Holding On

*This is a post about my miscarriage, so you might not want to read it if it will particularly upset you.

I lie on the same hospital table for the second time in three days. I lift up my knees and let them fall apart as the lovely, kind nurse points a lamp at my vagina.

I’ve had six implements inserted into me this week, and none of them were for fun.

Sometimes it’s hard being a woman. I ask my husband afterwards if he’s pretty glad to be a man right now. He is.

It hurts as the young doctor pokes about at my cervix and I cry. I don’t cry because of the pain or the discomfort or the indignity of all this. I cry that I have already lost my precious baby and I know that whatever the doctor tells me in a moment won’t make a difference.

I cry for the dreams and plans and thoughts of a Christmas with two children we had already made.

I cry for the girl who wants to be a big sister more than anything in the world and kisses my teeny bump whenever she can.

They take more blood, book me in for a scan tomorrow. Then we’ll know for sure. I already know.

I’ve had a miscarriage before. But I haven’t done this before. I didn’t expect four weeks to be so different from eight.

Eight is so much harder. How do people cope going through this at a later stage? Right now I have no idea how they find the strength to keep on going.

I didn’t expect for my body to go into a type of labour. I didn’t expect for the doctor to ask me if we wanted our baby to be cremated or buried and if we wanted to find out once it had happened.

This doesn’t feel real. It isn’t fair.

This past three weeks has had me in a total tailspin.

I got pregnant, naturally!

Four years and two rounds of IVF to have my fucking incredible daughter and then the thing everyone tells you happened to someone they know, happens!

I got fucking pregnant naturally, without even trying. I took a pregnancy test to make sure I wasn’t because I’d completely lost track of dates. And I bloody was.

I stared at the word ‘pregnant’ for a while with my mouth hanging open in a dramatic but totally real way. I couldn’t believe it at all. I hated my husband at that moment. Not because he’d got me pregnant, but because we’d had a big argument right before I’d tested.

This baby felt like it was going to save me in so many ways. I’d put off trying for a second because I was bloody scared. Scared of doing it all again. Scared of coping with two. Scared of getting more and more depressed despite being so lucky.

Getting pregnant without even trying took away that doubt and that worry.

But it felt too easy.

I found out on a Saturday there was a precious life inside me.

On the Thursday I had my standard three-monthly consultant appointment where I found out the cysts I have on my ovary have grown more and have signs of malignancy. They want to remove everything as soon as possible. Everything.

This baby might have been my last chance to have the children and the family that I long for. That I’ve always wanted. That I don’t know how to live without.

And so I lie there, on the table, trying to keep my eyes closed and to think of other things. But instead hoping and praying with every part of me that she says my cervix is still closed. But also knowing that it probably doesn’t matter because I already know my baby is gone.

I lost my baby. I lost a dream. And with it I maybe lost my last chance to be a mother of more than one. The big family I’d always wanted. To give my girl her dream of being a big sister.

I also lost an innocence I didn’t know I had. An innocence of not knowing how truly horrific losing a baby even in the first trimester could be. I can’t get that back now. I will always know, and always be that bit more scared if I’m lucky enough to experience pregnancy again.

I walk outside afterwards and the world seems crazy and wonderful and sad and confusing. I breathe in the fresh air and hold my breath until I burst into tears that feel like they’ll never stop.

I feel hard done by and broken-hearted. I feel empty and completely bewildered.

I want to sleep for a month until I start to feel better. Until I feel like I can do life again. I’m scared of what the future may hold now. I’m a little bit stronger, a little bit more bitter, a lot less hopeful. More thoughtful. More fragile.

But I have to hold on, for her. For the one that keeps me smiling even when I’m screaming inside. For the beautiful girl that made us laugh straight after we’d told her. The girl that kissed my belly and said “goodbye, I’ll miss you” and buried her face in as far as she could, whilst silent tears poured down my face.

I’ll keep holding on for her.

3 Comments

    • 13th June 2017 / 3:30 pm

      Thank you lovely xxx

  1. Shelley
    20th June 2017 / 8:41 pm

    Aw Louise, I’m so so sorry to be reading this.
    I’m sure no words will take away the pain you are feeling, all feeling as a family.
    Life can be just so shitty sometimes and seems to happen to the most lovely and wonderful people.
    Please know you are in my thoughts.
    Xx xx

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