole host of people tell you they experienced something similar. You slowly realise you aren’t alone which can often be the only glimpse of comfort during a very dark and difficult time.
I’m writing about miscarriage because it might help just one women not feel so alone in her journey. I’m writing because this is a part of my journey, a part I won’t, and don’t want to, ever forget. I’m writing because it is cathartic for me, and might be for others. But please proceed with caution.
Image taken from https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-glasgow-west-58348827
2019 was supposed to be very different.
In January we found out we were pregnant. We hadn’t tried to conceive too much in my ovulation window over the Christmas and New Year period (we’d had guests staying over nearly the entire time), so to fall pregnant felt like a miracle in itself. I will never forget walking out of the bathroom and telling my husband. We were both in shock but so happy. He kissed me, and my tummy, and my heart felt like it could burst with love and excitement. I’d wanted to be a mother for a very long time.
After that everything was perfect. Perfectly normal. I felt quite sick, my sense of smell was heightened, I was tired, my jeans got tighter, and my boobs got bigger. I got checked in with the midwife at my doctor surgery, we told a few friends and I planned exactly how I was going to tell my family when we reached 12 weeks.
We were set to go skiing in February, when I would be 11 weeks pregnant, so I booked us to go and have a private scan at 10 weeks to be sure everything was ok just before we left and so I knew we could tell people as soon as we got back that we were expecting a baby.
But, on the 18th February I lost everything. My world fell apart.
We sat in the waiting room for the private scan so excited and picturing the magical moment we’d get to see our baby for the first time. We went in and soon the sonographer started scanning. Within a few seconds she quickly turned the screen away from us. She swapped to an internal scan saying it wasn’t as big or as clear as she was expecting for 10 weeks along. And then she said it.
“I’m sorry, the baby hasn’t survived.”
Everything from then was a bit of a blur. I held back tears as long as I could but they rolled down my face and by the time I got to the car I was sobbing. I cried harder than ever before as my husband held me.
I had suffered a missed miscarriage.
The baby hadn’t survived past 7 and a half weeks but my body had happily continued with the pregnancy giving me no indication that something wrong had happened. And why would I think otherwise? It’s normal to get a positive pregnancy test, be pregnant for 9 months, and have a baby, right? Sadly not. I felt that my body had not only failed to grow a baby but had failed to notice something had gone wrong.
We got home and called the local hospital who said they couldn’t scan me to confirm anything for another week, let alone book me in for any sort of procedure I’d need to deal with what was left inside me. Fortunately I have private health care and was able to find a consultant in London who could see me that evening and once I saw her she had availability for the procedure I needed just two days later.
We let our families know what was happening, which was particularly tough. We had to explain that we had been pregnant and that now we weren’t. So there was a double amount of information for them to process as well as for us to explain. It’s not exactly the pregnancy announcement you dream of, and no one really knows what to say or do.
The consultant was a kind lady. She confirmed everything we’d heard earlier that day, and it was sad all over again. There was still a part of me that thought maybe it was a mistake, maybe she’d see a heartbeat flicker. But no.
It was gone.
It had gone two and a half weeks before.
The next day I went on my own to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription and buy some sanitary pads I’d been told I’d need for after the surgery the following day. I’d not bought pads in years so decided to ask the pharmacist what ones she would recommend for bleeding after that kind of procedure. But as soon as I said the words “I’ve had a missed miscarriage” I fell apart – right there in the middle of the pharmacy. Thankfully the pharmacist was a lovely lady who took me into their private room and talked me through the procedure, what to expect afterwards and also warned me that I’d potentially be on a ward near pregnant women and that that would be difficult to see.
Internally I had so many questions. Why was my body still protecting the baby? Why hadn’t my body noticed my baby was dead? Was it decaying inside me? I didn’t want to be pregnant any more, not even for a second, and yet I had to go 48 hours with the remains still inside me. That whole day (the day between finding out and the day of the procedure) I was very aware I was carrying around a dead baby and that my body still didn’t realise. It was the most horrible feeling. My tummy felt heavy and solid with a constant knot in my stomach.
We drove up and stayed overnight nearer the hospital because my check in time was early and we didn’t want to risk there being traffic on our route from home in the morning. With a million thoughts and feelings in my head I didn’t sleep much, but eventually drifted off around 4am.
Soon after arriving at hospital and getting to my room a nurse put a tablet up inside me to soften my cervix and start contractions so my body would start passing things naturally. It took about three hours to kick in but eventually I was getting waves of cramping and pain – the contractions. Each one made my cry, not so much from the pain but from the realisation that the cramping was my body finally letting go. Letting go of something I wanted. And letting go of something that wasn’t right this time.
Just before the surgery, there was one question I wasn’t prepared for: “Would you like to be included in a ceremony before the remains are processed?” I looked at my husband who said he didn’t feel the need to attend and I agreed. I hadn’t expected it to be offered so I hadn’t seen it as part of my process. It wouldn’t have been a private ceremony – there were others there in similar situations to us – and I think it would have been extremely upsetting. I was already extremely upset. Looking back I’m curious as to what it would have been like, what would have been said and done in such a setting, and if it would have helped me at all. But I don’t regret the decision. It was the right one for us both at the time.
The procedure was done under general anaesthetic, so afterwards they wanted me to drink a lot of water, but despite going to the toilet on the way out of the hospital a few miles down the road I was desperate to go again. We had to pull over at the services and I had to use a public toilet. It was mostly blood that came out, not bleeding blood but like a period it was clearly more of what they’d been removing in the surgical procedure. I felt like I was still losing the baby there and then, sat in a public toilet along the motorway.
We slept in black bed sheets that night and I slept on a towel as well. The cramping still happened in sporadic waves, and each one made me cry as it reminded me that our baby was really gone now and its final traces were being expelled by my body. I took painkillers and my husband held me and loved me. I cannot imagine going through that day, or night, alone. He too had lost a baby. He too was mourning. And on top of that he had to watch me in pain, physically and emotionally.
I was able to travel by the weekend and went skiing with our friends (although I didn’t touch a pair of skis). I rested, and I cried. The mountain air was fresh, the scenery was stunning, and being somewhere far away was actually quite helpful as I processed the week we’d just endured.
DID YOU KNOW?
1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage or loss - that's not one in four women will have a miscarriage, but that in all pregnancies, 25 percent of them will end in heartbreak.
To get medical support, help or testing, families currently have to suffer three miscarriages. Please sign the petition by Tommy’s to change the protocol so that families no longer have to suffer three miscarriages before they can be offered medical help or support.
A recent campaign has finally succeeded, thanks to the work of Louise Caldwell, to stop those suffering miscarriage having to spend time on an active labour ward. Women will “never have to hear a baby cry when they are going through the most traumatic time of their lives” read more here.
If you ever need support or want more information about miscarriage or baby loss please look at these incredible charities:
