It took me some time to muster up the energy to write this blog post. Following my last blog post about the joy of our third successful attempt at pregnancy, my boyfriend and I were sadly met with the news that at 8+2 our baby no longer had a heartbeat.
I had already informed my manager about the pregnancy after the joy of our news at the first scan. This was a huge step for us to reach and I knew that in any case, I’d need all the support that I could get.
I recall being at work and it was a Friday afternoon. I’d had a really busy few weeks with family birthday’s and planning events at work but I had consciously stepped back from doing too much. I was sitting at my desk having a very casual conversation and literally recall feeling my pregnancy symptoms just… stopped. It was almost as though a switch had been flicked off. My tender and itchy chest that literally ached every time I moved, the constant nausea – it all stopped. I immediately knew that something was wrong.
I rushed from my desk to phone the emergency gynaecology unit at my local hospital. As a somewhat familiar patient I explained my unease and insisted upon a scan that afternoon – it was impossible to imagine going through that turmoil of emotion during a weekend. Thankfully the nurse understood my distress and encouraged me to get to the hospital straight away and I could be seen at the end of the day.
I made the journey in a flood of tears. I just knew that the worst was to come but I couldn’t bear to involve my partner in my worst thoughts just yet.
Following the scan it was confirmed that the baby’s heartbeat had stopped a few days earlier. I sat in the hospital, alone. Guided through the paperwork for the inevitable dilation and curettage (D&C) procedure that would have to follow. The procedure was booked to take place on the following Monday and I was sent on my way.
The journey home was painful. Overwhelmed by emotion I specifically took the long bus route across London to get home. My boyfriend had contacted me to check whether I was on my way home, I responded with my usual, cheerful tone, not wanting to crush his spirit just yet.
I got home and immediately went to the bedroom to ‘pull myself together’ before making my way into the living room to a happy boyfriend who instantly knew something was wrong. As I burst into tears he held me, crying with me for a baby that we had both dared to believe in.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. My boyfriend ushered me to bed to rest whilst he joined me to talk about what had happened and the next, oh so familiar steps that we would have to take.
The following morning I woke to find that the bleeding had started. Even though I had tried to prepare myself overnight for the fact that this would happen, nothing ever quite prepares you for realising that it’s really happening, again.
We spent the morning contacting our parents followed by explaining to our employers that we would both be taking time out to deal with the situation and the ordeal that would follow just a couple of days later.
Dealing with the enormity of experiencing a third unsuccessful pregnancy really changes a person. I really started to doubt so much about myself and my own strength, knowing that this was the trigger to kick start the potential for more tests and information to hopefully shape the rest of my journey to motherhood.