Coping with Miscarriage - Therese

Therese shares with Sands her experience of miscarriage which occurred a long time ago when there was no support available.

'It didn’t matter that I had two other precious children that I loved with all my heart; I always felt this missing link and sometimes felt so alone.'

In those early days of losing my precious third child through miscarriage, there was always a feeling of something missing at Christmas as I knew that I should have been about to give birth any day after Christmas. There was no support in those days either from family or the Church (I was a Catholic) and by the Health Professionals. No-one could understand this feeling except someone who had gone through it. I also felt very guilty as my miscarriage started the day my older child was performing in her first calisthenics concert as Red Riding Hood. My sister-in-law who had come to watch my daughter, had to take over her care and look after her while my husband rushed me to hospital – I had to have a curette after the loss of my baby and I didn’t even know what that was! I mentioned my miscarriage a short while ago to my same sister-in-law and she had no memory of the day! I thought “wow how could you not” but it just goes to show what is important to one person isn’t to another unless it has an emotional impact to that person.

It didn’t matter that I had two other precious children that I loved with all my heart; I always felt this missing link and sometimes felt so alone. If I hadn’t had my friend Robyn who had been through it (twice!), I am not sure I would have survived. My husband and I had differing ways of handling it and while I thought I understood that he was grieving too, I felt my loss was worse as I had the physical pain of the loss plus the emotional pain as well. Of course, many years later and being a professional working in the field of loss and grief, I now understand that the grief of men and women is both different and, on some levels, the same; we just handle it differently.

Much of my recovery was a feeling I just had to get on with it for the sake of my two children and the husband whom I loved, but guess didn’t understand at that point. The physical recovery took time and the emotional even longer. Grief is not something that just goes away with time as many would like to think; one just learns to deal with it.

How did I get through it one might ask? My dearest friend kept me sane and even back then I think I started to write poetry, a passion that is still with me today. It was probably not until after my next child was born that I realised that my recovery from this miscarriage had not eventuated but rather I had hidden it away. I had a physical breakdown and went into a retreat-like existence with the lovely Grey Sisters in Canterbury,  where I joined a group of women who were going through rough times too. I was able to start talking about what had happened in a more forthright way.

By this time, it was the beginning of the end for my marriage, although we struggled for another 10 years plus and moved to the country. Today I may have handled things better as there is more support but one can never say how you could handle something until it actually happens to you. There were other grief situations we were both going through at the time and I feel in hindsight that this added to our burden and we had also lost the art of communication as my husband began to absent himself more and more.

These days I know a lot more about the association of stress to loss. I have even run courses on this subject, so I am aware of my triggers and can manage it better; however, Christmas still brings up a few tears for this loss and others that have occurred since.  One does get through it but at the time one can’t see the wood for the trees.  

Some words of advice: Don’t isolate yourself as I did. Ask for that all important support from anyone and keep asking until you get it. There is so much support out there and I truly wish that an organisation like SANDS was around when I was going through my loss of my baby.

Therese

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

About Therese 

Therese has worked in the field of counselling and community development for over 20 years. She has worked predominantly in the health and welfare field. She has worked in the primary school sector counselling children through a range of loss and grief and traumatic experiences.

Therese has also delivered a number of conference papers on the theme of children’s loss and grief and articles on stress management too. She also worked as a Sessional teacher in the TAFE system and the Private Sector in the Community Services area, including Mental Health Welfare for over 20 years. She is also an experienced Supervisor.

Therese has as a small business conducting Reiki, Inner Child Therapy, Meditation and similar therapies. She is also works as a Group Facilitator and teaches stress management and relaxation techniques within the local community as well as running workshops in the areas of trauma and loss and grief and related areas.

Therese is a published poet and has three children and four delightful grandsons. She enjoys nothing more than a good cup of coffee and the occasional glass of wine or bubbly. She is passionate about climate change and the environment, wanting a clean world for her grandchildren to grow up in and one where any type of violence is not tolerated.

