This is the hardest thing to talk about but NOT talking about it would be even harder. I know a lot of women choose to keep their pregnancy journeys and losses private or within only their close circles and I fully respect that. It’s a tough and intimate topic to talk about. But I need to get this off my chest.
Yesterday, you might have seen on Instagram stories that I posted about going through a miscarriage. I didn’t share much on there but I said that I felt like I needed to write and talk about it. If you know me personally, you’d know that I’m not one to bottle up my feelings and emotions. I need to talk. I need to share. I need to have REAL conversations about life and all it’s ups and downs.
I’m not going to start at the beginning (maybe I’ll save that for another post), but I’m going to skip to the end. For now, I just want to get my most raw thoughts and feelings down as well as tell you a few key details. It’s all I can manage just now.
The story ends tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be having a procedure to remove my pregnancy. I’ll be 9 weeks and 6 days pregnant. Our baby stopped growing a few weeks ago but my body hasn’t realised there’s anything wrong yet. It still thinks I’m pregnant and hasn’t miscarried on its own. They call it a ‘missed miscarriage’. We’re devastated, confused but also relieved that by this time tomorrow it will all be over and there will be no more waiting.
To cut a long story short, we’d had a few ultrasounds and the baby was always measuring smaller than what it should. These scans should have detected a heartbeat but we never found one. We were told to wait a few weeks then come back as it could have been too early to accurately measure. Our scan last Monday was where it all became ominous. The technician was silent the entire time and wouldn’t tell us a thing. When we pressed him, he said we would have to wait for the doctor’s report. I didn’t have a good feeling about this but I chose instead to feel frustrated. Why couldn’t he tell us anything? Was it because he seemed young and perhaps inexperienced? Surely. Surely it was that.
On the day of our move on Wednesday, my doctor called me. She had received the report and asked us to come in for an appointment. She said there should have been a heartbeat by now but nothing had been detected, that it wasn’t a positive scan. She asked that Ben come too so we could discuss ‘the next steps’. Hearing those words, standing in our empty kitchen of our old apartment was when we fell apart.
At our doctor’s appointment at 9am the following morning. My GP went through the radiologist’s report, which coldly stated that the pregnancy was ‘non-viable’. Everything was too small, the gestational sac and the baby. I should have been about 9 weeks but the baby was measuring closer to 6. No heartbeat was found. It was a missed miscarriage.
We were booked into the E.P.A.S. (Early Pregnancy Assessment Service) at the Royal Women’s Hospital here in Melbourne at 11am the following day (Thursday). There, the doctors would review my reports, do other testing and make the final call about what would happen from there. I was grateful to be able to get in so soon.
Arriving at this clinic at the hospital, I realised immediately that this is not a happy place to be. This is the place you come when things are wrong. Various couples came and went from the waiting room. None looked happy. One woman came out of her appointment, promptly burst into tears and locked herself in the bathroom. We are here, I thought. This is our new reality.
We had a consult with one of the nurses who told us that a doctor had reviewed our scan reports and had said that we might not be able to get an answer today. Usually they wait at least a week between scans which meant they should wait until Monday. But, if we wanted to, we could still do a scan because, depending on what they could see, they could possibly still call it. We were so eager to get answers that of course we wanted to do the scan that day.
The doctor who did our scan was lovely; gentle and reassuring but also direct. She said that they must be 101% sure before they diagnose a miscarriage and sometimes early scans can be inaccurate. She would do her own scan, compare it to my previous ones and see what she could determine. By this point, I had resigned myself to the fact that I’d miscarried. I wasn’t expecting any other news. I wasn’t hopeful. I wasn’t anxious. I was just looking for confirmation.
This scan was different to our past ones in that the doctor described everything as she went. There was no vagueness or hesitation on her behalf, which we were grateful for. We didn’t have to wait for the images to be reviewed or for a report from someone else. She took us through exactly what she saw every step of the way.
Once she found the embryo and measured it, she said, ‘Okay. I’m prepared to call it. It’s a miscarriage’. In that moment I wasn’t shattered (that had come days before). I was just relieved to know for sure. She said that the rate of growth that they are looking for is 1mm per day plus a heartbeat. When compared to my scan two weeks prior (the one even before Monday’s one), there had been no growth since. It was still very difficult to hear those words but I had been expecting it and so had felt prepared. She was very reassuring and said that it was not my fault, it was nothing I did, but it was just unlucky. 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage and it’s just unfortunate. She reminded me that I was still young (31) and was able to get pregnant very easily, which are very positive signs. She also said that everything else looked healthy so there was no reason to worry about the future.
Afterwards, we had a consultation with another nurse who walked us through where to go from there. She said there were three options. We could wait for it to pass naturally without intervention (although it could take weeks for my body to realise). We could take medication to help start the process (although sometimes the effect is unpredictable and incomplete). Or we could opt for a D&C (dilation and curettage), a surgical procedure that removes everything. I can’t imagine waiting weeks for my body to do it’s natural thing (if it even does) and the thought of carrying around a dead baby for much longer is just too traumatic. I booked in for the procedure tomorrow morning. It was the earliest time available since it’s the weekend now.
