I was nearly ten weeks pregnant when the cramps made it hard to move. I told my husband ‘it is happening’ and I shut the door of our bedroom, so our 3-year-old daughter would not hear my sobs. I knew that something was wrong with this pregnancy, I had light spotting for a few days but I was still hoping that we could have our baby.
Soon, the contractions became so painful that I had to bite my arm. Nobody ever told me how physically painful a miscarriage can be. I was in labour. I dragged myself to the toilet, and sat there crying and talking both to myself and to my baby. I knew that it was late to beg him to stay, so I told him how much I loved him, and that his mummy would miss him forever. I decided to surrender to the death process, so I took deep breaths and I repeated ‘I let you go; I let you go’ and gushes of blood followed.
I called 111. The operator told me that a clinician would call me back within half an hour. I sat again on the toilet, and the contractions restarted. When I saw a massive blood clot, I screamed and kneeled on the floor. That bright red, large clot inside the toilet made it clear that my miscarriage was an irreversible process. I remember saying ‘mummy loves you’, stretching my arm to touch it. For a few minutes, I didn’t want to accept it. My husband found me on the toilet floor. My daughter had fallen asleep. The clinicians called in that moment. She asked me to take a deep breath and to sip some water, because I was shivering and sobbing to the extent that I couldn’t talk. It was pure devastation. When the contractions eased off, we drove to the A&E.
I remember sitting in the waiting room alone because my husband had to look after our toddler. The pain would come in waves. Suddenly, I leaked blood on the seat and when I stood, I felt drops running down my legs. I had a flashback: my waters breaking and wetting my dress three years earlier. This time, the pain would have not been wiped away by the joy of a new life. A part of me was dying and haemorrhaging blood.
I was given several pain reliefs options and I was recommended to rest in the hospital bed for a while. A nurse brought chocolate biscuits and some water. That is the only soothing memory I have of that night. I left the hospital shortly after midnight. I was relieved to just not feel the contractions, and to be at home.
I remember feeling empty and detached the morning after. Only the sweet and soft voice of my daughter anchored me to the present moment. She even made me laugh. I felt blessed to have her, and also so guilty. My husband proposed to try again in the future, but I knew that I couldn’t go through the same again and I didn’t even want to. I felt that I was not enough because I couldn’t give a sibling to my daughter and my husband wanted another child. But we had to face the fact that we were not in our twenties. Any pregnancy could get more complicated. Back in December, I had already had a miscarriage when I was only five weeks pregnant. Plus, my first delivery was a nightmare. I had an emergency caesarean and a large blood clot in my uterus for so many months. I wondered if my uterus was unable to sustain a pregnancy again. I wondered if the health of the embryo had been compromised by Covid, as we both came down with the illness straight before getting pregnant.
All those thoughts were stormed away that evening, when the contractions came back. This time, I knew the pattern. I bit my arm not to make noise as my daughter was sleeping. My husband lay next to me. The cramps were followed by a gush of blood and large clots, which I didn’t look at anymore. Despite not being religious, I begged god to alleviate at least the physical pain. Just before midnight, the labour level contractions stopped and I fell into sleep.
I spoke to some friends but I didn’t want to meet anyone. I was in pain and needed to rest. Reading the stories of women who went through similar experiences on this website was reassuring and made me feel less lonely. I need time to heal and I know that I will heal if I don’t forget. I need to pay tributes to my unborn child. Thinking about the ways in which I can commemorate our unborn child is the only thing that brings peace in my heart.