If you are going through a miscarriage firstly let me say that I wish more than anything that I could sit you down with a cuppa and give you a big hug. There is nothing I or anyone else can say or do that will take this pain away but please know that while you have to tread this path, you don’t have to do so alone.
As I write this I should be coming up to my 26th week of pregnancy. Instead I’m on day 2 of my period and honestly hating every second of it. It shouldn’t be this way.
Nothing, and I really mean nothing, can prepare you for the reality of a miscarriage. You can have empathy of course but until you have lived the excruciating pain of it it’s simply difficult to imagine or understand what it feels like. It’s a subject we as a society (in many ways understandably) do not speak about and so our view of miscarriage is shaped by how we see it portrayed in films and on TV. And when your experience differs from that you start to search for answers.
There is a wealth of people bravely sharing their stories on social media to break down some of the taboos around miscarriage. But it’s not necessarily something that you’re going to find without looking. The result is that if you do experience a miscarriage you probably aren’t going to be prepared for what it actually looks and feels like.
I suppose that everyone assumes that miscarriage is something that happens to other people until you go through it.
It probably sounds a bit strange but even in those awful first few days after we found out we’d lost our baby I knew I would end up writing about it on here. Partly because I find writing to be helpful for moving through things but also because I found reading the stories of other women who had experienced a miscarriage to be a real comfort. It helped me to realise that I wasn’t alone.
The more I thought about what and how much I wanted to share of my own experience I realised that I didn’t simply want to share my story, I wanted to share my experience in a way that might help others going through it too.
I wish I’d known… that having a healthy pregnancy is no guarantee you won’t have a miscarriage
At the start of May 2021 I found out I was pregnant with my second child. We were overjoyed. That same day we spoke to a mortgage broker to confirm that we could afford to start looking to buy a house. All these things coming at once, it felt like a sign.
My due date was January 6 but seeing as R had arrived 9 days early it seemed likely that this baby could arrive before the year was out. I threw myself into house-hunting, knowing that we would soon need space as a family of four.
I spent most of those first few weeks feeling utterly exhausted. By 8 weeks the nausea had really ramped up and I was struggling to concentrate at work. But I reassured myself, this was how I had felt with R. The constant hungover feeling would shift by the second trimester I was sure. At the start of June we visited my family in Cornwall and I tentatively told a few close family and my best friend that we were expecting.
Although I told them we had to wait until the scan to be sure I was starting to relax into the pregnancy. Surely the fact I had already had a healthy pregnancy reduced the likelihood that something might go wrong.
In my first pregnancy I had spent weeks terrified of a silent miscarriage. Of finding out at the scan that there was no heartbeat. But that pregnancy had gone perfectly. Second time round I still had those anxieties but I was able to rationalise them. I’d done this before. There was nothing to fear.
Of course I still worried that perhaps I wasn’t really pregnant. I’d get odd doubts, like the fact that the trainee midwife had struggled to take my booking bloods – not unusual for me given my history when it comes to blood tests but still, shouldn’t I have much more blood during pregnancy making it easier?
I can’t decide if it was just my normal anxiety or if it was something subconscious telling me something wasn’t quite right
I told my boss after the booking appointment. Suddenly it all seemed real. I remember telling her that I’d rather tell her now so that if anything did go wrong at the scan I wouldn’t have to explain. I can’t decide if it was just my normal anxiety or if it was something subconscious telling me something wasn’t quite right. Perhaps that’s the reason why I kept my work calendar clear of meetings after my scan “just in case”. But then how could I know, when everything felt as it should?
The morning of my scan I actually started to feel excited. We were going to meet our baby for the first time! We’d discussed how we would tell friends and family over the weekend. I thought how best to tell R. The only thing that betrayed my underlying nervousness was an upset tummy – something I experience before any interview or big event.
It’s strange the thoughts you have. As we sat in the waiting room at the hospital I thought about how difficult it must be for the sonographers when they have to deliver bad news. I remember sitting on the bed in the scan room and suddenly thinking “what if there’s no baby in there?” whilst I’d felt bloated for several weeks my tummy felt quite flat. But then with R I had barely shown even quite far on in my pregnancy.
But as soon as the scan started I knew. The screen looked too empty. Too still. When the sonographer said he was struggling to find a heartbeat I wasn’t surprised. He asked if we wanted the screen turned off. He told us he needed to get the opinion of a second sonographer to be sure. The baby was measuring 8-9 weeks. I should have been 13.
