Monday, 5 November 2012

Dealing with Miscarriage

Lots has happened since I last posted.

I discovered I was pregnant.

I was too tired to post on the blog; tiredness seems to be what pregnancy does to me. No sickness, just exhaustion.

So I rested when I could, I ate well, I walked in the fresh air and I looked forward. I bought some cute cloth nappies on ebay. I imagined wrapping them around his or her little legs and waist. I wondered at the tinyness of them. I opened the books of baby names and searched for strong names with meaningful meanings.

I continued to feel tired, I continued to rest. At ten and a half weeks, I got a fright - I went to the toilet and wiped a little streak of brown blood. I told myself not to panic. So many people get bleeds and everything is fine. This was a Saturday at lunchtime. I went to the doctor on the Monday morning, but it was a week before the Gynae could see me. The bleeding stopped and started. Every time I went to pee if there was blood I felt deep terror; if there wasn't I felt a return to calm, and hope at least. I tried not to wonder about my lack of a growing belly; I convinced myself it was because I am much fitter now than when I was pregnant with E.

I got on with my life that week. I picked up my grandmother - E's great grandmother - from the airport. I went to Aldi and filled a trolley with shopping, I read the employment lists, I sent texts to friends, including a couple to whom I told the full story.

I went to my appointment, I read a book in the waiting area and virtually ignored my husband, not daring to talk or think about anything but a positive possibility.

The scan showed no heartbeat. The nurse suggested an internal scan, and of course I agreed, but at that stage, I knew. I KNEW. I knew what a nearly 12 week old foetus should look like. It should have looked like a little baby. Instead, it looked like a little blob. And there was no sound, on either scan. No Thump! Thump! Thurmp! of a little beating heart.

I was told the baby stopped developing at around 6 weeks, so I had carried her (I decided she was a she...for no apparent reason other than that's what it felt like I was carrying) for more than six weeks since she died. A missed miscarriage, is what that's called. Not a great name really, but not sure there are words that could really describe it, so I suppose maybe it's as good a name as any.

I felt very supported by my family, including my in-laws, some close friends, both IRL (In Real Life) and Online - women I have never met, though I hope to someday, who comforted me with texts and phone calls and supportive messages and emails and real, live hugs.

My next posts will continue to cover my experience of losing my baby. Thank you for reading, if you do, and I hope you never have to experience this. If you have, you have my sympathy. It is a dark, twisting pain. I will be ok, but I will never forget the baby that never was.

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