” Three bitterly cold days in February changed my life forever. On the first day, I was blissfully pregnant and excited to welcome our second baby later that year. By the third day, our baby was lost through miscarraige, and I was heartbroken, empty and confused about how to cope with our loss. How could I grieve for a baby that nobody, but me, knew?”
It started with one spot of blood at 2pm on a Sunday afternoon. My husband, David and I were heading to the cinema. I popped to the loo before we left and noticed the blood. I screamed. While I panicked, David rang the hospital and spoke with a midwife.
She said not to worry, spotting was common in pregnancy and to see our GP if it got worse. I put on a brave face and went to the cinema, but I didn’t take in one word of that movie.
The following morning, I woke at 8 am to more blood. We rushed to our GP as soon as the doors opened and he referred us for a scan. We sat in that cold, empty hospital waiting area for two hours until finally, around midday, a nurse called us.
A doctor performed the scan and suddenly, we could see and hear our baby’s heartbeat. I let out the breath I hadn’t realise I had been holding. Relief washed through us.But, our joy was short-lived, as the doctor informed us that our baby was too small for 12 weeks and he suspected a miscarriage was imminent.
He never made eye contact, he just dropped that bombshell and walked out. He didn’t explain what could physically happen if a miscarriage occurred. He didn’t offer any explanations or advice, he simply left us there, dumbstruck.
We couldn’t believe it. How could this be happening? We saw and heard our baby’s heartbeat, and surely he was mistaken? Not wanting to believe it, we left that hospital and drove straight across the city to another hospital for a second opinion.
They said all hope was not lost and booked us in for a scan later that week to see how baby was progressing. We went home with some semblance of hope. My Mum arrived at 6pm to stay over, cook dinner and give us some support. At 9pm, totally exhausted, I headed up to bed. On the upstairs landing, I was struck by a severe pain in my
lower abdomen. I felt a pop and blood started to gush from me.
My Mum, having been through a miscarriage herself, rubbed my back and told me everything would be ok, while she ordered my stunned husband to pack an overnight bag. In between pains, I managed to get to the car. It was 10pm when David helped me into the Emergency Room.
Once inside things got worse. The nurses made David wait in reception, while I was brought through. For hours, I had pains, very much like contractions. Repeatedly I asked if David could come in to hold my hand, but was told it was against hospital policy.
All the other women in the room were full-term and in various stages of labour, while I was losing my baby. I tried to be quiet because I didn’t want to ruin their happiness with my sorrow. At 1 am, distressed and alone, I grabbed a nurse and begged her to check how David was.
Reluctantly she stuck her head around the door. She asked, ‘is he wearing a cap?’ I said he was and she told me: ‘He’s sitting with his head in his hands’. At 2 am, after four hours of bleeding, they said they were admitting me for the night. They wheeled me out and my husband ran to me. They had left me the job of telling him our baby was lost.
The next morning a scan showed I had a complete miscarriage and could go home. The nurse recommended ‘lots of nice cups of tea’. There was no mention of a counselling service or support group.
No one told me I would bleed for weeks, that I would be very emotional, very tired and that my next period would be heavy. We needed support and proper information that would have made the grieving and healing process easier to cope with.
After our loss, some people avoided the topic or us altogether. Some said the wrong thing; the most common offender being: ‘Maybe it’s for the best, that baby could have been disabled or deformed’.
My advice if someone close to you loses a baby is to tell them you are sorry for their loss. Bring them a casserole or do a pile of laundry for them. That’s how you can show you care. There are 50 miscarriages every day in Ireland, and there is support for women and men dealing with this loss.
For more information visit the Miscarriage Association of
Ireland’s website at www.miscarriage.ie
Recommended reading: We Lost Our Baby: One Couple’s Story
of Miscarriage and Its Aftermath, available from amazon.co.uk