Miscarriage, For Want of a Better Word

It’s been a full year since my first miscarriage. One of the best and worst of my life so far. I have been pregnant since, but will never get to meet that child either. I’m publishing this to get it out of my head, where I’ve been writing it for several months. That seems to help in the same way that I sometimes translate my thoughts into French to make sense of a language that I need to understand, but is alien to me. I also feel the need to document an important part of my history that will appear nowhere else. Some part of me hopes that it will help others too, but that’s arrogance and most likely wishful thinking. I’m doing this for me, being selfish in an open way.

It’s not a pretty subject, but that doesn’t mean it should be ignored. If you are squeamish, or easily offended, stop reading now. I’m not trying to upset, berate, educate or alienate, but I am painfully aware that some readers will see it that way. To be perfectly honest I don’t care, I simply need to do this, and cannot, nor should I need to, explain why. Oh, and it’s quite long so you may need a cup of tea.

Step Back a Few Months (imagine a swirly backdrop if you wish, I am)

I am having a miscarriage, my second in the space of a year. I am “losing” my baby, again. Such a stupid insincere word, it says nothing of the actual process, softening the brutality of what I am going through physically, mentally and emotionally. Sanitising death, making it peaceful, serene. This is none of those things, sorry to be blunt, but it isn’t.

Miscarriage is no better a word, it implies some kind of fault, albeit possibly a mechanical one, and as people keep pointing out, I am not to blame. I know that deep down, it is complex biology and clearly I have no real control over that, but the word miscarriage says that I have somehow carried something incorrectly and have not seen it through to the proper end. I guess that is true on a very basic level, but it doesn’t stop it niggling.

As to what words to use instead, I have no answers, only questions at this point, I’ll never have many of the answers, that’s what’s so hard to compute in the analytical scientist portion of my mind. Why? How? What for? I do and will always feel guilt, I will never stop wondering “what if?”. I think that’s natural under the circumstances so I’m not fighting it. I just don’t have the energy to be honest.

Something went horribly wrong with my pregnancies and my body has pressed the reset button. I’m suddenly thrown back into puberty, a terrified 10/11 year old who knows, on some level, what is happening, but really has no clue about what is coming next. A cycle that I have lived with for three quarters of my life has been turned on it’s head, twice, and so differently each time. Oh yes, I’m 41.

The Day My World Exploded

My Dad died five years ago, of a heart attack, suddenly out of the blue he just wasn’t there any more. I was struck by palpable kicks in the guts, out of nowhere for weeks afterwards. Convulsions of actual pain, that forced me to cry as a release. That was what the first miscarriage was like.

I’d spotted from five weeks, but the doctor wasn’t interested, at least his receptionist wasn’t. “Urgence” (ER, A&E) she repeatedly barked at me over the phone, we were at home in France at the time. It didn’t feel like an emergency though and everything we googled said it was normal, at least until shortly before my 12 week scan. The bleeding had steadily worsened and on the day of the scan we decided to go to the hospital early. Nick took me first to Urgence, but when we told them I had an appointment later they sent me up to Gynaecology.

And there we waited. They put me in a wheelchair, where I sat, in my own blood, for several hours, watching the glaringly pregnant patients file in and out ahead of me. What I later realised were contractions swept through my body at regular intervals, I cried, confused, terrified, angry at being ignored. We could see the nurses getting angry too, and eventually one of them wheeled me back to Urgence where they promptly rolled me into a private room.

Another nurse brought me some wipes and a pair of culottes, paper pants, to replace my own. I stood up to get changed and all hell broke loose. Gravity took over. Nick looked on in horror as splatters hit his shoe and I screamed. I remember looking at the wipes I was holding and then the floor and realising that this wasn’t going to cut it at all.

The medics came running, I was swept up in a mass of arms, no longer scared, numb, in shock I suppose, knowing what had happened, but not realising it had happened to me. I was there, but not there, present, but absent. Part of a machine that knew its job. I will be forever grateful to those hands that cleaned me, the arms that held me as I sobbed. I don’t remember any faces, just limbs, a bit like that scene in Labyrinth where they’re falling down the tube controlled by the rooty arms that protrude from it.

The rest of that day is a jumble of confusion and anger. The doctor finally agreed to see me at my allotted appointment time, it turns out he doesn’t do emergencies, so I was wheeled back up on my trolley and made to walk into his office, nappy and all, from the corridor. There he put me in stirrups while he grilled Nick about my medical history.

I remember him asking why I was crying, and just shouting back, “Because I’m terrified” and “You can talk to me you know, I’m right here”. I’m not sure whether he was aware of the horror scene we’d just been a part of and whether that would have made any difference to the way I was being treated if he were. He later told me he felt sorry for me.

