Surviving Miscarriage Together


On every website I have visited during my grief one common theme is that loosing a baby, whether planned, unplanned, wanted or feared, whether it is your first or your fifth is one of the worst kinds of grief it is possible to experience.

And I am sad to say that I, and countless others have found this to be true. The statistics state that 1 in every 4 women is likely to have suffered a miscarriage.

There are no good things to say, not really, but everyone can tell you of a few things you just don’t ever want to hear (I will address this in my next post).

I lost my baby at 12.06 am on Saturday 22nd October 2016. I was three weeks to a month into my pregnancy, and it was barely 3 days after I found out I was pregnant. I was scared to be pregnant  – I have a lot of health complications, am frequently wheelchair bound, and if I do ever have a successful pregnancy, it is likely that any child I have will inherit at least some of these. My pregnancy was not planned, but as soon as I saw my suspicions confirmed in that one positive test, I knew that I wanted and loved nothing more than the tiny little spark that was about to turn my life upside-down.

On the day of my miscarriage I picked myself up of the floor of the shower where I had sat in agony for the past hour, put on New pyjamas and went to bed, when I woke up I decided that, as nobody knew I had been pregnant I would continue as if nothing had happened. The same day I went to a university open day and tried very hard to keep walking through the pain, passing it of as period cramps when my Mum asked what was wrong. My partner was also looking around the same uni and he drove me to work afterwards, not for one moment of that car journey did I dare say what had happened, utterly terrified that he would say that it was for the best. The hours of work passed in a blur – one of my jobs is sorting the children’s clothes and it was only when I put out a tiny pair of green wellies that the enormity of what had just happened began to sink in.

Sunday passed much the same way, only now the shock was vanishing and I was left empty, unprepared and free-falling. I continued to pretend, even to my partner of 4 1/2 years that everything was normal, which worked just fine until I had to see him.

Monday was the second worst day of my life, not only had I lost my baby and was still in the middle of a miscarriage  (I never realised they lasted so long, I had assumed that they were over quickly like Labour, mine lasted for 6 awful days, other women’s go on for even longer depending on how developed the pregnancy), but I finally had to admit to myself, and to the love of my life, that what was happening was real. As soon as he picked me up he knew something was off, but I said that I was fine and we went walking around the shops for a few hours.

It wasn’t until we got to his house, I said I felt ill and curled up in bed with a cup of tea, and he asked for what felt like the millionth time was I alright that I said no.

“I thought I was pregnant, so I took a test and I was, but then I lost the baby.” And he didn’t look relieved, or tell me that it was for the best, he did the best possible thing anyone cold have done; he let me cry.

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