I saw a show at the Edinburgh Fringe on 8 August 2017, "Lou Conran: I Love Lou C". I read an article in the BBC magazine that she had written that led me to book the show.
I knew her story before she started, so I knew it was not going to be a laugh a minute show. She wove such an interesting tale of her life, without really going into her miscarriage until about halfway through; but having mentioned incidents that happened after it at the start of the show!
It was lovely. Really nice to hear her story, hear the differences, and the similarities. The best part was laughing, laughing with her.
There were some differences though. Her struggle to get pregnant at first was due to a lack of the sex. (As she put it.) The gentlemen callers who were not so gentlemanly. The almost barren ovaries. Then a surprise pregnancy with someone who she had not been with that long. (Including a story about coconut oil that it would not be possible to re-create!)
She was informed at the second anomaly scan that her baby was "incompatible with life". She said she was unable to connect it until she was told that the baby was a girl. She told of how she thought it was not serious, that it was a joke. She surrounds her life with jokes, so I think it was probably a craving for the familiar.
I think a comedy show with a story about losing your child isn't going to be a barrel of laughs, that much is clear. She put a side to the story of loss that was from someone who had always wanted children, discovered it was unlikely, come to terms with that, had a surprise pregnancy, only for it to be taken away again.
It happens so often, to so many people. It's hard to talk about. It is why I created this blog; I can't share this a thousand times verbally, but I can share it as many as a person cares to read it. I can talk about what I have written; with anyone who has read it. It's easier to share it this way, than not to share it at all.
Of course, my story is a little different to some other miscarriage stories, that makes it hard at times. How different our family plans have become. However I think that we will have a family, It is just that I am impatient for it to happen now. As Lou C found out, the later you leave it, the harder it gets!
Wednesday 16 August 2017
29 July 2017
Our 1st wedding anniversary.
The due date of our first child.
Our good friends' wedding day.
Not the due date of our first child. The date we were told was the estimated delivery date of our first child. I always knew it was wrong, just like I always knew she was a girl, somehow.
When I first shared the news of my pregnancy with friends, I had a conversation with one about the due date, combined with the wedding, and what we were going to do. I said we were determined to go, but only one of us would be able to drink. (Me, that late in the game, I was planning on half a glass of champagne to celebrate!) I suggested that I might be so fed up of being pregnant by that stage that I would try to dance it out of me; I do love to dance.
We arrived in the morning, having booked into a nice hotel, (because we needed to treat ourselves on our anniversary) to find out that not only was our room ready early, but we had been given an upgrade! We hadn't even told them it was our anniversary! We had dressed for the occasion at home that morning, before the drive down, and I had put on the war-paint in the car, with some touch-ups planned wherever I could find an empty toilet. Thankfully, we were able to get into the room (instead of leaving our bags until whatever time we got back that night) and relax briefly before heading on. We walked through the town, our disorganisation meant that this was necessary, as we needed to buy both lunch, and a wedding card. We arrived at a pub to meet with some others, including the groom, before making our way to the venue for the ceremony.
Throughout the day I was able to enjoy myself, and enjoy the company that we were in. We had to stand for the ceremony, as there were limited seats with it being outdoors (Edinburgh's botanic gardens), and we had to walk from one side of the gardens to the other after the meal for the evening reception. The walk was nice, I got chatting to a friend who had read some of what I had written so far, and I explained a bit more. However by the time we got to the other side, my feet were killing me! So I didn't start dancing straight away. I think both my husband and I drank a little bit more than either of us planned to. We got up to dance at one stage, and instructions for the dance were called (Scottish Ceilidh) but apparently he had gone a bit deaf, so we didn't do so well. Then, when the couple next to us accidentally elbowed me in the head (I think they experienced a similar temporary deafness, as everyone else seemed to know what they were doing!) I tried to keep going but walked off the dance floor shortly afterwards, I think entirely a combination of not being able(/supposed) to lead my husband, and him not knowing the dance, and a memory of that conversation about dancing the baby out.
I stuck it out a little while longer, but I think I had reached saturation point by that stage. We said our goodbyes to the bride and groom, who looked suitably exhausted and happy, and a few others who were nearby. As we made our way down the stairs towards the doors, I burst into tears.
I did not let it ruin our anniversary, and it did not overshadow it, however once the dancing started, it did start to a little bit. I can honestly say though, that I had a good day, and it was the week that followed that was harder. I'm very glad I had booked that time off work.
It was much much later in the year however, that I realised something else: My beautiful patterned umbrella, the kind with the curved handle that I could hang off my arm, I last saw that at the bottom of the stairs by the doors. I'll replace it, eventually...
The due date of our first child.
Our good friends' wedding day.
Not the due date of our first child. The date we were told was the estimated delivery date of our first child. I always knew it was wrong, just like I always knew she was a girl, somehow.
When I first shared the news of my pregnancy with friends, I had a conversation with one about the due date, combined with the wedding, and what we were going to do. I said we were determined to go, but only one of us would be able to drink. (Me, that late in the game, I was planning on half a glass of champagne to celebrate!) I suggested that I might be so fed up of being pregnant by that stage that I would try to dance it out of me; I do love to dance.
We arrived in the morning, having booked into a nice hotel, (because we needed to treat ourselves on our anniversary) to find out that not only was our room ready early, but we had been given an upgrade! We hadn't even told them it was our anniversary! We had dressed for the occasion at home that morning, before the drive down, and I had put on the war-paint in the car, with some touch-ups planned wherever I could find an empty toilet. Thankfully, we were able to get into the room (instead of leaving our bags until whatever time we got back that night) and relax briefly before heading on. We walked through the town, our disorganisation meant that this was necessary, as we needed to buy both lunch, and a wedding card. We arrived at a pub to meet with some others, including the groom, before making our way to the venue for the ceremony.
Throughout the day I was able to enjoy myself, and enjoy the company that we were in. We had to stand for the ceremony, as there were limited seats with it being outdoors (Edinburgh's botanic gardens), and we had to walk from one side of the gardens to the other after the meal for the evening reception. The walk was nice, I got chatting to a friend who had read some of what I had written so far, and I explained a bit more. However by the time we got to the other side, my feet were killing me! So I didn't start dancing straight away. I think both my husband and I drank a little bit more than either of us planned to. We got up to dance at one stage, and instructions for the dance were called (Scottish Ceilidh) but apparently he had gone a bit deaf, so we didn't do so well. Then, when the couple next to us accidentally elbowed me in the head (I think they experienced a similar temporary deafness, as everyone else seemed to know what they were doing!) I tried to keep going but walked off the dance floor shortly afterwards, I think entirely a combination of not being able(/supposed) to lead my husband, and him not knowing the dance, and a memory of that conversation about dancing the baby out.
I stuck it out a little while longer, but I think I had reached saturation point by that stage. We said our goodbyes to the bride and groom, who looked suitably exhausted and happy, and a few others who were nearby. As we made our way down the stairs towards the doors, I burst into tears.
I did not let it ruin our anniversary, and it did not overshadow it, however once the dancing started, it did start to a little bit. I can honestly say though, that I had a good day, and it was the week that followed that was harder. I'm very glad I had booked that time off work.
It was much much later in the year however, that I realised something else: My beautiful patterned umbrella, the kind with the curved handle that I could hang off my arm, I last saw that at the bottom of the stairs by the doors. I'll replace it, eventually...
15 June 2017
After learning of the problems our baby had, the developments that weren't, there was a time when I found it difficult to grieve, difficult to think of the baby I had dreamt of, because this baby did not fit into that dream.
After learning that there were chromosomal abnormalities, it became harder still to grieve for what "might have been", as the logical part of my brain knew that it never would have.
After learning that the chromosomal abnormalities were as a result of a balanced translocation, and learning that phrase, and what it really meant? Well, that actually helped me to grieve properly again. I'm not sure how or why, but it helped me to know that it wasn't random, and our child was that way for a reason. On the good days, I can think about our baby, and hope for the future, as the post-mortem helped us to find out that there was a problem, and pointed us in the direction of ways around that problem. Our child helped our future children live.
For those who have a miscarriage and never find out why, the grief will always be for what might have been. The life that could have been lived. For those who, like me, have a miscarriage and learn why, the grief changes, and although I still consider what might have been, it's now with a caveat, if it had been a different sperm. However, if that had been the case, everything would have been different, and for me, there are too many possibilities to imagine. It's like the butterfly effect, (the chaos theory, not the movie I have never seen) changing one thing changes many things, and I have to trust that this is the best possibility for me. This is true for big things, and little things.
Like: I never regret being late for work, because if I had left earlier, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I never regret leaving a party late, because if I had left earlier, well, number one, I would have missed the craic, and number two, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I like to believe that no matter how rubbish things are, for me to even consider an alternate reality, means considering one where I, or worse, those who I love, are dead, where in the current reality they are not. Perhaps it means that in my reality everyone lives for as long as they possibly can? Or perhaps it means that everyone I love lives for as long as they can in proportion to how much pain they can bear. I'd like to think that is why our baby did not survive; the pain would have been too much, and although we suffered pain, we understand why.
I will continue to have moments of "what might have been" in days when I'm in work, and would have been on maternity leave; in days when I'm visiting family, and would have been bringing a cousin for our nieces and nephew; on significant events, when I will think about the missing presence, and what that would have added.
