Our miscarriage story- one year later

It has been a year since we lost our baby.

One year since I lost all symptoms of my pregnancy.

The insomnia was the first to go.

No more waking suddenly around 4am.

No more fullness in my stomach. 

No more tightness.

In fact, no symptoms at all.

Our family and friends said everything they were supposed to.

'The symptoms come and go', 'You're just a nervous new mum'.

Even the GP said this.

'I will run the tests just for you to feel better. But this anxiety isn't good for the baby'.

It was Easter long weekend. But he ran the blood tests. And ordered the scan. But the holiday meant I couldn't get a scan.

And then he rang...

'I think you need to go the emergency room. Your levels have dropped'.

And so we went. And it was very weird to be on the other side of the waiting room.

The triage nurses kept rotating, as they do. 

The first one attempted to reassure me that my Beta hCG levels were 'within range' for my gestation.

And the others that approached me, it was clear they had not read my file.

'Rate your pain out of 10'. And when I said 0, they were surprised, because I was crying. A lot.

I was lucky that day, because I was seen very quickly by a doctor. Not sure if it was because they weren't very busy or because they classified me as a more emergent triage case.

They did more blood testing. But the problem was, because of the public holidays they had no specialists to do the scanning I needed for diagnostic clarification. 

And when the junior doctor attempted an external ultrasound, she had a registrar with her who in front of me explained that 'this was why we don't do bedside ultrasounds under __ weeks'. He forgot bedside manor at this point.

But the blood tests came back. My pregnancy hormones had reduced further.

'I'm very sorry. I can't tell you good news. But this isn't 100% confirmation. You will need to present to the outpatient clinic on Tuesday when it is open again. This is what they specialise in. The good news is...you get to try for a baby again! That is the fun part!'.

I failed to see this as the bright side. Sex was not on my mind when I was being told our baby had died.

I was told to only present to emergency with excessive bleeding. At this point there was no bleeding.

On Tuesday, after waiting at home for a few days with no certainty, I showed up to the clinic. This clinic takes no appointments. 

My time came. And they didn't understand why I had no scans to show them. I explained that it had been the long weekend. They ordered a scan straight away. Which apparently they don't do for outpatient clients. 

I was alone. My partner had to go to work, because we had no definitive answers or timelines. 

I waited in outpatient medical imaging and was eventually asked to go inside.

The very kind ultrasound technician assisted me through my scan, and confirmed there was no heartbeat.

She was so empathetic, the only real kindness from a health care worker that I had through this experience. And she held me whilst I cried. 

'This will be enough for them to call it, I'm sorry'. She offered to show me through the scans to explain, which I agreed to. 

After this I was told to go home and wait for a call from the doctor. Which happened late that night.

The doctor called and confirmed there was no detectable heartbeat. However, the size of baby did not meet their criteria to officially call it because it was larger than my previous scan. Despite no heartbeat. The hospital policy was to wait another week and repeat a scan. At this point I cried and begged not to leave me alone for another week knowing that my baby had passed and was still within me. I was told that surgery was an option depending only on which consultant physician was on call the next day. 

I was told to present the next day and basically plead my case. I am so glad I had found my voice. 

Both of my parents were on holiday at this time. My mother a nurse, my father a doctor. I chose to risk ruining their plans and call them seeking advice and comfort. Both of which I got.

I attended the next day, ready to fight for my mental health. But thankfully there was none of that. They had already decided to perform surgery on me.

I was placed on the emergency list which meant I would be operated on whenever there was a free space. I arrived at 0700hrs and was operated on at 2000hrs (8pm). No eating or drinking during this time.

The things I remember on the other side (compared to being the nurse) is that the language of the staff truly mattered. I was referred to as the D&C patient (the pregnancy termination patient). I was given vaginal medication by a nurse who didn't explain the steps or warn me about the side effects or trauma.

I shared a room with a woman who was going through the same thing for the second time. I overheard her doctor attempting to comfort her with the explanation that they weren't worried unless it happened a third time.

I was brought down to theatres and was pushed back for another surgery. Which I understand as a nurse who has worked in theatres. 

I was assessed by the anaesthetist. His words were... 'okay, explain why we are doing this today'. Which is normal to gain consent. However, he then continued 'is it because we need to get the rest of what's in there out?' The scout nurse assisting looked mortified. Sad and vulnerable I was only able to reply that the miscarriage hadn't begun yet. 'No nothing has come out yet'.

Doctors refer to what happened to me as a 'silent miscarriage'. No miscarriage symptoms other than the loss of pregnancy symptoms.

Clinicians, your words matter. You see people in their most vulnerable state. Consider your words.  

I am grateful that I remember very little of the theatre room or recovery. I was given pain killers and was able to return home that day. 

But I am not sure that the staff thought anything of the loss I felt. If they had considered that I was more than just a surgical patient. I was losing my child that day. 

My physical recovery was fine. But I am still emotionally recovering a year later. 

To our baby who was loved and lost. We still think of you. To all that have experienced something similar. We still think of you.