The second sonographer took seconds to confirm. It was obvious there was no heartbeat. We were taken to a quiet room to wait for someone to take us to the gynae ward to talk through what comes next.
I wish I’d known… about all the decisions that follow a miscarriage diagnosis
As soon as I sat down in that quiet room I cried. Holding N I felt numb. It all just felt so surreal. All I wanted was to go home and hold R tight.
On the gynae ward we were taken to another quiet room where a nurse handed us leaflets and explained the options: medical or surgical management. I had a week to decide before the hospital would phone me.
What no one really tells you about a missed miscarriage is that the scan isn’t the worst part. Because once you’ve left the hospital you’re faced with a decision that no one should have to make: how to remove your baby from your body.
My baby had stopped growing at around 8 weeks but my body had resolutely refused to let go of it. Instead I had continued to feel pregnant. My morning sickness had peaked at 9 weeks. I’d continued to have food aversions. I was still feeling exhausted. My milk supply had dropped and breastfeeding R had become painful. I hadn’t had any twinges, nothing that betrayed the reality of what was going on in my womb.
I didn’t think I could handle seeing the pregnancy sac containing our baby or deal with disposing of it
I read the leaflets. I read stories on the Miscarriage Association website. I just wanted it to all be over and to move on. I was terrified of having medical management, where pessaries are inserted into the vagina to soften the cervix and effectively induce labour. It sounded painful and I didn’t know how I would manage the process at home with a toddler that co-sleeps. And I didn’t think I could handle seeing the pregnancy sac containing our baby or deal with disposing of it.
But then the surgical option was scary too. I’d never had a general aesthetic. What if something went wrong or I had a reaction? I spent the next day in bed agonising over the decision.
In my mind I just wanted this all to be over. I wanted to be pregnant again – the sooner the better. I wanted the option that would allow us to start trying again the quickest. But I also didn’t want to cause any damage to my uterus that might affect a pregnancy in future – after all, I already have scar tissue from my c-section.
In the end I spoke to the Miscarriage Association. The lady on the phone was so helpful, explaining that surgical management was a short (10 minute) procedure, that many women found it allowed them to draw a line under the physical aspects of miscarriage and focus instead on the emotional recovery. After a brief exchange of messages with N I phoned the hospital and booked in for surgery.
Strangely booking in for surgery gave me a sense of calm. Perhaps it was knowing the decision had been made, or just that the physical part would be over soon. Perhaps I just didn’t have any more tears by that point.
I wish I’d known… that sometimes there’s no blood or pain at all
Of course the fact that my body hadn’t made any attempt to end the pregnancy didn’t mean that it wouldn’t. So I spent the weekend waiting to see if I started bleeding. I explained to N I didn’t want to go anywhere just in case. I started to feel some mild twinges but nothing painful.
Oddly I don’t feel guilty or a failure for my miscarriage. I know that there was nothing I could do, that the majority of first trimester miscarriages are a result of chromosomal abnormalities. I feel a certain appreciation in a way that my body was so determined to carry this pregnancy it kept going even when the heartbeat stopped.
Going through this pain of loss makes me think that if the worst has happened and I can get through it then I can get through it again
I also feel reasonably positive about trying again. Of course I’m nervous and certainly during the height of morning sickness I wondered if I could ever put myself through it again. But at the same time I keep thinking the awfulness of morning sickness is only a few weeks.
In a way going through this pain of loss makes me think that if the worst has happened and I can get through it then I can get through it again (of course I know there are plenty of other potential things that could happen, some worse, but it is still reassuring in a way). Certainly it’s reaffirmed for me just how much I want another child.
When I think about this pregnancy there were so many awful things about it:
- I spent weeks feeling exhausted and nauseous to the point that I could move or concentrate on work.
- I couldn’t face exercise despite being active in the run up to falling pregnant which really messed with my mental health.
- I spent weeks receiving constant text messages about my second covid jab (which I’d been advised by a midwife to delay until the second trimester).
- I’d almost passed out when my booking bloods were taken after the trainee midwife couldn’t find a vein in either arm.
In a way, it ending the way it did doesn’t feel out of kilter with the rest of the experience.