After learning that there were chromosomal abnormalities, it became harder still to grieve for what "might have been", as the logical part of my brain knew that it never would have.
After learning that the chromosomal abnormalities were as a result of a balanced translocation, and learning that phrase, and what it really meant? Well, that actually helped me to grieve properly again. I'm not sure how or why, but it helped me to know that it wasn't random, and our child was that way for a reason. On the good days, I can think about our baby, and hope for the future, as the post-mortem helped us to find out that there was a problem, and pointed us in the direction of ways around that problem. Our child helped our future children live.
For those who have a miscarriage and never find out why, the grief will always be for what might have been. The life that could have been lived. For those who, like me, have a miscarriage and learn why, the grief changes, and although I still consider what might have been, it's now with a caveat, if it had been a different sperm. However, if that had been the case, everything would have been different, and for me, there are too many possibilities to imagine. It's like the butterfly effect, (the chaos theory, not the movie I have never seen) changing one thing changes many things, and I have to trust that this is the best possibility for me. This is true for big things, and little things.
Like: I never regret being late for work, because if I had left earlier, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I never regret leaving a party late, because if I had left earlier, well, number one, I would have missed the craic, and number two, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I like to believe that no matter how rubbish things are, for me to even consider an alternate reality, means considering one where I, or worse, those who I love, are dead, where in the current reality they are not. Perhaps it means that in my reality everyone lives for as long as they possibly can? Or perhaps it means that everyone I love lives for as long as they can in proportion to how much pain they can bear. I'd like to think that is why our baby did not survive; the pain would have been too much, and although we suffered pain, we understand why.
I will continue to have moments of "what might have been" in days when I'm in work, and would have been on maternity leave; in days when I'm visiting family, and would have been bringing a cousin for our nieces and nephew; on significant events, when I will think about the missing presence, and what that would have added.
Wednesday 2 August 2017
6 June 2017: The significance of dates
Time flies when you're having fun.
Time marches on.
Time is a healer.
How many sayings about time can I give?
I'm pretty sure there are a few out there about how time does not heal, it just helps us to live with the pain. Then there are those who say that grief is a process, stages to go through; or that it takes a year to get over losing someone, getting past all those significant dates.
After my first scan, I had other dates set up, another midwife appointment, the next scan, the due date. Those dates were firm in my head, I was excited about them, so I wasn't going to miss the appointments, or forget that date - although I never thought I would give birth on my due date.
Now the dates that are imprinted in my memory are 1 February 2017, the date I found out there was no heartbeat; 8 February 2017, the date I gave birth; 1 March 2017, the date our child was cremated in a service organised by the hospital.
As those dates passed, so did the others, I had a midwife appointment on Valentine's Day, of course, the hospital staff arranged the cancellation of that for me, so I didn't have the call to ask where I was, but the time passed and I thought about what could have been. I had the 20 week scan arranged for 14 March 2017, that one passed too, and I tried to imagine what size I would have been, tried to imagine people knowing that I was pregnant from looking at me, an experience I hadn't achieved. I had the post mortem results meeting on 15 March 2017 instead. We actually didn't learn a lot at that appointment, all the results weren't back yet, we learnt that our baby had a cleft palate, a missing eye, and a malformed left side of the face. Dr. Gordon explained what they were looking for as they continued looking at what cells they had kept, what had been found out, and what we might expect. He said that he could go over the results by phone, or we could have a further appointment, and noted that we may need some blood tests if they found any anomalies.
I kept phoning, asking if the results were back, and managed to get a call back from Dr Gordon, who explained the first part of the bad news, that there was some extra chromosome material from 13, and that we both needed to have blood tests to figure out if either of us passed it down. We went in for those on 7 April 2017. On 19 April 2017 we went in to be given more devastating news. Dr. Gordon explained that he didn't have a lot of information, as he was not a geneticist, but gave us the basics of our lemonade, beer, and shandy predicament.
After that, we had to get used to our new reality. The reality that our chances of a healthy child were 50/50 (at a basic level). The reality that it wasn't advisable to try naturally until we had more information from an expert. The reality that, if we had an accidental pregnancy, it was a lot riskier.
There are also the days that seem insignificant, the innocuous days, the ones that take you by surprise when they hit you square in the chest. I have a lot of car journeys to meetings for work; journeys with a range of people, some who I know better than others. I had a journey one day, I was talking with a colleague who asked how long I was married. I said we were coming up for one year, and that we were going to wedding that day; when I said I was "looking forward to it" I felt a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. There is a part of me that is not looking forward to that day, but I know I can't let it ruin our first anniversary. There are still some dates that are to pass: The first due date they gave us at the midwife appointment, and based on my last period, which was my mother-in-law's birthday; The second due date they gave us at our 12 week/dating scan, and based on the size of the baby, which was our wedding anniversary; The third date is one I picked myself, before I knew it was never to be, a date that actually holds no significance, but was the one I felt was most likely to be the birthday.
Before we learnt that we had the balanced translocation, I had hoped that I would be pregnant again by the due date. It was something that was offered to us as comfort by some... "If we hadn't lost x, we would never have had y."
I think I will find 2 August 2017 the hardest date of all.
Time marches on.
Time is a healer.
How many sayings about time can I give?
I'm pretty sure there are a few out there about how time does not heal, it just helps us to live with the pain. Then there are those who say that grief is a process, stages to go through; or that it takes a year to get over losing someone, getting past all those significant dates.
After my first scan, I had other dates set up, another midwife appointment, the next scan, the due date. Those dates were firm in my head, I was excited about them, so I wasn't going to miss the appointments, or forget that date - although I never thought I would give birth on my due date.
Now the dates that are imprinted in my memory are 1 February 2017, the date I found out there was no heartbeat; 8 February 2017, the date I gave birth; 1 March 2017, the date our child was cremated in a service organised by the hospital.
As those dates passed, so did the others, I had a midwife appointment on Valentine's Day, of course, the hospital staff arranged the cancellation of that for me, so I didn't have the call to ask where I was, but the time passed and I thought about what could have been. I had the 20 week scan arranged for 14 March 2017, that one passed too, and I tried to imagine what size I would have been, tried to imagine people knowing that I was pregnant from looking at me, an experience I hadn't achieved. I had the post mortem results meeting on 15 March 2017 instead. We actually didn't learn a lot at that appointment, all the results weren't back yet, we learnt that our baby had a cleft palate, a missing eye, and a malformed left side of the face. Dr. Gordon explained what they were looking for as they continued looking at what cells they had kept, what had been found out, and what we might expect. He said that he could go over the results by phone, or we could have a further appointment, and noted that we may need some blood tests if they found any anomalies.
I kept phoning, asking if the results were back, and managed to get a call back from Dr Gordon, who explained the first part of the bad news, that there was some extra chromosome material from 13, and that we both needed to have blood tests to figure out if either of us passed it down. We went in for those on 7 April 2017. On 19 April 2017 we went in to be given more devastating news. Dr. Gordon explained that he didn't have a lot of information, as he was not a geneticist, but gave us the basics of our lemonade, beer, and shandy predicament.
After that, we had to get used to our new reality. The reality that our chances of a healthy child were 50/50 (at a basic level). The reality that it wasn't advisable to try naturally until we had more information from an expert. The reality that, if we had an accidental pregnancy, it was a lot riskier.
There are also the days that seem insignificant, the innocuous days, the ones that take you by surprise when they hit you square in the chest. I have a lot of car journeys to meetings for work; journeys with a range of people, some who I know better than others. I had a journey one day, I was talking with a colleague who asked how long I was married. I said we were coming up for one year, and that we were going to wedding that day; when I said I was "looking forward to it" I felt a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. There is a part of me that is not looking forward to that day, but I know I can't let it ruin our first anniversary. There are still some dates that are to pass: The first due date they gave us at the midwife appointment, and based on my last period, which was my mother-in-law's birthday; The second due date they gave us at our 12 week/dating scan, and based on the size of the baby, which was our wedding anniversary; The third date is one I picked myself, before I knew it was never to be, a date that actually holds no significance, but was the one I felt was most likely to be the birthday.
Before we learnt that we had the balanced translocation, I had hoped that I would be pregnant again by the due date. It was something that was offered to us as comfort by some... "If we hadn't lost x, we would never have had y."
I think I will find 2 August 2017 the hardest date of all.
2 June 2017
I had a difficult week. I had a message from a friend, asking if I was free for a phone call on Monday. I wasn't, but I was on Tuesday.
Our conversation started with her asking me how I was, and I started off by giving the polite response; I forgot who I was talking to, I knew she actually wanted to know. So I revised my answer, I was mostly the polite response, but with some days a little harder. I explained what information we had at that point, and told her we were looking at IVF. We had a bit of a general chat, then she got round to why she was really calling! I think I had sort of guessed as I was explaining the technical side of a balanced translocation, but when she started talking about normal life stuff, I thought maybe she was just calling for a catch up! In the end, I excitedly announced that she was pregnant, rather than her telling me. I was really happy for her, and really happy to hear the news. She and her husband married the year before us, in May; it was almost expected. I coped very well with the news, but of course I was a little sad for us.