I have only ever met one other such misogynistic abhorrent excuse for a human being and he too was a gynaecologist. I thought Nick was going to hit him when he told me I could “cry for a little while, but I must get serious soon” and that “pregnant women shouldn’t go anywhere” when we asked if it would be ok to make our planned drive back to England the next day. We did, I needed my mum. I was clearly no longer pregnant at this point anyway. Anybody who knows Nick will know how out of character this kind of anger is for him, but it was warranted, I’d have hit him myself if I weren’t in such a sorry state.

They kept me in overnight and we were passed to a nicer doctor and some softly spoken nurses who explained, in French, that this was not my fault, that nobody could have done anything to stop it. Could they though? Had they seen me earlier, had we gone to Urgence, could they have saved my baby? In all likelihood no, but that will haunt me forever.

It was nightfall by this point and I was starving. We’d had lunch before we left, that’s how calm we were, and when I was offered dinner my spirits lifted. My appetite has never been affected by any of this, but then it’s rarely affected by anything. Those little compartmentalised portions of food they cobbled together. The mismatched collection of meat-free offerings are among the handful of meals that I will remember for the rest of my life. They didn’t even blink when I said “I’m a vegetarian”. I was expecting the knowing nods of the hmm, she doesn’t eat meat so how can she possibly see a pregnancy through school of thought, but they were better than that. They fed me what they could and I slept. I was in a quiet room in maternity, it had a lovely view and at that point all was serene. Nick was at my side on a little sofabed.

I knew that there was no hope at both of the final scans, but right up until they put their head to one side and said sorry, in that sombre voice reserved only for such occasions, both of us still had the tiniest twinkling of it. Vide, empty, gone.

Grief On Top Of Grief

This time it’s different, it was from the beginning. It felt stronger, better somehow, I wasn’t worried that I’d lose either, not until the blood came, but I was less worried this time, again no explanation, just a feeling. How wrong I was. The spotting started at seven weeks, so as we were in the UK I called the local GP and was referred to an Early Pregnancy Unit. They saw me the next day and were expecting to see the heartbeat. It wasn’t there. Everything was fine for a pregnancy five to six weeks along. Could my dates be wrong, the sonographer asked? She seemed taken aback that I was so upset, but I knew. I’d had a positive test a full five days before my missed period so the dates couldn’t be that wrong.

The following week was spent bouncing backwards and forwards between it’ll be fine and we’re all doomed, but I had to wait. Two full agonising weeks, the legal minimum, before they could tell me for certain that my baby was dead. That tiny, helpless, 2.8mm fetal pole, too small to yet have a visible heartbeat. I never saw him, I wasn’t offered the chance.

In the mean-time, my father in law was dying. He was diagnosed with ocular melanoma two years ago, which aggressively traveled to his liver. We’d booked a trip to Edinburgh so we went, cancelling the gin making experience Nick had bought me for Christmas. I couldn’t pretend to still be pregnant, but couldn’t drink just in case things were still ok. I buried myself in Google, scrolling through endless forums, driving myself almost mad down rabbit holes I should not have explored. Never ever use Google Images for this purpose. You cannot unsee that stuff.

Then we had to leave, heading straight for the hospice where we sat and watched a once vibrant, active man wither and die. The very end was peaceful, but the final hours were not. We were all there though and he knew that. We’d told him about the baby, but I hope he’d not retained the bad news. Not something to mull over on in your final hours on this earth. Not pretty, serene or beautiful. Cruel, painful and sad, so terribly sad. This is what the second miscarriage was like.

A few days before the funeral, at the end of dinner, I began to feel the terrible cramping, I thought it was just trapped wind at first. My digestive tract had been all over the place both times, no real morning sickness thankfully, just nausea, bloating and general nastiness that I won’t go into. You’ve been through enough for now.

There were no contractions this time, rather an intense unending pain I can’t describe. When this did dissipate, thanks to the Ibuprofen I was able to take once we knew the baby was really gone, I still had the most visceral of reminders every time I went to the toilet. I still do. I bled, heavily at first, then more steadily for over a week. My first period afterwards lasted over two weeks and was hellishly painful at times. And I know from experience that it won’t stop there. When my cycle does get back to “normal” this will happen every month, possibly until I am menopausal. The red liquid that keeps me alive is also a continuing reminder of the deaths that have occurred inside me. I’m bleeding again now and feel nauseous. My body has played some terribly cruel tricks on me.

I have miscarried in two countries, in two entirely different ways. One with medical supervision at the beginning, the other at the end. There may be more to come, I still don’t know. While the “remnants” of this one were still inside me, the GP I saw made a gentle sweeping motion as he used that word and described how they would soon pass from me. I’d opted not to go for the D and C, or the hormone pessary that would hurry things along. I couldn’t, wouldn’t. I needed to go through this, I can’t explain why, but it’s part of the process I suppose. Closure maybe.

