It’s Mother’s Day and the weight of emotion I’m feeling has motivated me to write. It has taken me completely by surprise. I never felt I was a mother. I was pregnant but not a mother… but I was doing a zoom strength class, and the instructor said “Happy Mothers Day to all the mothers!” and I felt crushing exhaustion.
I’m writing in the bedroom with the door closed because I don’t want my partner to see me cry again. I have sent us from good communication to bad because I don’t want our lives to revolve around my sadness. I have been crying since the beginning of the pregnancy for one reason or other. I feel difficult to be around and a burden. The thing is, I felt an emotional block towards my lost baby for the first month after the miscarriage, spilling my emotions onto other things, but now it’s starting to go. Now, I feel I’m regressing.
We’ve been trying the moment I ovulated again after the loss. It’s been three unsuccessful months and each month that passes without pregnancy, the sadness increases. Each month I feel a deeper connection to my lost baby. I’m missing it more, able to visualise better what was lost, understanding what a miracle it was to have happened in the first place. Each month I stand over my negative pregnancy tests and I’m re-traumatised. Now I understand very clearly that if I can’t get pregnant again I will not be okay. The need to replace what was lost makes trying to get pregnant, this time round, a dark and depressing experience.
I try making it fun – ovulation tests making it a sort of game. In fertile weeks I feel truly confident. Why wouldn’t it happen this time? Then there is the week and a half leading up to my period when I know I’m not pregnant, but am still hopeful. Sometimes, imagining pregnancy symptoms that are not there. I’m fairly resigned by the time my period comes round, but it’s sad. It’s almost comical as I cry over my boiling menstrual cup.
We got pregnant once but only made it to 15 weeks. I can’t tell you how much that number blows my mind. 15 whole weeks. 3 and a half months. I had known I was pregnant from day one. I was in my second trimester. Miscarriage isn’t a strong enough word.
Getting pregnant the first time was terrifyingly easy. I know that at the age of 37 I’m running out of fertile years. We got pregnant the first month. I don’t think either of us were beside ourselves wanting a baby at that stage but it was wanted. We felt extremely lucky. We were happy, the family and friends we told were happy. We were reading the books together and moving to a bigger flat, choosing one that was practical for a baby. We shared that pregnancy with such intimacy in lockdown.
It was challenging from the beginning as at 5 weeks I had to have early scans. I had pains that actually turned out to be cyst, but because they couldn’t see the foetus I had to go back for numerous tests and scans over the next three weeks to see if it would show up. Suddenly this baby was painfully wanted. Each scan was of course done on my own, with my partner waiting outside the hospital to see what my face would look like as I came out. Each time I would hold my breath but nothing would be found, and I would be told that the chances were that this was not going to be viable, but let’s try again in a week. It was an intensely lonely experience.
When the foetus was finally seen, the relief was overwhelming. Finally! We could enjoy this pregnancy! I bought pregnancy dungarees and sank into it.
I went through all the typical symptoms, enjoying every single moment of them because it all meant I was still pregnant. Even lying on the sofa, unable to move because of the extreme nausea, I was happy because it meant everything was fine. I never complained. I was terrified of losing the baby and it literally took over all my waking thoughts. My anxiety over losing the baby was extreme, and I had to try many things to calm myself down – mindfulness, yoga, podcasts, reading, writing. I started showing, I calmed down a little. A stranger pointed out my bump, I beamed for days.
Eventually 12 weeks rolled round, and I messaged my friend on the day of the scan “12 weeks are finally here, we’re finally safe!”.
We headed to the scan nervously, with my partner waiting in the hall outside. We messaged each other through the hour we waited, talking about now nervous we were, what a huge moment this was. We were so extremely lucky that at this stage partners were allowed into the 12 week scan.
We went into the room and I got up on the bed. This is such a big moment for a pregnant woman. This is the moment we all think about, see in movies, hear about. This is the moment your partner becomes as connected as you are. This is when it all starts really truly happening. It’s time to sink into this pregnancy. The scan begins, my partner holds my hands. The sonographer says “there’s nothing there”. My brain stops working.
As he continues to speak I can barely keep up, and my partner takes over. The sonographer can’t give us any information. He sends us out into the waiting room. My legs aren’t working so my partner guides me out. We stand for ages waiting for a receptionist to tell us what to do next. She finally comes and takes us back to a side room. I am completely aware by now that this isn’t happening. This pregnancy isn’t happening. I don’t need them to tell me that but my partner does, so we sit and listen as a nurse tells us we will have to come back for another scan in a week so they can try again. I know there won’t be anything.
A week later we come back. This time the care we received was appalling. There’s no point going into details, apart from to say that we were treated like cattle. There was not one moment of consideration. I was told there would need to be another scan another week later. We decide to transfer hospitals.
Kings College Hospital treated me with absolute respect as a human being. After one scan they tell me the true news. They don’t make me wait. My partner is allowed in the room. One of the nurses puts and hand on my shoulder and says she is sorry. I feel that I am no longer in a nightmare. It is crushingly, devastatingly sad but I am being held. I am not on my own.
We opt for surgery at 15 weeks. A natural miscarriage isn’t coming and the team feel that this is the best for my mental health. Again, I do it alone, but at least I feel that I can move on, somehow, now. I get an infection from the surgery and end up in hospital. I think all the time now about whether my uterus is okay.
I have just finished my period. I am now entering a hopeful time. It really could happen this month. I’m sure everything will be fine.
My due date is in a month and a half. I really hope it happens before then.