Three days later, I had the day off work to teach aerial. Except the booking was never confirmed and in the end didn't take place, but I kept my day off as we were having a fire-pit party the following day (otherwise known as a BBQ, for people who have built a campfire in their back garden.) I was up and about, doing bits and pieces, and lifted my phone, to see a notification of a number of messages in a conversation, the first one I read saying "congratulations, when is baby due?" So even if my other friend had chosen to sugar coat the news, or dilute it somehow, I found out through reading the response of our other friend.
When I think about it, there is no way I would want anyone to dilute their own happiness to prevent me from feeling bad! My friend earlier in the week had been nervous about telling me, and I told her not to be silly, as I could only wish happiness on my friends.
With all the love in the world for my friends, and their wonderful news; it was a stark reminder of how much more difficult it had become for my husband and I to share the same news.
I am waiting to be able to work towards being able to share the same news, however I'm also aware that it might not happen for us. I'm still able to find joy in something every day, and I am able to hope for the future.
Our conversation started with her asking me how I was, and I started off by giving the polite response; I forgot who I was talking to, I knew she actually wanted to know. So I revised my answer, I was mostly the polite response, but with some days a little harder. I explained what information we had at that point, and told her we were looking at IVF. We had a bit of a general chat, then she got round to why she was really calling! I think I had sort of guessed as I was explaining the technical side of a balanced translocation, but when she started talking about normal life stuff, I thought maybe she was just calling for a catch up! In the end, I excitedly announced that she was pregnant, rather than her telling me. I was really happy for her, and really happy to hear the news. She and her husband married the year before us, in May; it was almost expected. I coped very well with the news, but of course I was a little sad for us.
Three days later, I had the day off work to teach aerial. Except the booking was never confirmed and in the end didn't take place, but I kept my day off as we were having a fire-pit party the following day (otherwise known as a BBQ, for people who have built a campfire in their back garden.) I was up and about, doing bits and pieces, and lifted my phone, to see a notification of a number of messages in a conversation, the first one I read saying "congratulations, when is baby due?" So even if my other friend had chosen to sugar coat the news, or dilute it somehow, I found out through reading the response of our other friend.
When I think about it, there is no way I would want anyone to dilute their own happiness to prevent me from feeling bad! My friend earlier in the week had been nervous about telling me, and I told her not to be silly, as I could only wish happiness on my friends.
With all the love in the world for my friends, and their wonderful news; it was a stark reminder of how much more difficult it had become for my husband and I to share the same news.
I am waiting to be able to work towards being able to share the same news, however I'm also aware that it might not happen for us. I'm still able to find joy in something every day, and I am able to hope for the future.
6-10 February 2017
We had a holiday booked, to Venice.
When Lee and I got married, we took a week-long honeymoon afterwards. (We didn't have a lot of annual leave to take.) Lee had time off booked in February, and the plan was to book either a snowboarding trip, if I wasn't pregnant; or a babymoon, if I was! We were looking forward to our second honeymoon. Once we found out I was pregnant, it became about planning where I could enjoy myself and be able to walk around without exhausting myself. Venice was chosen for the romance, and if it was to be a second honeymoon without booze, we could at least have the romance! We found a last minute deal, flights and hotel combo, not too expensive, and the hotel looked lovely. We hadn't made any real plans of what we were planning to do while in Venice, but were really looking forward to the break nonetheless.
The day after we paid for the trip, we bought some single trip travel insurance, through The Post Office. We chose an option that didn't carry an excess.
That day in the hospital, the first day of February, was five days before we were due to leave for Venice. It was one of the first logical things that crossed my mind after we'd had the news. Not disappointed that we couldn't go, but anticipating another thing to have to deal with. We explained this to the hospital staff, and they said that they would have a letter ready on Friday when we were back. They explained that the admin staff who had access to the official paperwork had gone home for the day. All I could think was that that was just the start of it...
My husband contacted the insurance company to inform them that we would have to cancel, they told him that he would have to contact the holiday company to request cancellation and wait for a compensation offer from them before claiming on the insurance. Unsurprisingly, we were offered zero funds back, as it was so short notice. We weren't offered that until the weekend, so weren't able to submit the insurance claim until the Monday.
When we submitted the insurance claim, it was to a claims company that was somewhat separate to the insurance company; which I found odd. They sent various pieces of paperwork to be completed, including a medical certificate to be completed by my GP. It took me a while to get round to going in to request the completion of it. When I brought it in to the receptionist, and explained the circumstances, her face changed. She didn't rearrange her expression to pity that was insincere, she actually moved from confusion (when I was talking about an insurance form) to shock (when I said I had been admitted to hospital for the management of the miscarriage) to sincere pity, but I felt supported by it. I've never before wanted to be pitied, and I still don't, but there are times when it has a place.
Once the doctor had completed the certificate, and the fee had been paid, we bought a snazzy printer to scan everything we were sending before putting it in the post. About a week or two later we received notification that we were getting a full refund.
We had discussed it, the fight for our money back. We bought insurance for the just in case, to make sure we didn't lose more money for any reason. We had considered various possibilities: a little bit of money; even less than a little bit of money; and no money. We hadn't considered a full refund, which if you think about it is a pretty sad state of affairs. However, what we had agreed was that we would consider the amount offered versus the amount we were going to lose out on, then decide if it would be worth the fight. I don't think either of us had much energy for anything short of them not giving us any money.
The letter informing us even said they were sorry for the reason we had to cancel. It was probably a standard "cancellation through illness" letter, but it was nice nonetheless. I think both of us saw this as positive, even though we shouldn't have considered anything other than a full refund as acceptable, in the circumstances.
When Lee and I got married, we took a week-long honeymoon afterwards. (We didn't have a lot of annual leave to take.) Lee had time off booked in February, and the plan was to book either a snowboarding trip, if I wasn't pregnant; or a babymoon, if I was! We were looking forward to our second honeymoon. Once we found out I was pregnant, it became about planning where I could enjoy myself and be able to walk around without exhausting myself. Venice was chosen for the romance, and if it was to be a second honeymoon without booze, we could at least have the romance! We found a last minute deal, flights and hotel combo, not too expensive, and the hotel looked lovely. We hadn't made any real plans of what we were planning to do while in Venice, but were really looking forward to the break nonetheless.
The day after we paid for the trip, we bought some single trip travel insurance, through The Post Office. We chose an option that didn't carry an excess.
That day in the hospital, the first day of February, was five days before we were due to leave for Venice. It was one of the first logical things that crossed my mind after we'd had the news. Not disappointed that we couldn't go, but anticipating another thing to have to deal with. We explained this to the hospital staff, and they said that they would have a letter ready on Friday when we were back. They explained that the admin staff who had access to the official paperwork had gone home for the day. All I could think was that that was just the start of it...
My husband contacted the insurance company to inform them that we would have to cancel, they told him that he would have to contact the holiday company to request cancellation and wait for a compensation offer from them before claiming on the insurance. Unsurprisingly, we were offered zero funds back, as it was so short notice. We weren't offered that until the weekend, so weren't able to submit the insurance claim until the Monday.
When we submitted the insurance claim, it was to a claims company that was somewhat separate to the insurance company; which I found odd. They sent various pieces of paperwork to be completed, including a medical certificate to be completed by my GP. It took me a while to get round to going in to request the completion of it. When I brought it in to the receptionist, and explained the circumstances, her face changed. She didn't rearrange her expression to pity that was insincere, she actually moved from confusion (when I was talking about an insurance form) to shock (when I said I had been admitted to hospital for the management of the miscarriage) to sincere pity, but I felt supported by it. I've never before wanted to be pitied, and I still don't, but there are times when it has a place.
Once the doctor had completed the certificate, and the fee had been paid, we bought a snazzy printer to scan everything we were sending before putting it in the post. About a week or two later we received notification that we were getting a full refund.
We had discussed it, the fight for our money back. We bought insurance for the just in case, to make sure we didn't lose more money for any reason. We had considered various possibilities: a little bit of money; even less than a little bit of money; and no money. We hadn't considered a full refund, which if you think about it is a pretty sad state of affairs. However, what we had agreed was that we would consider the amount offered versus the amount we were going to lose out on, then decide if it would be worth the fight. I don't think either of us had much energy for anything short of them not giving us any money.
The letter informing us even said they were sorry for the reason we had to cancel. It was probably a standard "cancellation through illness" letter, but it was nice nonetheless. I think both of us saw this as positive, even though we shouldn't have considered anything other than a full refund as acceptable, in the circumstances.
22 April 2017
I am so fucking terrified. My husband and I conceived so easily. Yet we conceived a child that could not survive. We created life, and suffering. We have since discovered that he is made up of lemonade, beer, and shandies, and I just have beer and lemonade. His two shandies have the same amount of beer and lemonade as one of each, but when we got one lemonade and one shandy from him, we had too much lemonade.
When life hands you lemons??? Not sure that saying applies...
We could conceive a child with two lemonades and two beers, one from each of us, but it seems there's only a 50% chance of that... until we see the geneticist; who might explain that it's more complicated than that, and it's actually much higher, but we just beat the odds with our first pregnancy. Perhaps I'm being too pessimistic, we just have to wait to see the geneticist to learn those odds. Trouble is, I've never been one for betting too much.
