Miscarriage January 17, 2017

So that’s it. Gone. Just like that. Nine weeks, I thought. You didn’t make it past five. My gestational sac is still growing; every week it will grow more. Soon it will be broken down and then it will pass. And I won’t even be a bit pregnant any more. I’ll be post-pregnant but I shan’t have a baby.

This isn’t my first time. This is my second, possibly my third. Each one has been different.

It just seems such a waste. All that happiness, that love, the planning.

And for those people who say that “you shouldn’t plan until you get to 12 weeks”, I say fuck you. Fuck you, because I am a human being with love and hope and happiness and you just can’t hep it. You’re in love with this cluster of cells, you’re in love with what they will become. Love.

Ok, so this week has been really fucking hard. But actually it would have been a lot fucking harder if I didn’t have the support of my friends. And you know who those friends were? They weren’t even necessarily the select few people I used to just tell everything to. This time I didn’t just stick my head up my arse and pretend it was all going to be ok. I didn’t try and shoulder it alone. I told people. And every time I told someone I felt lighter, I knew that that person was thinking of me and sending me positive energy and that made me feel stronger.

No, I haven’t spoken to anyone, not really. I’m not good on the phone. My mum tried to FaceTime about it and I was like, what the fuck mum. I don’t want to be talking about this while you’re watching my face and ew. I just. Facetime? No.

But I have had some serious text conversations with people who have really opened up to me and been supportive and for that, thank you. 

Everyone says “what can I do to help?” Just fucking be there. Let me know you are thinking of me. 

I can’t sit and wallow in this because I am a mum and I am self employed so I have to crack that smile on and continue to play house and painting and watching We’re Going on a Bear Hunt and making dinners… and, you know. But it helps.

I tell myself, keep buggering on. One step at a time. One day at a time. You’ve got a magazine to get out you know. Keep going. Keep eating, keep walking, keep emptying the sodding dishwasher. Keep moving. Keep reading. Keep sending emails. Ignore that ache. It’s not time, not now. You’re a Mum you know. 

I say: There will be a time - and it will be soon -when you can deal with this. You can lock yourself in the bathroom, lay on the floor and weep. But now is not that time. 

Let people know. Thank them for their concern. But just keep buggering on. Watch CBeebies. Make beans on toast. Play with dinosaur and Oo-oo the monkey. Tell stories. Comb hair. Wrestle toothbrushes into mouths. Don’t break. You can’t.

So my baby didn’t even, it wasn’t even there. And soon I won’t even be pregnant. Someone is going to either make me not-pregnant or I will let it pass naturally.

Let it pass naturally. It makes it sound like I am going to sit in a fucking field until fairies come and take the gestational sac and yolk bag, or whatever it is, out of my womb and then I can float down with daisies in my hair and be all with nature and go and do some yoga or something.

Well, it’s not like that. I’ve had a miscarriage before and it hurt and it hurts and it hurts. And it’s messy and you bleed a lot for a really long time and all the stuff comes out and it’s sad and awful because that’s stuff that you were in love with. That was your baby. But now it’s just matter and in the loo and in your pants. And oh God, I can’t.

So I’ll keep on. Keep buggering on.


This week’s been difficult. I say that because a lot has happened and it’s also been quite stressful. But emotionally, I think it’s been difficult for me because I’ve had to face things that I had shut off. I mean things I had shut myself off from. I’m taking about my miscarriage. I’m talking about the loss of my baby.

If it’s not easy to read that, trust me, it’s been harder to write it.

I’ve had this post in me for a long time. I’ve thought about moving on and not talking about this and not making it public for two reasons. Firstly, my experience of loss compared to others seemed inadequate. I suffered a miscarriage, or what the doctors called a ‘natural abortion’ when by my count I was ten weeks pregnant. But my baby didn’t grow from five weeks. I didn’t need an operation, I didn’t have to give birth to a baby. I know people who have gone through this and next to that experience what I went through feels minimal. Inadequate. Silly.

Secondly, I write about love on this blog, I do. I write about my love for my husband, for my friends, my family. Sometimes I am accused of over-sharing, of writing 'drivel’ even. I don’t care, I write because I always have. You just need to look under my bed at the stacks and stacks of old diaries to see that. But when it’s something this close to my heart, I almost don’t want to share it. It’s part stiff upperlip-ness, part fear. It’s hard to let people see the real you.

And that is what I wanted to address today I suppose. I wanted to say that yes, I had a miscarriage. And no, I haven’t grieved for that baby.

I love my baby, my Nives, more than I can ever come close to expressing with mere words, but not a day goes by when I don’t think about my other baby.

My loss came up this week during a massage, of all places, and it stopped me in my tracks. My masseuse, a talented, amazing, woman asked me if I had suffered a loss. And once I started to tell her, I felt I couldn’t stop. I saw her a few days later and she told me: your face has changed. And she said: you never showed anything before. And she’s right.

Since having Nives I’ve been like those bloody ducks: still on the surface, paddling madly below. I think it’s common to give an air of coping to the world but inside be screaming. I know that’s what I have done.

The day I started to lose my baby I went to hospital on my lunch break, waited to be scanned to see what was wrong and then, when they couldn’t fit me in, I walked back to work and went into a meeting with HR and sacked someone.

I knew I had that meeting and I put that above my own experience. The next day, when I was cramping and bleeding, I welcomed a friend who came to visit and went to a BBQ. I didn’t stay long because I was in so much pain. But I insisted Danny stay and I walked home. Then I got home, went to the bathroom and lay on the floor sobbing.

Why did I go to the BBQ? Why did I go back to work? Why did I walk home? Why didn’t I just shut myself and Danny in my house and go through the miscarriage in a human way? I don’t know, but I think it’s the duck theory. I feel like maybe it was more important to be coping than to be grieving.

My baby wasn’t a baby yet, not really. But in my mind I had held him, I had pictured us together, I had our future as a trio mapped out. So when I lost him, although the physical side was brutal, the emotional side was a million times worse.

And again, of course I am grateful and in love with my beautiful, clever and charming baby girl. My grief for my lost baby doesn’t change that at all. But I am allowed it.

And I suppose this week has taught me that I don’t need to look like I’m coping all the time. That it’s ok to let your guard down and it makes you softer and more likeable even. Maybe.