Those first few hours after the scan I thought to myself, how do you endure this? I knew that things would get better. I felt sure that this was a blip, that we would go on to have a healthy pregnancy. There was light at the end of the tunnel. But the tunnel felt unbelievably long and I was only on the first step shrouded in darkness.
I wish I’d known… having surgical management would bring back so many memories from giving birth
I called the hospital to confirm I wanted surgery on the Friday and I was booked on for Monday. The day before I was asked to go in for a covid test and to sign the consent forms and told what I would need to do to prepare for surgery. No food from midnight that night, a big glass of water when I woke up. Bring a book as I could be waiting a long time for a theatre slot.
Going through the consent forms was hard. Evacuation of retained products of conception. That’s the official name of the surgical management of miscarriage. I wasn’t really prepared for how difficult that would be. I didn’t realise I would need to go through the options for what I wanted to happen with the remains of my baby. Whilst I didn’t have to make any decisions then and there I still had to give an indication for the forms.
The day of the surgery N dropped me off at the hospital at 8am before dropping R with the childminder. I was taken to the early pregnancy unit and greeted by the same nurse who had done all my pre-surgery checks the day before who showed me to a bay. I was given a memory box which I put in the chair next to me without looking at it because I couldn’t bear to. And then I waited.
In a way it was nice to have time to myself
I’d been in hospital before after I had R via a c-section. Everything about the hospital ward was familiar – in a way I hadn’t expected. The familiarity was strangely comforting but bittersweet. It reminded me of being in that little postpartum bubble with R, except this time I wouldn’t be going home with a baby.
The staff on the ward were brilliant. It was confirmed fairly early on that I would likely be waiting until the end of the day so I was brought a jug of water. I passed the time listening to podcasts, reading and re-watching Bridgerton whilst crocheting a blanket. In a way it was nice to have time to myself.
At about 3pm the anaesthetist came to see me and explain what would happen next. I was given some paracetamol and asked to change into a theatre gown and compression socks. After more waiting I was eventually taken up to theatre. One of the lovely nurses from the EPU came with me. A cannula was inserted into my hand and an oxygen mask was put on. I used hypnobirthing breathing to stay calm while the general anaesthetic took effect.
I wish I’d known… that surgical management of miscarriage isn’t a “quick” option
I woke up disoriented after the surgery. I’d been dreaming vividly about N and R. Suddenly I was awake in a cold and busy room. I was given a blanket to stop the involuntary shivering but it still felt overwhelming. My baby was gone and I felt totally alone in that moment.
My surgery was late in the afternoon and after monitoring my blood pressure and my bloods I was told I would need to stay in overnight. I hadn’t expected it. No one had told me I should prepare to be in overnight. I messaged N and asked him to bring me some things. The covid restrictions on the ward meant that he couldn’t see me but he was allowed to drop a bag at the door.
I was glad to have my own pajamas and to have a wash after the surgery. I was bleeding but it wasn’t like a period. In fact it was much more like the bleeding I’d experienced after my c-section. It even had the same strong smell. The experience was unnerving. It was so similar to what I had experienced when I had R but there was no little baby next to me in a perspex fish tank cot.
The EPU nurse who had looked after me all day came to see me on the general ward at the end of her shift. I can’t tell you what a difference the kindness of the nurses on EPU made to the whole experience.
So I spent the night on a noisy general ward. It was the first time I’d spent a night away from R and I was so worried that she would struggle without me. Luckily my parents had offered to drive up from Cornwall and so they were there when R got home and helped distract her from being away from me. I wished that I could have enjoyed a night of unbroken sleep but with all the emotions and thoughts running through my mind sleep was impossible.
I didn’t have any pain. I didn’t need to take any painkillers either in hospital or when I got home. I was discharged after lunch the next day and that afternoon I went for a walk with my parents to show them the house we had put in an offer on.
The bleeding had almost entirely stopped by the time I got home but a few days later it started again and lasted several weeks. It was fairly light but I had spotting on and off until my period finally arrived seven weeks later.
I wish I’d known… that it can take a long time to get a negative pregnancy test after a miscarriage
I was told when I was discharged from hospital to take a pregnancy test after three weeks. After two weeks I was experiencing a lot of premenstrual symptoms and I was convinced I was getting my period. I knew I needed to get a negative pregnancy test before we could start trying again and so I tested a day early.