The day I was born, on the 4th of the 4th, at 7am, weighing 7Ib; my dad went to the bookies and put £4 on number 4, and £7 on number 7. He lost. I've never been one for betting too much.
My mother informed me that when she heard that my husband's birthday was the anniversary of her father's death, she held a fear for us that I would have a miscarriage. I've always liked the numbers 4 and 7, despite their lack of luck. I place significance in the patterns of numbers, as, apparently, does my mother. I suppose she is a maths teacher...
My husband had suggested that if we have one successful round of IVF, we then potentially try to have another naturally. Somehow it will be easier to cope with a loss if we already have a child. What he doesn't understand is that it is not just a loss, it is physical pain, physical reminders, infections, more infections as side effects of the drugs used to treat the first ones, a body that is trying to get back to normal after 3 months of growing a human, or more, next time.
I'm terrified of creating life, and with it, another world of pain. I've never been one for betting too much, but I think I'm going to have to bet on IVF, unless the odds are much lower than I think. Much lower. Sometimes bets are better than nothing. Hope is better than fear.
I'm willing to work with bets, but I'm not yet sure if I'm prepared for the pain of the consequences...
When life hands you lemons??? Not sure that saying applies...
We could conceive a child with two lemonades and two beers, one from each of us, but it seems there's only a 50% chance of that... until we see the geneticist; who might explain that it's more complicated than that, and it's actually much higher, but we just beat the odds with our first pregnancy. Perhaps I'm being too pessimistic, we just have to wait to see the geneticist to learn those odds. Trouble is, I've never been one for betting too much.
The day I was born, on the 4th of the 4th, at 7am, weighing 7Ib; my dad went to the bookies and put £4 on number 4, and £7 on number 7. He lost. I've never been one for betting too much.
My mother informed me that when she heard that my husband's birthday was the anniversary of her father's death, she held a fear for us that I would have a miscarriage. I've always liked the numbers 4 and 7, despite their lack of luck. I place significance in the patterns of numbers, as, apparently, does my mother. I suppose she is a maths teacher...
My husband had suggested that if we have one successful round of IVF, we then potentially try to have another naturally. Somehow it will be easier to cope with a loss if we already have a child. What he doesn't understand is that it is not just a loss, it is physical pain, physical reminders, infections, more infections as side effects of the drugs used to treat the first ones, a body that is trying to get back to normal after 3 months of growing a human, or more, next time.
I'm terrified of creating life, and with it, another world of pain. I've never been one for betting too much, but I think I'm going to have to bet on IVF, unless the odds are much lower than I think. Much lower. Sometimes bets are better than nothing. Hope is better than fear.
I'm willing to work with bets, but I'm not yet sure if I'm prepared for the pain of the consequences...
Tuesday 18 July 2017
19 April 2017: Lemonade, Beer, and shandies.
We had an appointment with my consultant for a follow up after the miscarriage.
It was also to get the results of the post mortem. We arrived and he explained that not all the results were back yet. So we had yet more waiting. He went over the information he had, explained to us that our baby had a missing eye, a malformed nose, and a cleft palate. He stated that he was waiting for the chromosome test results to come back. He offered a follow up appointment, but also suggested that he might be able to speak to me on the phone, although if the results were a certain way he would need us both in again anyway. So I requested another appointment, as I knew that if I didn't have one set up, and had a phone consultation asking us to come in... well, I think the bag would have split, and the nerves would just be in a puddle on the floor. I kept calling, asking if we could have an earlier appointment, as we were given 19 April 2017, and I just wanted all the information, so we could get on with it. One day, I was speaking to Dr. Gordon's secretary and she informed me that the results were in, and suggested that Dr. Gordon could call me. So call he did. He explained that the baby had too much of chromosome 13, and they needed to check if it was a random mutation when the baby was formed, or if it was something that was part of Lee or I. We were in the next day for some blood tests.
The test results were ready on 19 April 17.
Lee thought that seeing something drawn on the piece of paper on the front of my notes was not a good sign when we sat down. He was right.
Science Lesson
Most people have 46 chromosomes. If you imagine all the chromosomes as different drinks: water; milk; lemonade; beer... Lets say that chromosome 13 is lemonade, and chromosome 4 is beer, and most people have two lemonades, and two beers as part of their chromosomes. Sometimes, a balanced translocation can happen, where the lemonade and beer mix together as they are being poured. So what happens is that a person has one lemonade, one beer, and two shandies. In terms of that person, that's completely fine (usually) and they grow and develop normally. It's only when they try to procreate that things go wrong. When the body makes eggs and sperm, it takes only half of the chromosomes needed to make a person, because the other half comes from the other person. What that means is that in someone with a balanced translocation, instead of always producing eggs or sperm with one beer and one lemonade, they create either:
A. A beer and a lemonade
B. Two shandies
C. A beer and a shandy
D. A lemonade and a shandy
Now, given we need two beers, and two lemonades.
If we have option A or B, we should create a "normal" embryo, which creates a "normal" foetus, which grows and develops into a baby that is able to survive, grow, and develop in the way that the majority of the population do.
If we have option C, we have too much beer, and not enough lemonade.
If we have option D, we have too much lemonade, and not enough beer.
End of lesson.
So, on 19 April 17, we were told that two out of four options would be viable, and two would not. Always. That's 50% chance of a healthy pregnancy, 50% chance of either a miscarriage, or a disabled child. The severity of the disability, we don't know. We don't know if it would get that far, or if it would die earlier than our first.
Dr. Gordon was not able to give us a lot of information, he's not a genetics specialist, he's an obstetrician/gynaecologist. He confirmed that we would like to be referred to the geneticist to discuss the options, the chances - because apparently it's not quite as simple as 50/50, given the chances that the defective options might not survive long enough to actually successfully make it to the table. They might fall off the drinks tray early; it just so happened that this pregnancy didn't fall off the drinks tray.
That news, when written down, or explained, doesn't seem so bad really; 50% chance? That's quite good if you're talking about winning the lotto, but we're not. We're talking about our hopes and dreams for the future. We're talking about the changes that have to be made in the way we go about realising those hopes and dreams. We were told to hold off trying until we had seen the geneticist. We were told that we may be offered IVF, with pre-implantation genetic diagnosis. We had to come to terms with the fact that one of us, if we had chosen anyone else, may not have had to deal with this heartache. However both of us are in this together, and both of us know that to even consider being with anyone else is not what we signed up for when we got married. Since that news arrived it's been a paradigm shift for us, in so many ways.
It was also to get the results of the post mortem. We arrived and he explained that not all the results were back yet. So we had yet more waiting. He went over the information he had, explained to us that our baby had a missing eye, a malformed nose, and a cleft palate. He stated that he was waiting for the chromosome test results to come back. He offered a follow up appointment, but also suggested that he might be able to speak to me on the phone, although if the results were a certain way he would need us both in again anyway. So I requested another appointment, as I knew that if I didn't have one set up, and had a phone consultation asking us to come in... well, I think the bag would have split, and the nerves would just be in a puddle on the floor. I kept calling, asking if we could have an earlier appointment, as we were given 19 April 2017, and I just wanted all the information, so we could get on with it. One day, I was speaking to Dr. Gordon's secretary and she informed me that the results were in, and suggested that Dr. Gordon could call me. So call he did. He explained that the baby had too much of chromosome 13, and they needed to check if it was a random mutation when the baby was formed, or if it was something that was part of Lee or I. We were in the next day for some blood tests.
The test results were ready on 19 April 17.
Lee thought that seeing something drawn on the piece of paper on the front of my notes was not a good sign when we sat down. He was right.
Science Lesson
Most people have 46 chromosomes. If you imagine all the chromosomes as different drinks: water; milk; lemonade; beer... Lets say that chromosome 13 is lemonade, and chromosome 4 is beer, and most people have two lemonades, and two beers as part of their chromosomes. Sometimes, a balanced translocation can happen, where the lemonade and beer mix together as they are being poured. So what happens is that a person has one lemonade, one beer, and two shandies. In terms of that person, that's completely fine (usually) and they grow and develop normally. It's only when they try to procreate that things go wrong. When the body makes eggs and sperm, it takes only half of the chromosomes needed to make a person, because the other half comes from the other person. What that means is that in someone with a balanced translocation, instead of always producing eggs or sperm with one beer and one lemonade, they create either:
A. A beer and a lemonade
B. Two shandies
C. A beer and a shandy
D. A lemonade and a shandy
Now, given we need two beers, and two lemonades.
If we have option A or B, we should create a "normal" embryo, which creates a "normal" foetus, which grows and develops into a baby that is able to survive, grow, and develop in the way that the majority of the population do.
If we have option C, we have too much beer, and not enough lemonade.
If we have option D, we have too much lemonade, and not enough beer.
End of lesson.
So, on 19 April 17, we were told that two out of four options would be viable, and two would not. Always. That's 50% chance of a healthy pregnancy, 50% chance of either a miscarriage, or a disabled child. The severity of the disability, we don't know. We don't know if it would get that far, or if it would die earlier than our first.
Dr. Gordon was not able to give us a lot of information, he's not a genetics specialist, he's an obstetrician/gynaecologist. He confirmed that we would like to be referred to the geneticist to discuss the options, the chances - because apparently it's not quite as simple as 50/50, given the chances that the defective options might not survive long enough to actually successfully make it to the table. They might fall off the drinks tray early; it just so happened that this pregnancy didn't fall off the drinks tray.