That said, I may have accepted this, but I can’t forget, I won’t forget. Every time I eat a dippy egg, a deliciously ripe soft cheese, put an alcoholic beverage to my lips, I remember the days that I willingly gave these up, for the good of my babies. For no good reason it turns out.

Just after my Dad died I found my first grey hair, I didn’t pull it out. Since then I have looked for a new one with every death I’ve been through. Looking in the mirror in the toilets at Paul’s (Nick’s Dad’s) wake I couldn’t find any. Then a little curled up one appeared right on the top of my head. I tried to smooth it down, but it wouldn’t budge. It made me feel infinitely better, I have no idea why.

I never saw either of my babies on a scan. I have no memory book, no hand or footprints, no lock of hair, no photos, nothing physical. I have only a few blissful weeks of memory. We’ve named them, Deannie and Paulie, for the grandads they would never have known even if they had been born. I don’t believe in heaven, but I do believe that they are all together somewhere. Bundles of energy that are somehow connected, attracted to each other, bound by love. Floating about in space, endlessly living, but no longer conscious of it. One day I will join them.

Not the Announcement I’d Hoped to be Making

I didn’t go fully public the first time, but I told anyone I saw, if I could. There were some people I just couldn’t break it to and I’m sorry for that. I remember being very angry, that the world didn’t know, that everything was carrying on regardless of my pain. I don’t feel like that this time.

This time, I announced what had happened on Facebook and the outpouring of support has been overwhelming. Many of the people I’ve told, both times, have shared their stories, their grief, not all in this kind of detail, some publicly, some more privately. There are so so many, it really does break my heart. And others that can’t have children for a variety of reasons. Women who feel my pain in different ways and men too.

My babies don’t appear in any registries, my descendants won’t find any record of them for our family tree. That feels wrong. They existed, they were real, they were mine and Nick’s. That’s not to say I’m not pro choice, I completely understand that not every pregnancy is wanted and wholeheartedly support any woman who has to make that agonising decision. I have never been desperate to be a mother, but I would count the days I got those positive tests as among the happiest of my life. Third time lucky? Who knows and quite frankly who cares. I am me, I will stay me whether I am able to replicate half of my dna or not. I refuse to be made to feel a failure or somehow incomplete for not attaining motherhood.

The expectation that you will pick yourself up, brush off the dried blood and try again is overwhelming. Of course this is what will happen, but now many times? I have now been referred to a recurrent miscarriage clinic, you normally have to have three, but I’ve been bumped up the list because I’m 41. I’m not sure how I feel about this, a midwife told me that if I get pregnant again I should take aspirin as well as the folic acid, iron, vitamin D and calcium that I was already ingesting daily. Could something this simple have prevented all of this angst? I will never know, and that kills me, it really does. It all feels a bit like shutting the stable door after the horse has already bolted.

Why wasn’t I monitored from the beginning? Why wasn’t I warned that this was likely and advised about the mechanics of it all. One in three, one in four, one in five. Just some of the garbled statistics I’ve come across. Why don’t we know more? Why do we just accept that this is how it is, that so many pregnancies just “aren’t meant to be”? It’s not good enough, but what do we do?

To the mothers of the non-viable clusters of cells that were so wanted, the women who have the right to choose not to be a mum, the women who for whatever reason do not attain that most revered of statuses, it’s ok to talk about your pain, your anguish, your joy, your love, your decisions. Don’t hide and for god’s sake don’t go through this alone.

To everyone else, keep checking in with us, we don’t necessarily need space and if we do we just won’t reply right away. If you don’t know what to say, that doesn’t matter. There are no right or wrong things, well there are some wrong things, but we will suck those up in the spirit they are meant, unless you’re a misogynist dick of a doctor and then you may just get a punch on the nose.

Don’t be scared, we won’t break, we may break down, but we need to do that. When I say we, I mean your sisters, cousins, neighbours, mothers, your oldest friends and colleagues, the woman next to you on the bus and the men attached to them too. I want to hug them all, to tell them that it will be ok, because on some level it will and they will all carry on. I want to listen to their stories, share their pain, explain that it will be really shit for a while, then the shitness will just come occasionally, then hopefully it will dissipate completely leaving only the bliss of remembrance of the happy times. I’m not at that point yet.

I’ve been looking through old pictures, of times before all of this, simpler times. Forgotten times. It helps to remember who I am, what has made me so. I have been changed in unimaginable ways, hopefully for the better, by what has happened in my life. I know I have said and done insensitive things and will again, but empathy is learned through sharing. So share, share and share some more.

I am still grieving, grief on top of grief. Painful, brutal, but ultimately and importantly alive grief. These experiences have made us stronger as a couple and we will go on living and be happy, with or without a baby. What else can we do?

Lots of love and hugs in abundance,

Mel, Nick, Deannie, Paulie and Dede the dog. Our family xx