Memories of a missed miscarriage
It’s been almost nine years since I first heard the words “struggling to find a heartbeat”.
Hearing those words “I’m sorry Claire, I’m struggling to find a heartbeat” is still heart-breaking to remember today.
My body gave me no indication the baby had died 5 weeks earlier — still parading onwards with its morning sickness, exhaustion, and other ‘good signs’.
Of course, a pregnant woman in tears is the last thing hopeful parents-to-be want to see in an antenatal clinic so we were quickly referred to the hospital. But not before I’d been given a photograph of the ultrasound stapled to the appropriate sheet of administration.
A photograph. A souvenir of a little soul.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at the photograph.
As so many smiling faces gazed adoringly at the first fuzzy outline of their baby, I clutched mine hopelessly, clinging on to the paper like my body was clinging on to the baby.
I began the walk home. Numb yet overwhelmed. Empty yet overflowing.
For years, I didn’t know what to do with that photograph. I couldn’t throw it away because it reminded me that this tiny baby had existed, it had been a part of me. But then I couldn’t look at it because it reminded me that this tiny baby had existed, and had been a part of me.
It was buried in the bottom of a box at home for years.
It was finally last year during an almighty process of sparking joy for the third time that I decided to face the blue folders. A pile of blue folders — one for each pregnancy. Each aching with their own tale of multiple scans, hope, more hope, tests, results, hopelessness, sadness, surgery.
We were told to go to the hospital at 2 pm to confirm the miscarriage and discuss options. Empathy doesn’t feature in the planning of hospital departments; walking through another antenatal clinic, down a corridor, ending at a claustrophobic dusty corner that I never wanted to see again.
Surprised that my voice could still utter sentences, I whispered that I had an appointment at 2.
The reply came “we don’t open till 2”.
I glanced at the clock… 1:51 pm. The ‘emergency’ sign on the wall behind the reception desk glared mockingly at me, my head screamed “but I have a dead baby inside me!”, but my mouth whispered, “ok, no problem”.
Nine minutes of sitting, staring at the blank expanse of notice board. As empty as the day it was first screwed to the wall, apart from one flimsy, insignificant piece of business card-sized paper, its corners yellowing at the edges, with sickeningly simplistic sans serif font stating two solitary words: miscarriage support.Acknowledging pregnancy loss within the confines of a business card. No information. No contact details.
I sat. I waited. I stared at the clock.
It was such a beautiful day, with the walk to St Mary’s Hospital punctuated by people laughing, sunbathing, enjoying ice creams and lunch by the canal side.
It had been such a beautiful day for Andy and me, full of hope and excitement.
It was still a beautiful day for most. From where I was sitting, the brightness of the blue sky was sickly, the glare of the whitewashed hospital walls was blinding, the sunshine claustrophobic, taunting me with dreams that would be torn lifeless from my anaesthetised body the next day.
The doctor told me it’s a one in a hundred probability of this type of miscarriage… a 99% chance of success. I would take those odds any day.
Later that day, Andy and I sat in the sweltering confines of our flat, the open windows offering no breeze to clear the stale air. Tears came silently and then with sobs, and then not at all.
This cycle of sadness continued and my Mum and Dad joined us, offering support and comfort in the form of hugs and ‘just being there’.
Just being there is enough.
No words were needed and no words could be found.
Sometimes there are no words.
The day after surgery was Friday 21st June.
The longest day.
And it was.
The first day of recovery. No operation to get through, no appointments, no information leaflets, no baby. Just the stretch of hours ahead and a sick churning emptiness inside.
I felt numb.
I felt lost.
Moment by moment, I began to pick up the pieces of my jigsaw.
As you learn when you’re little, you start with the corners and then the edges, before moving into the centre. The outside is the easy bit. It can get complicated in the middle.
This became true for the days and weeks following as I approached life as a series of to-dos: shower, dry, dress, eat breakfast, try to smile.
Within a week or two, my corners and edges were in place and I could start to fill in the empty frame.
I spoke too soon.
Just as my edges were all together and I was back at work, pretending to be fine, a voicemail asked me to contact the emergency unit at St. Mary’s. The dusty corner that I hoped I’d never see again.
Sat in the same chair, waiting, looking at the same notice board with the same business card, I felt the same claustrophobia take hold.
When you get called back in following such a procedure, there’s no way it’s going to be good news.
It wasn’t.
All I heard was a string of words that went something like “complication… under the care of Charing Cross Hospital… shouldn’t affect your chances of future pregnancy” because I was gazing at a leaflet that was handed to me. The leaflet had the smallest of print, a few diagrams, and details I couldn’t decipher at first glance. There was one word amongst the verbosity that did stand out. Cancer.
Why is it that when I cry, medical professionals offer me water?
Perhaps bringing water is symbolic of healing, flushing out the fear, replacing the lost tears. Or perhaps they need to escape the intensity of the room and fetching water gives them a moment to breathe. Maybe it’s just a little bit of kindness on an otherwise hostile day.
Just as my thirst was satisfied yet again, Andy repeated the phrase I’d heard so many times it had become as metronomic as my heartbeat: “We’ll get through this”.
My mouth mechanically uttered, “we’ll have to, we don’t have a choice”. ‘Choice’ was a concept that I struggled with for a while as I switched on my automatic pilot. I felt like I wasn’t in control anymore — like I was a puppet and somebody else had my strings.
There is always a choice. The way we choose to respond to a situation. The way we handle a situation. We have a choice.
At that point, I didn’t realise that simply choosing to get out of bed every day and spend time with family and friends was a choice I was making to help heal myself.
Only in retrospect did I understand how many choices I had and how life was still there, waiting for me to come back to myself.
I chose to pick up the pieces again.
I chose to rebuild.
I chose to heal.