That news, when written down, or explained, doesn't seem so bad really; 50% chance? That's quite good if you're talking about winning the lotto, but we're not. We're talking about our hopes and dreams for the future. We're talking about the changes that have to be made in the way we go about realising those hopes and dreams. We were told to hold off trying until we had seen the geneticist. We were told that we may be offered IVF, with pre-implantation genetic diagnosis. We had to come to terms with the fact that one of us, if we had chosen anyone else, may not have had to deal with this heartache. However both of us are in this together, and both of us know that to even consider being with anyone else is not what we signed up for when we got married. Since that news arrived it's been a paradigm shift for us, in so many ways.
22 March 2017
First written as a note to myself, and sent on to my husband, on 22 March 2017. I want to be ready to try again. Physically ready. I don't actually know if I'm ready otherwise. I am currently focusing on the waiting to be ready, to be told we can try again. I know it will be crushing if we are told there is an issue. A barrier. A stumbling block. Issues can be worked through. Barriers can be taken down or broken. I can get back up.
The difficult part lies in the number of people telling me I need to wait until I am mentally ready. They make me question if I am. I thought I was, but do I think I am? The past and present tense are in contradictions, and what of the future? I am not having sex with my husband. I miss the closeness of that. I am barely even kissing my husband. First to not catch his cold when my immune system was so weak, and then to stop passing the oral thrush that developed with my antibiotics back and forth. I would like to be able to be close again, to not have those barriers, to figure out if what is beyond them is somewhere I am ready to go. Barriers can be taken down.
I can get back up. I can move forward. I can remember the child that we did not meet.
I am ready to find out. I am ready to know if I am physically ready. I am ready for someone to show us what has been making up those barriers. A scientist to look at the chromosomes and tell us what they were looking for, a doctor to explain to us the future possibilities. I am ready to be looking at the road ahead, ready to take my foot off the brake. Am I ready to be doing that without full control of the steering wheel?
I know one thing for certain. I have always been impatient, and this waiting to find out is hard. The waiting to try. The waiting for each significant date to pass. I want to be pregnant again. I want to be looking forward to the future I envisioned for us. I want to be pregnant before my due date passes. I don't want to replace my child. I worry that I will be trying to if we try again too soon; if I am pregnant before my due date. However, I don't think that worry is founded. I will always love my first child. I wanted a future for that child. We have a future in another direction. The steering wheel cannot go full circle to take us back. We can only move forwards.
I hope the issue is that our child was a one off, something with a low chance of repeating. And yet... I do not want to say that, as it seems as though I am admitting that our child would not have been loved with their disabilities. Our child was loved from the moment of conception.
I hope that the barrier is simply a haze of smoke, not something that requires heavy machinery to conquer.
I hope that the only reason I have not been able to get back up since stumbling is because someone is holding the information just beyond my grasp. The information that helps me jump over that block. As whatever that information is, I will be taking my foot off the brake, and letting go of the steering wheel.
The difficult part lies in the number of people telling me I need to wait until I am mentally ready. They make me question if I am. I thought I was, but do I think I am? The past and present tense are in contradictions, and what of the future? I am not having sex with my husband. I miss the closeness of that. I am barely even kissing my husband. First to not catch his cold when my immune system was so weak, and then to stop passing the oral thrush that developed with my antibiotics back and forth. I would like to be able to be close again, to not have those barriers, to figure out if what is beyond them is somewhere I am ready to go. Barriers can be taken down.
I can get back up. I can move forward. I can remember the child that we did not meet.
I am ready to find out. I am ready to know if I am physically ready. I am ready for someone to show us what has been making up those barriers. A scientist to look at the chromosomes and tell us what they were looking for, a doctor to explain to us the future possibilities. I am ready to be looking at the road ahead, ready to take my foot off the brake. Am I ready to be doing that without full control of the steering wheel?
I know one thing for certain. I have always been impatient, and this waiting to find out is hard. The waiting to try. The waiting for each significant date to pass. I want to be pregnant again. I want to be looking forward to the future I envisioned for us. I want to be pregnant before my due date passes. I don't want to replace my child. I worry that I will be trying to if we try again too soon; if I am pregnant before my due date. However, I don't think that worry is founded. I will always love my first child. I wanted a future for that child. We have a future in another direction. The steering wheel cannot go full circle to take us back. We can only move forwards.
I hope the issue is that our child was a one off, something with a low chance of repeating. And yet... I do not want to say that, as it seems as though I am admitting that our child would not have been loved with their disabilities. Our child was loved from the moment of conception.
I hope that the barrier is simply a haze of smoke, not something that requires heavy machinery to conquer.
I hope that the only reason I have not been able to get back up since stumbling is because someone is holding the information just beyond my grasp. The information that helps me jump over that block. As whatever that information is, I will be taking my foot off the brake, and letting go of the steering wheel.
8 February 2017
I did not lose a baby; I know exactly what happened to our baby. I did not "mis-carry" my baby, although I miscarried. I lost a month.
Through the haze of the month we learnt a number of things, the first, and most shocking, was the devastating news that our baby's heart had stopped beating.
What I didn't write in that Facebook post about the people of the NHS was that my husband was not with me when I first heard the news, he was en route, and had a call from me asking how close he was, in between Kirsty telling me she needed a second opinion and that second opinion confirming what was true. I didn't write that Kirsty started to explain things to me but I asked her not to say anything until he arrived. I wouldn't have been able to explain it to her at the time, but I needed not to hear anything that I might need to know, I was afraid of forgetting it. It was not that I didn't want to hear it, it was that I didn't want to forget something important, I needed those back up ears. I actually had to explain to her that I meant for her not to tell me anything about what happens next until he turned up, as she didn't really know how to deal with telling me the news either; I don't think she had had much experience of that side of things before.
We made our way home, parking one of the cars in a residential area near the hospital, where the parking was safe and free. So neither of us would have to drive far on our own. We had planned to go shopping that evening, so we shuffled around the shop, and probably took over 10 minutes just to buy a single pizza (pre-made.) We got home and left it in the oven. Neither of us much felt like eating anyway, so we ate around the black bits.
My mum arrived the following day, and after we picked her up from the train station, we picked up my car for her to drive it home. She was there for the consultant's appointment at the hospital on the Friday, and we went for tea and cakes afterwards. There was a lot of tea and cake that month, to get out of the house.
On the Saturday, we were both starting to come to terms with the news, and still shuffling around like zombies. We chose to go out shopping, not far, but far enough. We looked at kitchens, we looked at things to fill our kitchens, then we went for tea and sandwiches, just to change it up a bit. I don't think we spent more than half an hour in any shop, but we were out and moving. While I can't speak for my husband or my mum, it was really difficult to face "The Public" for me. I knew I was pale and shocked looking (I didn't have the energy to figure out how change my face from shocked to anything else) and I was scared of how strangers would react to that. I have had strangers, in the past, tell me to "Cheer up, it might never happen!" I was scared of if that or something similar was said to me, what my response was likely to be. I formulated responses in my head, just in case, but none of them fit. I had the angry response, I had the sad response, and I had the ignore response; thankfully, I didn't have to use any of them. You see, what could I have said to anyone who was making any comment on my mood? "I have had a miscarriage"? But it hadn't happened yet. "I am having a miscarriage"? I was not currently having one. "I am about to have a miscarriage"? That would have raised all sorts of questions, that I didn't have the energy to respond to. There is no word in the English language for carrying your dead child and waiting for the inevitable. I'm glad that I did not come into contact with the kind of people who feel it's appropriate to comment on other people in that way, I know they are out there, everywhere, but thankfully, I did have that reprieve. Or else they saw me and my appearance sucked all the energy from them to do anything! Emotionally the whole experience was exhausting, before I even got to the physical part.
The medical management of a miscarriage on the NHS in Scotland involves a two stage process, I had to go to Perth Royal Infirmary on the Monday to be given a single pill, that would prepare my body for what was to come. Then, because I was further along than the majority of cases, I had to go to Ninewells Hospital in Dundee for the second part on the Wednesday. I think it was to do with staff knowledge, or resources, I don't know. We arrived on the Monday morning to be told that Dr. Gordon had had to go into surgery, and had not signed off on my medication, so we went to the hospital cafe, for tea and cake. When he was out of surgery, I was given the pill, and it was such a final moment. I was acknowledging, for the first time through my actions, and making a definite choice, to speed the process up. I think until that point I had not truly admitted to myself that it was real, but by taking that pill, true or not, I was starting the process to remove the baby. I dropped it. I panicked then, I didn't want to lose it, to have to wait for another pill to be brought out, I didn't drop it deliberately, but neither did I want to take it. It was explained to me that after taking it, I might "spontaneously mis-carry" a term I didn't much like at the time. The idea of it all happening when I was at home, or out and about, I was terrified.
The Tuesday morning was the first morning I changed from taking the during pregnancy multi-vitamins to the pre-pregnancy multi-vitamins. I had known almost a week. We stayed at home on Tuesday. I started getting cramps on Tuesday night. We didn't sleep much that night. We didn't sleep much any night.
