On the first birthday that never came
An estimated 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage. This is about mine
Content warning — description of pregnancy-related trauma and surgical management of miscarriage
I knew I was pregnant after a week, confirmed by a faint line on an early pregnancy test another week later. I took 6 more, different brands, to be sure.
A few years ago, I was diagnosed with Factor V Leiden, a relatively common blood clotting disorder. For me, it meant a few minor lifestyle changes and a firm instruction to flag it if I ever got pregnant.
Don’t worry, said the GP. We’ll keep an eye on it. We might put you on some medication after 12 weeks. There’s always a risk you know. 1 in 4 women miscarries. But don’t worry.
Being pregnant changed me immediately. I shouted in the face of the man who nearly nudged me down some stairs at the tube station. I ate 3 meals a day for the first time in years. I took better care of my body than ever before or since, through the constant morning sickness and the fatigue and the severe back pain caused by my ligaments moving, preparing.
The milestones went into my work calendar so I wouldn’t forget. As if I could. I checked they were set to ‘private’ over and over again, just as I worried about whether I’d taken my baby on board badge off my coat before I got to the office. Hosting my friend’s hen party, I made up a cover story about antibiotics to explain why I couldn’t drink. They frightened me, the things that could expose me before I was ready to tell. But I needed them, to remind me it was real. Being pregnant felt surreal, like something I didn’t have a right to be.
I was quieter, in part the fatigue and desire to go slower, but also the fear. That something would go wrong — that I would do something wrong. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to have children before I got pregnant. I’d never been more certain that I wanted this child.
I didn’t really think of them as a baby. Instead, I daydreamed about what they’d be like at ten, sixteen, forty. If they’d be funny and strong like my partner, determined and anxious like me. If they’d confide in me, hate me, think I was ridiculous but love me anyway. If we’d laugh together or row about stupid things over dinner. I thought about names, knowing it was too soon, packing away summer dresses that would be too small for me in a few months' time.
We decided to go away, to escape the uncertainty and self-enforced inability to talk about it to anyone else. The couple behind us in the queue to board the plane apologised for their boisterous toddler. It’s fine, we whispered. Us too, soon. I started bleeding the next day.
The hotel doctor said don’t worry, it’s normal, enthusiastically pressing into my pelvis. We went for an ultrasound. The first and last time I heard my baby’s heartbeat. It’s strong, they said, but you’re wrong on your dates. You can’t be nine weeks, the baby is too small. Six at most. I knew it was nine.
I spent the week lying in a hotel room that I hope is the closest to hell I ever come, spending hours checking forum after forum, calling surgeries and midwives back home, booking appointments and scans while my pregnancy symptoms slowly faded away and I felt the truth of what was happening in the pit of myself even though the bleeding had stopped and the Google-translated Spanish said don’t worry, she just got her dates wrong.
The next week, back home, it started again. I went straight to the hospital. I told the nurse, I know it’s gone. It was a missed miscarriage. My body had tried to pretend everything was OK, not to worry, the baby was fine except it wasn’t. It had died soon after the scan where we heard the heartbeat, loud and clear even though it was too little for nine weeks.
I had to choose how to manage the miscarriage, a phrase I loathed. Let it happen, take drugs to speed it up or have a surgical procedure. I’d been trapped between pregnant and not for days that felt like years. I choose the procedure.
I’ve never felt more vulnerable, or stronger than I did on that day. I despaired when the receptionist couldn’t find my appointment, though it eventually emerged. I took back the cocktail of pills like a shot. I was scared when the contractions started, teetering on the edge of bearable and not, opening my uterus. I laughed when the painkillers kicked in, making a series of jokes I now can’t remember. I broke down once when I was given documents to sign, confirming I understood the risks, asking what I wanted to do with the remains.
I didn’t hear the nurse ask if I wanted my partner to hold my hand from behind the curtain while the doctor said, just a little pressure now. It’ll be over soon. Don’t worry. The relief that they were right, for me it was just a little pain, just a little pressure. They kept me away from the machine so I didn’t have to see. The nurse apologised before my final injection. You’ve been through enough, I’m sorry.
We walked home even though they said not to. I rested for a week before I went back to work. I watched everyone else’s babies grow up around me.
I expected to feel confronted by the injustice of it all. I never have. The closest I got was when the haemotologist winced, six months later. They should have put you on blood thinners straight, he said. But no way of knowing if it’s related, 1 in 4. Still, we will next time, don’t worry.
I am so privileged in so many ways. I have loving and supportive relationships with my partner, our families, friends, financial security, the benefit of a good education. My manager and the colleagues I told were incredible. I still felt lost and alone. The anger I felt — that I still feel — for anyone who has been treated any less kindly than me, having to make that decision or one like it, regardless of circumstance or choice, runs through me all the time. I haven’t found a useful outlet for it yet, though I hope I will.
There is no silver lining to the miscarriage of a wanted baby. Well-meaning people might try to find one. At least now you know you can get pregnant. It just wasn’t right. You hadn’t planned it, so maybe it’s for the best. I know someone who went through the same thing, they were OK. To anyone reading this who is trusted with the story another person’s pregnancy loss, the best advice I can give is to listen. To bear witness to the grief of a life unlived: the unspoken conversations, the unmarked anniversaries.
Today would have, could have, been my baby’s first birthday. I will light a candle, but not on a cake. I will think of those with untold stories.
I found these videos from Anna and Kat incredibly helpful. I’m forever grateful to them for sharing their stories.
You can find more information and support from the Miscarriage Association.
