The first time round, at five weeks pregnant my symptoms were in overdrive and my boyfriend and I rushed to tell our parents and siblings. They (predictably) were completely supportive. Ecstatic and embraced the news. In fact, my mom wasted no time in buying clothes for the baby that I’ve kept until this day.
Sadly, there was to be no baby. The first scan showed a low heartbeat at 6 weeks and a scan a few days later showed that the foetus had died.
I grieved for days that felt like weeks. Nothing and nobody can prepare you for the feeling of losing a baby. I lost count of just how many times I crumbled at home or at work with the weight of feeling that something was wrong with me.
I spent five weeks taking trips to the hospital in a state of denial, convinced that the scans were wrong and certain that it was just too early for the heartbeat to show. My body hadn’t started the expectant miscarriage process that they predict we’d thought would happen and the nurses were convinced that my distress was the cause. My body wouldn’t let go.
The nurses from my hospital phoned me on a daily basis, calmly urging me to return to the ward to start the next process – medical management.
At eleven weeks, I came to the realisation that the scans were not wrong and there was nothing at all I could do.
Feeling helpless, I returned to the ward and was immediately admitted to the hospital by a nurse that thankfully, took charge of me, the young woman in her care. I promised that I’d return the next day. She refused to let me leave and insisted that I stay for the treatment under her guidance. I stayed.
After administering the medication we waited and waited. I curled up in agony before pain relief was prescribed. Hours later, nothing. I stayed overnight and whilst I experienced a lot of blood loss there was no completion of the miscarriage. I was sent home the following day with continued bleeding and I promptly returned myself to work, convinced that I needed to get some normality into my life.
A couple of days later, the bleeding remained heavy. I returned for another scan and we found that I hadn’t miscarried despite the bleeding. So we progressed to surgical management, also known as dilation and curation.
I was booked in fairly quickly and guided through the process before being admitted for the procedure. Under full anaesthetic the foetus was removed and I started the process of rebuilding my strength both physically and mentally.
It didn’t get any easier but I learnt to start leaning on those around me to support and love me the way that they wanted to.
My Uterus Diary 