We got to Ninewells, we didn't know where to go, we arrived to the maternity unit, but there's no way in that way. I'm grateful for hospitals being secure places, but I just wanted to get through to get it over with. I was in a very contradictory place in my mind. I wanted to hold on to my baby for as long as possible, and I wanted it out as soon as possible. We met a few people, one who sent us in the wrong direction, and another who brought us to the right place. We were taken to a waiting room, in the gynaecology assessment unit, and shortly afterwards brought through to a private room, where I was given round one of what could have been 6 doses in 24 hours of the medication to start the process. I remember Emma explaining this to me, and explaining that I would be given another dose every 4 hours until something happened. I remember lying on my side as she was inserting the pills, and saying over and over "I don't want this. I don't want this." Although really, I couldn't have faced the other option, of just waiting. After that we were left alone, I was told to ask for more blankets if I was cold.
When a nurse, Kate, wanted to take some blood and blood pressure a short while after the meds were administered, she asked my husband and my mum to step outside to give her a bit more space. That was fine with all of us, but when she stepped out again to get some equipment, she was gone for longer than I anticipated. I text my husband, to ask him if he could ask to return, but when he wasn't coming back fast enough, my fear got the better of me and I started to cry. Another nurse, Lorna, heard me and came in to find out what had happened. She hugged me, she calmed me down, she didn't leave me until Kate came back. I told her I didn't want to be left alone, so she didn't. I'm really glad she didn't, even if it wasn't really her that I wanted there. The morning passed slowly, and I got colder and colder, and asked for more and more blankets. One of the health assistants found a heater, and brought that into my room. Then Kate came in, took my temperature, told me it was far too high, which is why I was cold, and took off all my blankets, took away the heater, and turned on the fan. I understood why, but it was awful.
At some stage I started to have severe cramps, and was really struggling with them; Lorna suggested I take 4 long breaths of the gas and air, so I did. Or, I tried. After number three I started to retch, and I could barely start number four, it was really making me feel sick. So they decided to give me some anti-sickness medication. The fastest acting stuff is injected in your bum, seemingly into one of my nerves that made me jerk away. They had to stop trying for safety, I'm not sure if it was theirs, mine, or both. So I got some oral medication instead. I'm not sure I really needed it, because the only reason I was feeling sick was the gas and air, and if I wasn't taking that, I would have been fine, but in pain.
It was coming close to the four hour point, I wasn't looking forward to the four hour point. The time that they would again have to insert more medication to speed up the miscarriage.
I was still in pain, and Lorna suggested that it was time to push. The thing is, with a miscarriage, because they want to take it all away as quickly as possible, they asked me to use one of those disposable bed-pans on the toilet. So we went into the tiny toilet cubicle, me, Lee, and Lorna. I tried, I really did try to push, but I didn't really think I was ready, I wanted to be, although I knew I never would be. I went back to bed.
It was getting closer to that four hour point, and my waters broke. I hadn't expected that. I felt things moving, and I sat up, and felt the liquid trickling out. I went back to the toilet, just with Lee this time, and made it just in time. We both saw it, our baby. Just for a split second, then he had me look at him. The bell to call staff in was pulled, and Lorna came back, she pulled the bell again, and they helped me back to the bed, as it wasn't coming out cleanly. Dr. Alex had to come in, and help pull out the placenta as I pushed.
When I was pregnant, and excited about things; when my baby's heart was still beating, I had been looking up what was happening every week. By week 12, the placenta is full size, it grows first, then supports the baby's growth. I had a full size placenta to deliver, but it had broken up.
After everything was all cleaned up, the nurses were monitoring my temperature, and told me I had an infection. They had to start me on broad spectrum antibiotics, and keep me overnight. I think a part of me was glad that I wasn't going home. I wasn't ready for it, that would have been another door closing. Monday I closed a door taking that first pill. Wednesday I closed a door going in. I was glad for that tie to my baby that little bit longer. That was my first ever hospital stay, my first overnight admission.
After I had been given some lunch, and was sitting up again, Dr. Roselyn Mudenha came in and spoke to us about what to do with the remains. She talked us through the options, and although her buzzer was going off, she took her time to make sure that we understood, and I didn't feel like she rushed us, or rushed away. There were three options for the post-mortem, and we chose to give consent for the one that would provide us with the most answers. There were more options for what to do with the remains afterwards, and we chose to allow the hospital to deal with the remains, but to keep whatever they needed for future research. I think we thought that if there was anything helpful to be gained, we wanted it done. I'm really glad we were given those options, and I'm glad we chose the way we did.
The sudoku book that was bought on the Wednesday, the one that no one could complete a single puzzle, I finished almost two months later.
The bleeding started on 8 February 2017, stopped on 13 February 2017, re-started on 15 February 2017, changed to a very small amount on 17 February 2017, but didn't completely stop until 21 February 2017. By this stage I had been discharged from hospital with a massive amount of oral antibiotics, which killed whatever infection I had, but also gave me the side effect of giving me thrush in what seemed to be every place a person can get thrush. Due to accidentally being prescribed a paediatric dose of oral medication, that lasted until at least 20 March 2017. I think I also let that infection get particularly bad because I didn't really notice it starting, I was in pain, both emotionally and physically, and wasn't really paying attention to my body and to what form that pain was taking.
I went back to work on 7 March 2017. I lost a month. I did not lose our baby.
Through the haze of the month we learnt a number of things, the first, and most shocking, was the devastating news that our baby's heart had stopped beating.
What I didn't write in that Facebook post about the people of the NHS was that my husband was not with me when I first heard the news, he was en route, and had a call from me asking how close he was, in between Kirsty telling me she needed a second opinion and that second opinion confirming what was true. I didn't write that Kirsty started to explain things to me but I asked her not to say anything until he arrived. I wouldn't have been able to explain it to her at the time, but I needed not to hear anything that I might need to know, I was afraid of forgetting it. It was not that I didn't want to hear it, it was that I didn't want to forget something important, I needed those back up ears. I actually had to explain to her that I meant for her not to tell me anything about what happens next until he turned up, as she didn't really know how to deal with telling me the news either; I don't think she had had much experience of that side of things before.
We made our way home, parking one of the cars in a residential area near the hospital, where the parking was safe and free. So neither of us would have to drive far on our own. We had planned to go shopping that evening, so we shuffled around the shop, and probably took over 10 minutes just to buy a single pizza (pre-made.) We got home and left it in the oven. Neither of us much felt like eating anyway, so we ate around the black bits.
My mum arrived the following day, and after we picked her up from the train station, we picked up my car for her to drive it home. She was there for the consultant's appointment at the hospital on the Friday, and we went for tea and cakes afterwards. There was a lot of tea and cake that month, to get out of the house.
On the Saturday, we were both starting to come to terms with the news, and still shuffling around like zombies. We chose to go out shopping, not far, but far enough. We looked at kitchens, we looked at things to fill our kitchens, then we went for tea and sandwiches, just to change it up a bit. I don't think we spent more than half an hour in any shop, but we were out and moving. While I can't speak for my husband or my mum, it was really difficult to face "The Public" for me. I knew I was pale and shocked looking (I didn't have the energy to figure out how change my face from shocked to anything else) and I was scared of how strangers would react to that. I have had strangers, in the past, tell me to "Cheer up, it might never happen!" I was scared of if that or something similar was said to me, what my response was likely to be. I formulated responses in my head, just in case, but none of them fit. I had the angry response, I had the sad response, and I had the ignore response; thankfully, I didn't have to use any of them. You see, what could I have said to anyone who was making any comment on my mood? "I have had a miscarriage"? But it hadn't happened yet. "I am having a miscarriage"? I was not currently having one. "I am about to have a miscarriage"? That would have raised all sorts of questions, that I didn't have the energy to respond to. There is no word in the English language for carrying your dead child and waiting for the inevitable. I'm glad that I did not come into contact with the kind of people who feel it's appropriate to comment on other people in that way, I know they are out there, everywhere, but thankfully, I did have that reprieve. Or else they saw me and my appearance sucked all the energy from them to do anything! Emotionally the whole experience was exhausting, before I even got to the physical part.
The medical management of a miscarriage on the NHS in Scotland involves a two stage process, I had to go to Perth Royal Infirmary on the Monday to be given a single pill, that would prepare my body for what was to come. Then, because I was further along than the majority of cases, I had to go to Ninewells Hospital in Dundee for the second part on the Wednesday. I think it was to do with staff knowledge, or resources, I don't know. We arrived on the Monday morning to be told that Dr. Gordon had had to go into surgery, and had not signed off on my medication, so we went to the hospital cafe, for tea and cake. When he was out of surgery, I was given the pill, and it was such a final moment. I was acknowledging, for the first time through my actions, and making a definite choice, to speed the process up. I think until that point I had not truly admitted to myself that it was real, but by taking that pill, true or not, I was starting the process to remove the baby. I dropped it. I panicked then, I didn't want to lose it, to have to wait for another pill to be brought out, I didn't drop it deliberately, but neither did I want to take it. It was explained to me that after taking it, I might "spontaneously mis-carry" a term I didn't much like at the time. The idea of it all happening when I was at home, or out and about, I was terrified.