I was honestly devastated when I saw the strong positive line. I waited another four days and tested again. Still positive. I phoned the EPU and they told me that as I wasn’t bleeding and didn’t have any pain I should wait another week and test again.
I waited. I tested. Still positive, but this time fainter. I phoned the hospital, terrified I would need to go in for another scan or that I would need further surgery. But I was told to wait and test again.
Eventually almost seven weeks after the surgery I got a negative test. Two days later my period arrived.
I wish I’d known… how much I would fear the judgment of others
I don’t believe that my body failed. I try to stay optimistic. I believe that I will have another healthy pregnancy. I believe that my body did everything it could to safely hold on to my baby even after their heart had stopped beating.
But that didn’t mean that I didn’t fear the judgment of others. The conflict of wanting others to know and understand the pain that I was going through but also not wanting their pity or judgment was hard. I hated the idea that people might judge me and my body as a failure.
I’d told my team leader that I was pregnant and she knew that I was going for my scan so that made it very easy to email her to say that things hadn’t gone well at the scan and I would need time off. I’m glad that I didn’t need to explain anything to her and that she could let colleagues know broadly what was going on.
In total I took seven days off work (although the hospital had signed me off for eleven). Partly it was because I wanted to get back to normal and have the distraction of work, partly it was because I was worried that people would judge me for taking time off. I couldn’t get away from this idea that I had brought this on myself, that this wasn’t a justified reason for taking sick leave because it was within my control.
That’s completely ridiculous of course. No one can tell you how much time you need to recover and the recovery isn’t just physical. (It’s worth saying that my work have been amazing and supportive throughout.)
I kept thinking of certain friends and family who regularly ask us when we would be having a second (a completely inappropriate question). I hated the idea that they would be passing judgment on me, which made it difficult to even consider telling them what had happened.
Ultimately you don’t owe anyone an explanation of what is going on. It’s your decision who you tell and when you tell them.
I wish I’d known… how hard it would be to tell people I’d had a miscarriage but also how much I wanted to tell people
It took us a really long time to tell most people we’d experienced a miscarriage. In fact some people we didn’t tell at all and they found out via my Instagram. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell people, it was simply that I couldn’t find the words.
In the first few days I told a very limited number of people – my parents, a friend who I had told I was pregnant as she was due the same week as I was, a friend who messaged me asking if I was ok after I mentioned in a group chat that we were having a tough few days and the mums in our NCT group.
Somehow it felt easier opening up (via WhatsApp) with them because we’d all gone through our birth experiences together first time round. Of our group of five, four of us ended up having c-sections so I knew if there was one group that would relate to my experience of being on a ward following surgery it was them. It felt good to be able to message these friends when I was in hospital, especially when I found out I had to spend the night.
Most of the time it felt like it was always there on the tip of my tongue. I desperately wanted to share but I couldn’t find the right words or the right moment. I’d meet up with friends and when they asked me how I was or how I’d been I’d talk about something else and not mention it even though in my mind I wanted to scream because it was all I could think about. I’d spend endless time psyching myself up before seeing anyone and then stay silent.
But getting it out in the open was good. It felt like I didn’t have to talk about it but at least that barrier that it felt like I’d built was no longer there too.
And opening up on my social media about what we’d experienced allowed others who have been through it to to offer their support – something that is invaluable because you really aren’t alone in going through this (even though miscarriage is truly one of the most lonely things you can experience).
I wish I’d known… it really does get easier
No one can tell you how to react to having a miscarriage. No one can tell you how to grieve although there is plenty of support out there.
But day by day it gets easier.
Of course there are ups and downs, things can throw you at any moment – a phone call from the undertaker asking whether you want to attend a funeral service for your baby, a pregnancy announcement from friends or at work, an innocent comment from a pregnant friend that reminds you of everything you’ve lost.
It’s never easy but it does get easier.
I try not to think about the pregnancy I lost in that I try not to think about how many weeks I would be, although it’s difficult not to think that I should be getting ready for our arrival. Having a due date that would have been around Christmas makes things harder too because I know that this Christmas we’ll be thinking how our plans had been so very different.
But you endure. You get through. And I have to believe that eventually it will be ok.
If you are suffering a miscarriage or have been through one and are struggling please do reach out – charities such as the Miscarriage Association and Tommy’s have helplines available as well as plenty of information and my inbox is always open too x.
