Eight years ago today, I became a statistic. In the month that Baby Loss Awareness Week takes place, I become a statistic. Funny really how the most painful experiences in my life are linked to statistics. But this is one that shouldn’t be a taboo and more people should feel comfortable talking about, because it will happen to 1 in 4 pregnancies. 1 in 4 will result in a miscarriage. Eight years ago, I became one of those 1 in 4 when I experienced a missed miscarriage.
For anyone who has never heard that term before (I hadn’t until I had one), put simply it’s where the body doesn’t recognise the baby has died. So, you don’t tend to have any bleeding or signs that something is wrong and you carry on unaware that the pregnancy isn’t successful. I say unaware, but I can vividly remember saying to Mr C shortly before we found out that I didn’t feel pregnant anymore. At the time, he told me not to worry, that I’d not really suffered when I’d been pregnant with Miss C and he put it down to me approaching 12 weeks.
So, I carried on following the guidance for pregnancy despite the fact that something was niggling me. On the day of my 12-week scan, I left the office early, Mr C picked me up from the station and en route to the hospital we went to a camping shop as we had a small amount of time to kill. We wandered for a bit and I picked up four clips to put on a table to hold your glass in. But as we went to pay, I put one back because something told me I wasn’t going to need four, after all, there were only three of us in Family Charlesworth. I didn’t make a fuss and I doubt Mr C even realised but I remember doing it. A few years later we were in the same shop. I stood in front of those clips and cried because of the memory they evoked. When we finally got to the hospital and the receptionist asked me if I wanted to pay for my photos ahead of the scan appointment, I almost retorted that there was no point because we wouldn’t need any. But I figured Mr C would just tell me off for being negative, so I kept quiet and made that payment.
When we were called in, I didn’t say anything, I dutifully answered all their questions. And then they started the scan. It was at this point that I knew something wasn’t right. Because they were silent. They weren’t talking to me about our baby. Four years previously when I’d had my first scan with Miss C, they’re been talking to me pretty much from the off. I remember crying as I saw our very much wanted baby wriggling around for the first time. But this time, there was nothing. There was just silence. Until we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…”
The sonographer went to bring someone else in for a second opinion. Again, we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…” There was no heartbeat. It looked like there was fluid on the baby’s brain. The baby had stopped growing approximately three weeks earlier. I’d been walking around for three weeks with a dead baby inside me and until that confirmation at the appointment, had been blissfully unaware of what was to come. I later learnt from the consultant that this was due to the pregnancy hormone reducing, my niggling feeling and not feeling pregnant was because of the hormones reducing. Had we not gone for that 12-week scan and found out, it’s likely my body would have realised anyway, it just took it a while.
We were dealt with very sensitively. Someone went to get me a refund for those photos I’d paid for. Looking back now, I wish with all I have that I’d insisted on still having photos. As macabre as that might sound, I have nothing other than memories to look back on. There’s no proof that this even happened. And since Mr C died, I have no-one to remember it with me. Days like today are just another reminder that the person I shared my life and experiences with is no longer here.
We made the decision that I would have a D&C. I felt that this was the best way to deal with what had happened. It would hopefully mean that there would be minimal impact on Miss C. It would mean that I was in control of what came next (needing to be in control is a very common theme with me). So, two days after our scan we went back to the hospital for the surgery. I sat in the car park and cried, refusing to go in because to go in would make this nightmare real. It would mean that this was really happening. Six and a half years later I’d do pretty much the same thing at the same hospital when I had to go and collect Mr C’s belongings. The hospital where we had our beloved daughter, where I was operated on after losing our second baby was also the hospital where Mr C died. And every single time, they’ve treated me with kindness and respect.
Going home after the D&C was surreal. I wasn’t in any real pain. It really was as though nothing had really happened. I could drink alcohol again. I could eat what I wanted. Overnight, life was returning to the way it was. Except for one thing. Me. It would take me a long time to return to normal after this. Not least because my body physically took a look time to recover and go back to normal. Mentally I felt like a failure. I felt like I’d done something wrong. Yes, I knew that this was just one of those things and it happens to 1 in 4 pregnancies, but it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. It didn’t stop me feeling as though I’d let Mr C and our baby down because I hadn’t been able to have a successful pregnancy. But the strangest thing of all was that despite this, I didn’t really know how to feel. A week after the D&C I couldn’t stop crying. I remember locking myself in the bathroom and ringing Mr C to tell him that I didn’t know how to stop crying. That I didn’t want to cry in front of Miss C because I didn’t know how to tell her what was wrong. She was three years old; how do you explain it? She was confused enough that I wasn’t working and was at home every day. That was enough for her to get her little head round!
I remember telling people not to be nice to me. Not to treat me differently. People would tell me it was ok to grieve, but in all honesty, I didn’t know what I was grieving for. I’d never met this baby. How can you grieve for something you’ve never really had in your life? But I was grieving. I was grieving for a lost future. I was grieving for our future family. Even now I grieve for that. Even now I still wonder who that baby would have been. Would they have been a boy or a girl? Would they have been like Miss C? What would they be into? Would it have made a difference to Miss C to have had a sibling when her father died? While the raw pain has dissipated, the “what if” that I feel even eight years on is just as strong.
And I also wonder “what if” about how I dealt with it at the time. What if I’d been more honest and spoken about it more. I know there will be people I worked with at the time who may read this now having had no idea of what I went through. Because I chose not to talk about it. I chose to pretend nothing had happened. I can’t remember for definite, but I’m fairly sure I only told two people at work. I went back to work after two weeks and the majority of people had no idea why I’d been off. It wasn’t that I was ashamed, it was just I wanted to carry on as normal. To talk about it would have forced me to deal with it. As I write this now, I have no idea why I took this approach. I’d have been given understanding. I’d have been given time. It would have meant that when I bumped into one of my friends at work, she’d have been a bit more prepared for me breaking on her. All she did was just ask me how I was because she hadn’t seen me for a while, and I cried. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. The experiences I’ve gone through since have made me realise that it’s ok to talk about miscarriage, about mental health, about grief. Because they’re all part of what is “normal.” They’re all part of who I am and what has happened on my rollercoaster life.
So today I remember. I think about my favourite and most treasured “what if.” I will always think about what might have been. And I talk about it. Because I am, and it’s ok to be, 1 in 4.
Life is a rollercoaster 