… Miscarriage. It’s not something we talk about often is it? Or hear about, dispite the fact that 1 in 4 of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. We have talked before about people admitting they are trying and why you may or may not keep that to yourselves. Miscarriage is the inevitable fear of early pregnancy. Tell people early on and you may have to break bad news later at a time when you feel most vulnerable. Keep it quiet and you have to shoulder the sorrow alone. It’s a catch 22 situation.
Before you all leap to conclusions, this post was sent into me by a reader who wishes to remain anonymous but wanted the support of the Florence Finds community in this time of isolation. It’s a huge compliment to you all that she felt she could find comfort here. Although I have never been in the same situation, it’s certainly something I have seen through family and work and I know how much heartache it causes. I know amongst many of you there will be women who can identify and offer support and I know our anonymous contributor will be grateful for your advice.
image credit: mindful mum
That little blue line.
The overwhelming excitement, fear and happiness floods my body all at once. This is something we’ve been wanting for some time. Working towards, never really knowing when or if it would happen, trying not to make a big deal of it each month when it didn’t happen. And now it was here, it was real. It’s so strange the emotions and thoughts you have… is it really happening? Can we be sure? Let’s do another test. Yep it’s really happening. Let’s see the doctor and get them to confirm. THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING!
The days that followed those tests went by in a blur of pure elation. The closeness we felt to each other was like nothing I’d experienced before, like we were now truly one, totally in sync and blissfully happy at what our future was to hold.
We reminded ourselves it was early, that the rules tell us not to get too excited, to wait to tell anyone until we’ve seen that little scan that tells us this is real, this IS really happening.
It felt nice to have this little secret to ourselves; at the same time it felt painful to not be able to share our good news, to shout it from the rooftops like we wanted to. We’ve had a lot of bad news recently, times of upset and despair for both our families. This is what I was looking forward to the most, delivering the most amazing news ever to our unsuspecting family. We grew more and more excited, chatting into the small hours about how life was going to drastically change, how we thought we’d cope, how we’d tell our families, how we’d tell his little girl and help her to understand what it meant, ensuring she felt loved and cared for, not left out and overlooked for something and someone new. We worked out dates, marked them up in code on our calendars, figured out how we’d get through the forthcoming social events in the diary without giving the game away, and we gave our growing child a nickname that only we would understand. We watched my belly begin to grow, filled the fridge with super-healthy foods and waited for the sickness to begin, knowing we were doing everything we could to ensure a healthy, happy pregnancy for both of us.
It’s a scary sight at the best of times, but when it’s not supposed to be there it’s the most frightening sight of all. Just spotting at first, we chat it through, we google the hell out of it and convince ourselves, it’s normal, it’s implantation bleeding, it’s getting settled in.
It’s not normal. This should not be happening.
image credit: universal blueprint
I think I knew the second I saw it, it’s hard to explain really, call it instinct, call it intuition, call it what you want. I wish I didn’t have it, I wish I hadn’t known in that very second that my baby had died. That my baby who hadn’t even formed properly yet had already left this world. Of course, you hope you are wrong but deep down you know. We call the doctors, it’s a Saturday and we get little support, we’re told to ride it out and if it gets worse go to A&E. More googling, I find an early pregnancy unit nearby and call them. The advice is clear, sensible and compassionate without being patronising. Bleeding can be normal, it doesn’t necessarily mean there is something wrong but get some sanitary pads, monitor the blood for clots and if they start then call them back and we take it from there. A pensive few hours pass, thoughts swim around our heads like sharks waiting to eat us alive. We convince ourselves it could be okay, the voice inside me screams it’s not okay, its over.
Blood clots. This is really happening.
And then the tears flow, my body convulses as I fall into my partners arms and sob and sob. We call the unit, they tell us to go down there. Hours later and the feelings of loss are replaced by confusion, I’ve had my urine tested, twice, the results are negative. We’re told this is common and doesn’t really mean anything. They take blood to test my hormone levels, the results will take 24 hours. They do an internal examination, my cervix is closed. They tell me this means I haven’t miscarried and that I am pregnant. But they need to do a scan to know for sure what is happening. It’s all so terrifying and so confusing. Deep down I still know, I no longer feel pregnant, it’s hard to explain this feeling, I guess you do just know.
They can’t scan until the morning as the sonographer has gone home. We have a long and sleepless night, another round of convincing ourselves things could be okay, but inside I know it’s over. I feel calm, I know what’s coming, I know this is just clarification.
We arrive for the scan, we stare at the screen, we hear the sonographer say the words ‘early miscarriage, normal, nothing you have done, try again’. They float around the air like daggers waiting to sink deep into our hearts, remaining there forever. I don’t cry, I had already played this scene out in my head, I was expecting it, I already knew.
But as we begin to drive home, the tears start to flow once again, the uncontrollable sobs, the convulsing body. It’s all so alien to me, I am the together one, I am the strong one, I’m the one who reasons everything, supports everyone else through their troubles and traumas. What do I know!
image credit: saying goodbye
The feeling of emptiness is overwhelming.
Mourning the loss of something that never was is a strange concept to wrap your head around. It’s not like losing someone you know, someone who has lived a life. That’s a concept I understand and as painful as it is, it’s a natural process and one we feel equipped to deal with. This, it feels different. It’s mourning for the what could have been, grieving for the lives we thought we were going to have, for the life we had pictured, imagined and wanted so badly. It’s bewildering and the pain is physical, not the pain of the miscarriage, the pain of loss.
And what was our beautiful little secret that only the two of us shared has now become our never-ending nightmare that we cannot escape from. No-one knows, our family are unaware and we’ve decided not to share the grief with them as they’ve had enough to deal with recently. Work don’t know, I’ve managed to juggle some annual leave days around to take a week off with a little explanation provided that I have some women’s problems to deal with. Our friends don’t know, it’s just us and the medical team who know.
The thought of ploughing on, of getting back to normal, of pretending like nothing is wrong makes my heart ache. I feel ill-equipped and incapable right now of putting on that brave face and getting through it. So I’m hoping that time really does heal and this week will give me what I need to wrap my head around this situation. That it will be just enough time to find that strength I know I have somewhere deep inside to put on the smile and carry on, despite my silent tears.
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My heart goes out to our writer today and any of you who have been through similar pregnancy related traumas.