The Tuesday morning was the first morning I changed from taking the during pregnancy multi-vitamins to the pre-pregnancy multi-vitamins. I had known almost a week. We stayed at home on Tuesday. I started getting cramps on Tuesday night. We didn't sleep much that night. We didn't sleep much any night.
We got to Ninewells, we didn't know where to go, we arrived to the maternity unit, but there's no way in that way. I'm grateful for hospitals being secure places, but I just wanted to get through to get it over with. I was in a very contradictory place in my mind. I wanted to hold on to my baby for as long as possible, and I wanted it out as soon as possible. We met a few people, one who sent us in the wrong direction, and another who brought us to the right place. We were taken to a waiting room, in the gynaecology assessment unit, and shortly afterwards brought through to a private room, where I was given round one of what could have been 6 doses in 24 hours of the medication to start the process. I remember Emma explaining this to me, and explaining that I would be given another dose every 4 hours until something happened. I remember lying on my side as she was inserting the pills, and saying over and over "I don't want this. I don't want this." Although really, I couldn't have faced the other option, of just waiting. After that we were left alone, I was told to ask for more blankets if I was cold.
When a nurse, Kate, wanted to take some blood and blood pressure a short while after the meds were administered, she asked my husband and my mum to step outside to give her a bit more space. That was fine with all of us, but when she stepped out again to get some equipment, she was gone for longer than I anticipated. I text my husband, to ask him if he could ask to return, but when he wasn't coming back fast enough, my fear got the better of me and I started to cry. Another nurse, Lorna, heard me and came in to find out what had happened. She hugged me, she calmed me down, she didn't leave me until Kate came back. I told her I didn't want to be left alone, so she didn't. I'm really glad she didn't, even if it wasn't really her that I wanted there. The morning passed slowly, and I got colder and colder, and asked for more and more blankets. One of the health assistants found a heater, and brought that into my room. Then Kate came in, took my temperature, told me it was far too high, which is why I was cold, and took off all my blankets, took away the heater, and turned on the fan. I understood why, but it was awful.
At some stage I started to have severe cramps, and was really struggling with them; Lorna suggested I take 4 long breaths of the gas and air, so I did. Or, I tried. After number three I started to retch, and I could barely start number four, it was really making me feel sick. So they decided to give me some anti-sickness medication. The fastest acting stuff is injected in your bum, seemingly into one of my nerves that made me jerk away. They had to stop trying for safety, I'm not sure if it was theirs, mine, or both. So I got some oral medication instead. I'm not sure I really needed it, because the only reason I was feeling sick was the gas and air, and if I wasn't taking that, I would have been fine, but in pain.
It was coming close to the four hour point, I wasn't looking forward to the four hour point. The time that they would again have to insert more medication to speed up the miscarriage.
I was still in pain, and Lorna suggested that it was time to push. The thing is, with a miscarriage, because they want to take it all away as quickly as possible, they asked me to use one of those disposable bed-pans on the toilet. So we went into the tiny toilet cubicle, me, Lee, and Lorna. I tried, I really did try to push, but I didn't really think I was ready, I wanted to be, although I knew I never would be. I went back to bed.
It was getting closer to that four hour point, and my waters broke. I hadn't expected that. I felt things moving, and I sat up, and felt the liquid trickling out. I went back to the toilet, just with Lee this time, and made it just in time. We both saw it, our baby. Just for a split second, then he had me look at him. The bell to call staff in was pulled, and Lorna came back, she pulled the bell again, and they helped me back to the bed, as it wasn't coming out cleanly. Dr. Alex had to come in, and help pull out the placenta as I pushed.
When I was pregnant, and excited about things; when my baby's heart was still beating, I had been looking up what was happening every week. By week 12, the placenta is full size, it grows first, then supports the baby's growth. I had a full size placenta to deliver, but it had broken up.
After everything was all cleaned up, the nurses were monitoring my temperature, and told me I had an infection. They had to start me on broad spectrum antibiotics, and keep me overnight. I think a part of me was glad that I wasn't going home. I wasn't ready for it, that would have been another door closing. Monday I closed a door taking that first pill. Wednesday I closed a door going in. I was glad for that tie to my baby that little bit longer. That was my first ever hospital stay, my first overnight admission.
After I had been given some lunch, and was sitting up again, Dr. Roselyn Mudenha came in and spoke to us about what to do with the remains. She talked us through the options, and although her buzzer was going off, she took her time to make sure that we understood, and I didn't feel like she rushed us, or rushed away. There were three options for the post-mortem, and we chose to give consent for the one that would provide us with the most answers. There were more options for what to do with the remains afterwards, and we chose to allow the hospital to deal with the remains, but to keep whatever they needed for future research. I think we thought that if there was anything helpful to be gained, we wanted it done. I'm really glad we were given those options, and I'm glad we chose the way we did.
The sudoku book that was bought on the Wednesday, the one that no one could complete a single puzzle, I finished almost two months later.
The bleeding started on 8 February 2017, stopped on 13 February 2017, re-started on 15 February 2017, changed to a very small amount on 17 February 2017, but didn't completely stop until 21 February 2017. By this stage I had been discharged from hospital with a massive amount of oral antibiotics, which killed whatever infection I had, but also gave me the side effect of giving me thrush in what seemed to be every place a person can get thrush. Due to accidentally being prescribed a paediatric dose of oral medication, that lasted until at least 20 March 2017. I think I also let that infection get particularly bad because I didn't really notice it starting, I was in pain, both emotionally and physically, and wasn't really paying attention to my body and to what form that pain was taking.
I went back to work on 7 March 2017. I lost a month. I did not lose our baby.
10 February 2017
First posted on Facebook on 10 February 2017.
1 February 2017
Her name was Chris, she was halfway through a 12 hour shift. She asked for medical notes, and said that she tells all her pregnant ladies to carry them everywhere from the start; saying that you might just slip and fall in Markies! She took blood pressure, pulse, and the obligatory urine sample. She laughed when she heard the response that the husband should know better than to speed from Dundee to Perth.
Her name was Kirsty, she wore a black dress and a reassuring smile. She asked a few questions, explained that a little brown blood is often nothing to worry about, and advised that a precautionary ultrasound would give a closer look at babba. "There's the head!" Then she went quiet.
She moved transverse with the wand, then back.
She turned the sound on, and quickly off.
The image on the screen showed a pulsing movement in the bottom corner, but nothing in the centre.
"I'm going to have to get someone else in to look at this ultrasound, before..." she trailed off.
"Before?"
She paused. "I'm so sorry, I can't quite see a heartbeat, I have to get someone else in to have a look." She waited a while, observing the world imploding.
Her name was Morna, she observed that the machine was the same as her own. She made the same observation as Kirsty, and offered condolences, while Kirsty reached out to offer a reassuring touch to the leg. The baby measured 13 weeks and 3 days, although it would rightly have been 14 and 4.
3 February 2017
His name was Adam, but of course he was referred to as Dr. Gordon by all who spoke of him. He explained what happens next, he acknowledged the support of the grandmother, and the father, although he noted that he would be suffering too. He asked if it would be ok to do another ultrasound. He said that often, he can observe things on an ultrasound that would provide some insight into the reasons behind it. Evidence that is lost "afterwards". The baby measured 12 weeks and 6 days, although he explained that 2 days had passed since the world imploded, and the baby may not be lying as straight as it once was.
6 February 2017
Her name was not shared, but it was printed on the faded label sewn into her tunic. She explained that Dr. Gordon had to go into surgery, and he was the only one who could sign for the medication. The first pill to prepare the womb for what was to come. When the pill was given, about an hour later, she left the room and said to take as long as was needed.
8 February 2017
Her name was Emma, she was calm and clear in her manner. She asked what had been explained in Perth, then clarified that it would be 4 pills, while apologising that the doctors had not signed off on the painkillers. When she returned, the doctors had finished their rounds, so she came back with the full complement of drugs.
Her name was Kate, her hair was the same faded pink as the dressmaker, from last year's wedding. Through the course of the day she offered encouragement in every form, and was there to witness the signing of the post mortem authorisation.
Her name was Lorna, she held a hand, and held things in place during one of the more un-dignified parts of the day. At 4.02pm, she entered the room to say goodbye, as her shift was over, and remind that support was always available.
His name was Alex, he had a faint Canadian accent, and blue shoes. He completed all his medical training in the UK, and said he specialised in Obs & Gynae after a rewarding placement with supportive people.
Her name was Shona, her grey tunic did not have her name, but the name of the university. She was in her third year, and softly spoken, with a nice smile.
Her name was Dr. Roselyn Mudenha, her buzzer went off as she was going through the consent forms for Post Mortem. She took her time to explain what the options were, and explained how any samples kept for training and research could help.
Her name was Margaret, she was just finishing her shift in ward 36, but said she would be back in the morning.
Her name was Cheryl, she had a perfect little Sassoon bob that somehow showed off her smile. She was there for the night shift, and said that they never warn patients that they would be woken up at 2am for obs, she was there to answer the bell in the middle of the night to the toilet, and offer that reassuring smile to send me off to bed again.
