I held the scan picture close to my chest as I picked up the long-awaited envelope. Holding it, burnt a large hole in my gut, and I left it unopened. I rang my friend, Jane. She sensed I needed to talk and told me to meet her at Luigi’s café. ‘Bring the envelope with you.’
I placed the envelope in a tote bag, and grabbed my handbag. As I arrived first, I ordered a cappuccino for Jean, a small peppermint tea for myself, and some toasted sandwiches. The barista made the drinks and gave me a table number for the food.
Jane bustled in and breathlessly thanked me for buying the drinks. She sat down opposite me, and took a sip of her drink. ‘Why did the envelope upset you?’
‘It contains a Baby Loss Certificate and there was nothing like this available thirty years ago. The government made it available last year for the first time, which is why I applied for it.’ I paused, ‘The thing is, I can’t bring myself to open it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I think I’m going to be swamped by all the feelings I had when it happened.’
‘Do you want me to do it for you?’
I shook my head and removed the envelope from my bag. My fingers felt as if they’d doubled in size, but with a bit of fumbling the flap opened up. The certificate slid out bearing the few details of a life never lived. It was printed on heavy duty paper, but rather stark, like the D&C operation at the time of the miscarriage – clinical and impersonal. In spite of my fears, I wasn’t overwhelmed; in fact, I felt numb.
Jane asked to look and I handed it over. ‘I see it has an official insignia at the top; followed by “Issued on behalf of the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care.”’ She sat quietly for a few minutes. ‘How can I help?’
‘I think I need the name of your counsellor.’ Jane nodded and pulled out her phone.
My mind filled with memories. Thirty years ago, I couldn’t ring my husband and let him know because there were no mobile phones. He couldn’t go with me to the doctor when I first saw the blue line and he couldn’t go with me to the scan.
I sat on the bed, in the small cubicle, staring at the machinery which moments ago was scanning my abdomen. The gel was chilly, and the constant pressure from the probe left me feeling exhausted. The internal scan was worse; obtrusive and bizarre at the same time. Finally, the sonographer began to move the machinery away. Without turning round, she told me the obstetrician would give me the results.
He sat on the scanning bed and looked anywhere but at me, his eyes conveying an unspoken question. I replied that my husband was at work, because he couldn’t get the time off for a routine scan. The obstetrician opened his mouth more than once, ‘The sonographer didn’t say anything?’ I shook my head and he sighed, ‘She couldn’t find a heartbeat so, the only conclusion is the baby is dead.’ He asked if I’d felt anything or had any bleeding. I said no, although my heart was bleeding as the words ‘The baby is dead’ penetrated through.
Everything after that memory blurred in my mind. They wanted to admit me immediately and do a D&C but I wanted to go home. The obstetrician suggested I make an appointment for the following week. He added that he was certain I would begin to bleed before then, and if I did, I should come in and they would do the D&C then.
Jane tapped my arm gently, ‘I’ve found the details you want but you seem to have disappeared into the past.’
I nodded, ‘It was as if it happened yesterday.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘You said, you found your counsellor’s details.’
‘Yes, the therapist’s name is Carmen. There’s her number, give her a ring and make an appointment.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do it when I get home.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
I knew what she meant. She passed me the paper, and I took a deep breath. Carmen answered on the first ring, ‘I wonder if I could make an appointment for a few sessions of counselling.’
‘Of course! What do you want to talk about?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever got over the loss of my first baby when I was a few weeks pregnant.’
‘Would you like to come in on Tuesday for a free session to see if we can work together? I agreed, and she gave me a time and her address.
Jane smiled, ‘I’m so glad you’ve done that. You’ve never told me what happened afterwards.’
I pondered how to respond, ‘The experience coloured everything including the pregnancy with Emma. Some people were unhelpful, there was a woman at John’s church who said, ‘Never mind, you can always have another; I didn’t want another, I wanted this one. John’s vicar was kind, he came to the house the same evening and prayed with us. Before he left, he made the suggestion that we name the baby. I don’t think I told you, but we named him or her Pat because it was too early to know the gender.’
‘I can see that was a lot to bear! What now?’
‘I feel the counselling is going to give me my life back. I’m going home and I will show the certificate to John.’
I stood and walked purposefully out of the café. By the time, I arrived home, my mind was made up. I was no longer going to be a victim of circumstances; I would use my experience to help others.