This weekend has felt like we’re in limbo. We’re waiting, waiting, waiting for it to be over. But it’s strange. It feels like time has both slowed down and sped right up. I am both impatient to get it over with but also dreading it being over. By this time tomorrow I’ll be barren, empty. It will be both a relief and a horrible and unexpected, new reality.
So what am I feeling? So. Many. Things.
Tired because I haven’t been sleeping well and I’ve had nightmares about the procedure and process.
Drained because it’s just so much to take in and accept.
Grief that the future we so happily imagined has been snatched away.
Thankful for all the loving support from our family, friends and, in the last 24 hours, from this community. We feel very lucky as not everyone has this.
Jealous of all the pregnant women and families wheeling prams around our neighbourhood. It feels like the whole world is pregnant or has babies except us. It’s like a punch to the guts every time I leave the house. Today, for example, the one time we left the house, just as I opened the front door, a woman walked directly past holding a newborn. Then, when I left our building, a couple were cooing over their tiny baby in the pram they were wheeling. And then, at the cafe we had lunch at, a pregnant woman strolled past our table on her way to the bathroom. It’s just EVERYWHERE.
Grateful because I was actually able to get pregnant easily in the first place, which I know is not a reality for a lot of women.
Anxious about the procedure tomorrow and how I will feel directly before and after.
Excited for a new, clean start after tomorrow is over.
Scared about going through this again in another pregnancy or not being able to get pregnant again.
Appreciative of Ben and how supportive and tender he’s been. This has hit him just as hard as it’s hit me, yet he’s been such an incredible source of comfort.
Relieved that the trauma of the actual miscarriage will happen quickly when I’m asleep.
Concerned that my body didn’t realise there was a problem with the pregnancy.
Comforted because pregnancy loss and fertility struggles are so unbelievably common. I know I’m not alone.
Emotional as I’m in tears at the drop of a hat.
Impatient that we have to start all over again from the beginning.
Strong because I know, in time, we will get through this.
Hopeful that someone else out there will connect with my story and feel like they’re not alone.
Angry that even though this is common, why did it have to happen to us?
Connected to other women who have gone through a similar thing.
Trustful because we will have our baby in the end, even if it doesn’t happen on our own timeline.
And… frustrated by how little this is talked about. Our social media feeds are filled with pregnancy announcements and news of healthy baby arrivals. But the journey to actually get to that point is often left out. But gosh, it’s an important bit to share. I wish that this wasn’t whispered about behind closed doors. I feel as though the hard parts should be discussed just as much as the happy parts. I know that it isn’t easy to shout these stories from the rooftops but let’s just start sharing more of the whole story. It will help to break the taboo and normalise it a bit more.
It’s been really helpful for me to hear all of your stories about miscarriage (particularly the ones with happy endings). If you feel comfortable sharing, please do. It helps me to know that I’m not alone and I’m sure it will help many others out there too.
Read what happened next here:
Dear Emma and Ben,
I am only 21, so I’m not going to pretend I know what you are going through. I can’t say that I do.
I can, however, give you some hope. There are stories of miscarriage with happy endings. I am living proof.
When at 30, my parents started trying, my mum unfortunately miscarried several times. But my parents never gave up hope, and knew that if they tried just one more time, something would come of it. That something ended up being me. At 32, my mum gave birth to a happy, healthy baby, who’s been kicking and screaming since the very first minute!
Since I’ve been born, I’ve been the luckiest kid. I never had to go to hospital, I never got too sick. My mum tells me it’s because I got the strength of all the previous babies, along with mine. I truly believe that’s true.
So know that when you do get your own little miracle, you’re in for an amazing kid that will carry the strength of this baby with them.
All my love,
Jana
Thank you for your sweet comment, Jana and for sharing your mum’s experience. I love this story and I hope that our baby is as strong and healthy as you are. xx
I’m so sorry, Rachel! I’m sorry that I don’t have any comforting words for you either, but know that I’ll be sending positive vibes your way now, tomorrow during your procedure, and after for a quick recovery.
Thank you so much Elizabeth. Your thoughts mean a lot x
Sorry you had to go through this. Being told “it’s nature’s way” doesn’t help much. My daughter went through the same thing a few years ago weeks before she was supposed to get married. They wanted to hold onto hope,even though it was false. And they had the option of waiting for her body to realize she had miscarried or undergoing the procedure. She didn’t want to wait because, if she did, then there was the risk she could spontaneously miscarry in her wedding dress on her wedding day! I attempted to write up her (their) feelings after I got home. That’s attached. Once written, I never revised it. This also served as my way of letting close friends know. I write narratives, not poetry, but this comes closer to the latter. I’m sure you identify with having clung to hope while deferring grief. I hope you can move through this and onto the next chapter. Best, Jim
Grief Deferred as We Cling to Hope
Our hearts leapt
anticipating
what we came
to see, and hear,
and feel.