10 February 2017
My name is Emma, and these are the names of some of the people who supported my husband and I through our worst time. They work for the NHS, and they deserve acknowledgement for the work that they do, and support, for the work that they do. #LoveTheNHS
1 February 2017
Her name was Chris, she was halfway through a 12 hour shift. She asked for medical notes, and said that she tells all her pregnant ladies to carry them everywhere from the start; saying that you might just slip and fall in Markies! She took blood pressure, pulse, and the obligatory urine sample. She laughed when she heard the response that the husband should know better than to speed from Dundee to Perth.
Her name was Kirsty, she wore a black dress and a reassuring smile. She asked a few questions, explained that a little brown blood is often nothing to worry about, and advised that a precautionary ultrasound would give a closer look at babba. "There's the head!" Then she went quiet.
She moved transverse with the wand, then back.
She turned the sound on, and quickly off.
The image on the screen showed a pulsing movement in the bottom corner, but nothing in the centre.
"I'm going to have to get someone else in to look at this ultrasound, before..." she trailed off.
"Before?"
She paused. "I'm so sorry, I can't quite see a heartbeat, I have to get someone else in to have a look." She waited a while, observing the world imploding.
Her name was Morna, she observed that the machine was the same as her own. She made the same observation as Kirsty, and offered condolences, while Kirsty reached out to offer a reassuring touch to the leg. The baby measured 13 weeks and 3 days, although it would rightly have been 14 and 4.
3 February 2017
His name was Adam, but of course he was referred to as Dr. Gordon by all who spoke of him. He explained what happens next, he acknowledged the support of the grandmother, and the father, although he noted that he would be suffering too. He asked if it would be ok to do another ultrasound. He said that often, he can observe things on an ultrasound that would provide some insight into the reasons behind it. Evidence that is lost "afterwards". The baby measured 12 weeks and 6 days, although he explained that 2 days had passed since the world imploded, and the baby may not be lying as straight as it once was.
6 February 2017
Her name was not shared, but it was printed on the faded label sewn into her tunic. She explained that Dr. Gordon had to go into surgery, and he was the only one who could sign for the medication. The first pill to prepare the womb for what was to come. When the pill was given, about an hour later, she left the room and said to take as long as was needed.
8 February 2017
Her name was Emma, she was calm and clear in her manner. She asked what had been explained in Perth, then clarified that it would be 4 pills, while apologising that the doctors had not signed off on the painkillers. When she returned, the doctors had finished their rounds, so she came back with the full complement of drugs.
Her name was Kate, her hair was the same faded pink as the dressmaker, from last year's wedding. Through the course of the day she offered encouragement in every form, and was there to witness the signing of the post mortem authorisation.
Her name was Lorna, she held a hand, and held things in place during one of the more un-dignified parts of the day. At 4.02pm, she entered the room to say goodbye, as her shift was over, and remind that support was always available.
His name was Alex, he had a faint Canadian accent, and blue shoes. He completed all his medical training in the UK, and said he specialised in Obs & Gynae after a rewarding placement with supportive people.
Her name was Shona, her grey tunic did not have her name, but the name of the university. She was in her third year, and softly spoken, with a nice smile.
Her name was Dr. Roselyn Mudenha, her buzzer went off as she was going through the consent forms for Post Mortem. She took her time to explain what the options were, and explained how any samples kept for training and research could help.
Her name was Margaret, she was just finishing her shift in ward 36, but said she would be back in the morning.
Her name was Cheryl, she had a perfect little Sassoon bob that somehow showed off her smile. She was there for the night shift, and said that they never warn patients that they would be woken up at 2am for obs, she was there to answer the bell in the middle of the night to the toilet, and offer that reassuring smile to send me off to bed again.
10 February 2017
My name is Emma, and these are the names of some of the people who supported my husband and I through our worst time. They work for the NHS, and they deserve acknowledgement for the work that they do, and support, for the work that they do. #LoveTheNHS
1 February 2017
My husband I married on 29 July 2016, we didn't start trying for children straight away. The main reason for this was because although I was in a stable job and would have been eligible for maternity leave, we had relocated in April 2016, and I had an hour and a half commute which we wanted to shorten before I added the tiring effects of pregnancy to the mix.
I looked for jobs when we first moved, but then planning for the wedding took over, and it was put off. I started job-hunting again in August, and on 30 September 2016, I was offered a job with a 25 minute commute! I handed in my notice, took a week's holiday before starting, and re-decorated our bedroom. In the run up to this, I had started to feel "dis-connected" so the re-decoration was to help me settle, it didn't feel like home; although I think in part that was in relation to the massive commute. That week, beginning 31 October 2016, was during my fertile period. We decided to hit the ground running, thinking that we would never strike the bullseye first time.
My husband went to visit his sister the last weekend in November, I hadn't been able to make it because before it was planned I had already agreed that I would be available to teach at the circus school. It was maybe the Friday that I started to think that I might be pregnant, but I wanted to wait, for the ever so romantic peeing on a stick in front of my husband. I'd had signs, like needing to take naps on the drive home from work, the 25 minute drive; and wanting lots of milk. Sunday rolled around, he got home, and I told him that I all but knew I was pregnant. The pregnancy test we had said that it would take 1-3 minutes to show a positive result, so about 20 seconds after I peed on it, I said to the door "I'm pregnant". I guess the pregnancy hormone was strong in me!
We got excited, we told family. We had a scan (17 January 2017). We saw the heart beating, saw our little wriggler, got the pictures. Told some friends. I travelled home for a family event on the last weekend in January, without my husband. In the airport the metal detectors weren't working, so they were asking everyone to go through the X Ray machines instead. I got to the front of the line, and realised this. I panicked. I said "I don't want to go in there, I'm pregnant!" It was the first time I had told a stranger who wasn't a medical professional. I was allowed to go past and stood to be searched. The lady who stood in front of me asked me how many weeks. It was "14 weeks yesterday" said with a big smile.
I was starting to relax.
The following Wednesday (1 February 2017) I was in work, I had a little bit of spotting, but not a lot. I wasn't too worried, but I was worried. I text my husband, and although he works shifts, he was at work then too. We discussed it, and in the end I decided to contact the midwives and leave work early. I left at 15:30. When I first booked in my midwife had told me that spotting was normal, but to always get it checked out.
The hospital staff were brilliant, I was taken through, and Chris, one of the midwives, chatted to me, took the various measurements she needed to, and the pee. (There's a lot of pee while you're pregnant!) Then she brought me through for a scan, and found a doctor to perform the scan. Kirsty was lovely, she acknowledged that it was a difficult time, having seen the scan, but not yet feeling the movement. She, like Chris, reassured me that the amount of brown spotting I was talking about was unlikely to be of any concern. She squeezed the jelly out, she lifted the wand, she delivered what was, up until that point, the worst news of my life. There was no heartbeat.
I looked for jobs when we first moved, but then planning for the wedding took over, and it was put off. I started job-hunting again in August, and on 30 September 2016, I was offered a job with a 25 minute commute! I handed in my notice, took a week's holiday before starting, and re-decorated our bedroom. In the run up to this, I had started to feel "dis-connected" so the re-decoration was to help me settle, it didn't feel like home; although I think in part that was in relation to the massive commute. That week, beginning 31 October 2016, was during my fertile period. We decided to hit the ground running, thinking that we would never strike the bullseye first time.
My husband went to visit his sister the last weekend in November, I hadn't been able to make it because before it was planned I had already agreed that I would be available to teach at the circus school. It was maybe the Friday that I started to think that I might be pregnant, but I wanted to wait, for the ever so romantic peeing on a stick in front of my husband. I'd had signs, like needing to take naps on the drive home from work, the 25 minute drive; and wanting lots of milk. Sunday rolled around, he got home, and I told him that I all but knew I was pregnant. The pregnancy test we had said that it would take 1-3 minutes to show a positive result, so about 20 seconds after I peed on it, I said to the door "I'm pregnant". I guess the pregnancy hormone was strong in me!
We got excited, we told family. We had a scan (17 January 2017). We saw the heart beating, saw our little wriggler, got the pictures. Told some friends. I travelled home for a family event on the last weekend in January, without my husband. In the airport the metal detectors weren't working, so they were asking everyone to go through the X Ray machines instead. I got to the front of the line, and realised this. I panicked. I said "I don't want to go in there, I'm pregnant!" It was the first time I had told a stranger who wasn't a medical professional. I was allowed to go past and stood to be searched. The lady who stood in front of me asked me how many weeks. It was "14 weeks yesterday" said with a big smile.
I was starting to relax.
The following Wednesday (1 February 2017) I was in work, I had a little bit of spotting, but not a lot. I wasn't too worried, but I was worried. I text my husband, and although he works shifts, he was at work then too. We discussed it, and in the end I decided to contact the midwives and leave work early. I left at 15:30. When I first booked in my midwife had told me that spotting was normal, but to always get it checked out.
The hospital staff were brilliant, I was taken through, and Chris, one of the midwives, chatted to me, took the various measurements she needed to, and the pee. (There's a lot of pee while you're pregnant!) Then she brought me through for a scan, and found a doctor to perform the scan. Kirsty was lovely, she acknowledged that it was a difficult time, having seen the scan, but not yet feeling the movement. She, like Chris, reassured me that the amount of brown spotting I was talking about was unlikely to be of any concern. She squeezed the jelly out, she lifted the wand, she delivered what was, up until that point, the worst news of my life. There was no heartbeat.
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