Joy restrained
was our way
to hedge our bets.
We knew we’d already
said far too much
to far too many.
“Gonna be good news,”
the doc said, then
he ran the scan.
“Perfect sac formation,”
“Clearly defined embryo,
you can see it here.”
“But,” he said,
“there’s been no change,
things were going fine,
but then they stopped,
we can’t know why.
At nearly 8 weeks,
we should see more.”
Pause.
“It’s nature’s way.
It sheds what shouldn’t be.”
Pause.
“It’s not good news.
Sorry,” he said.
No heartbeat,
still, he never said
“it’s dead. “
“I can tell you your options.
We can take it, or it will shed
on its own in a few week’s time.”
“Perfect timing,” she said,
“Right on my wedding day,”
envisioning herself
in her wedding whites.
“Is there room to hope?”
she didn’t ask, but he sensed
the question and said,
“or you can come back
in another week
for another scan,”
as if to say,
you can have a stay
of execution
hoping against hope
it will grow and stay.
So, agreed, we leave,
she says, “I think it was over
before it began. It should
have been further along when
he first said, ‘I have a surprise for you,’
it had already stopped.”
Pause.
“I have mixed feelings. Now
I can enjoy my wedding day.
And my honeymoon.”
He said, “My heart sank.”
I said, “Perhaps your heart
is a submarine.”
He said, “my mom will have
a hard time.”
So we bind ourselves to the hope
this thing with no heartbeat
that’s entered a stall
can sprint and grow
by leaps and bounds.
If it never does
it didn’t die
it just never was.
I’m so sorry to hear that about what happened to your daughter, Jim. How devastating for her during such a happy time as the lead up to her wedding. Thank you so much for sharing your poem with me. It was very tender and captured the emotions so well. I really appreciate the time you took to comment. I’m wishing your daughter all the best for the future.
Sorry for your loss, Rachel. I was in your shoes this time last year. I thought, did I do something wrong? It was heartbreaking. It wasn’t something we were planning or trying for, but still, I felt so devastated. When you see the double lines, your heart explodes with excitement, and then for doctors to confirm that was indeed a miscarriage, it’s like you feel empty inside. Like you, I felt so many emotions in the weeks that followed. A year later, I sometimes wonder, “What if..”, but I’m hopeful that next time around, things will work out for the best. There’s still that fear that it may happen again, but as my Mom always says, “Don’t worry until you have a reason to worry.” For now, I’m hopeful and optimistic about the future. Sending prayers of strength your way!
Thank you so much for sharing this Kaitlyn. I’m so sorry to hear that you also experienced pregnancy loss. I’m also feeling hopeful for the future. This one, for whatever reason, just wasn’t meant to be. I like your mum’s advice – very true. Thank you xx
Sorry for your loss Rachel. I won’t pretend to understand, what you’re going through, because honestly I am not in your shoes. But I definitely want to take this moment to tell you, that I think you’re very strong. For some reasons, I am not going to have a kid at all, so may be I’ll never understand. But you’re a strong woman Rachel and I know this will pass soon. The future for you will be happy and bright. You and Ben in my prayers…
You are so lovely Deepika. Thank you so so much. x
As I read this today I am at exact same spot that you are in, my story is ditto yours, only I will turn 35 this July.. 11Weeks pregnant babe development stopped at 7week4days, no heartbeat.. tomorrow I do my D&C, 22 hours from now I will be without this little one.. I hope I do get a happy ending like you did you with gorgeous rainbow baby, I totally totally agree 100% with what you have expressed, at one point it was as if I am reading something I wrote.. thank you for sharing your experience.. I read it when I needed it the most. God bless you with all the happiness ❤️
I read this article after as I’m home trying to relax after having the D&C today. I wanted to find someone’s story and hopefully felt like I could relate to as I do feel so alone about this. Your story feels shockingly similar to mine, even though I’m only 20 years old, this was unplanned, and bad timing. Although I’m young and still have so much more to live for before children, I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I was supposed to be eleven weeks, but as I had my ultrasound yesterday, the doctor said the baby was growing incorrectly. The sac looked nine weeks, the fetal pole looked six weeks, no heart beat, and the yolk sac was supposed to be gone. I cried a lot and didn’t know how handle it. So much was going through my head as the same as the emotions you felt writing each sentence about a certain emotion and why you felt that way. I do feel relieved in a sense that I can live out what people so call say the last years of youth, but it’s heartbreaking going through that my first ever child was the one that wasn’t going to be here with me. I deeply agree that social media doesn’t speak much about the harder part of pregnancy and the realities that it just might not happen…I really thought I was going to have this baby just because of how young I am. Apart of me does feel like there could be something wrong with me, but the doctor said there will only be concerns about my body if something goes wrong a second time again. I just hope one day after I’m financially and mentally ready to have a baby, I will be confident enough to not be scared or worried what’s going to happen anymore. Thank you so much for posting this story even though it was three years ago. It still helped someone like me from the future 🙂