Because You’re There For Me Too

In  her first blog for Sands, Annika shares her precious babies and how the Sands online support assisted her in her grief.

"Sands gave me a safe place, an online haven where I could openly grieve 

my little babies and talk about our fears of infertility. "

I have a beautiful son. He is almost five months old now! I can’t believe how fast the time has gone by but I could just stare into his blue eyes all day, every day for the rest of my life. But becoming parents was a long, and emotional journey for us as there were four who came before him.

Four tiny babies who graced this earth for only a brief moment in time. Some, only days, others only weeks. We discovered that the endometriosis I had been dealing with since I was 11 was the cause of our losses and so I underwent surgery at the end of 2013 to remove it. We went through all of this in a city where we had no close friends, and we had no family. 



Annika's Angel tattoo in memory of Baby Pearce

The devastation of losing our biggest baby who stayed with us until only 6 weeks and 1 day was overwhelming and inescapable.  I felt alone, lost, and ripped from motherhood. I tried to find local support groups, anything in my city it help me through the grief but unfortunately I could find nothing available. My loss was too early you see, and therefore I felt that our little baby was insignificant.

Looking back, it is clear that I had mild depression for the better part of 18 months. I couldn't let the pregnancy go and was continuously counting down until the due date, October 25^th 2013. My body was empty, but my mind carried on ticking off the milestones as they came and went. It was exhausting. During that time we saw two more positive pregnancy tests which faded until they too were gone.

I tried to reach out to friends and colleagues but was told countless times that “it wasn't like I lost an actual baby”, that I “needed help” when all I wanted was a hug, that “it was for the best” and that I was just being “impatient”.

I believed them of course. My babies were barely babies. I hadn't lost a “real” baby. I hadn't gone through labour and delivered a still baby. I didn't have a name for them, didn’t know if they were boys or girls. I never saw any of them in any ultrasound. I felt so ashamed for grieving the loss of my babies when I was grieving something that was never really there in the first place. It was very confusing and depressing and I struggled, still struggle with these thoughts.

There were three people who I could talk to about my loss at that point. My husband, my Mum, and someone who unexpectedly has become one of my closest friends. Without her, I’m not sure where I would be in my grief journey, but I am certain I wouldn't be where I am today.

A little over a month earlier she lost her daughter at 39 weeks. She lost her baby girl. She held her daughter in her arms and said hello, then goodbye. But she was the ONE person who told me that mine were real babies too, that they were little lives, not little losses. She was the person who introduced me to Sands.

Sands gave me a safe place, an online haven where I could openly grieve my little babies and talk about our fears of infertility. Speaking with women who had lost babies at all stages of pregnancy and during the neonatal period opened my eyes to a world I never knew existed and it was full of people who just had so much love and support to give, even in their darkest hours. The members of Sands brought me out of a bad place and they gave me hope. But most importantly they gave my babies' little lives recognition. Without any pictures, or proof of ever being pregnant, even for the shortest of time, they still recognized my tiny babies and continue to do so.

The members of Sands are an inspiration. Because of Sands I now have some amazing people in my life who will no doubt always be in my life. And while I can't begin to understand the grief of losing a baby at later stages of pregnancy, even as I watched my closest friend go through exactly that, I am better equipped to give advice and support to them too.

My son is asleep as I write this. There isn't a moment when I am not grateful for the baby we were able to bring home. There are times when I am sad, where I imagine the little people who would be playing in the living room with my son, but I can imagine them and smile through the sadness instead of cry. I am at peace with my losses now and I feel so lucky to be where I am today. Through my son’s pregnancy and with other subsequent pregnancies I know I will continue to have support, and be able to provide support to others. It really doesn't seem enough to say this, but ‘thank you’.

To read more about my journey through miscarriage, TTC, and our rainbow’s pregnancy please visit my blog page at: https://letshaveababybaby.wordpress.com

Annika

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Annika Pearce

My name is Annika and I am a qualified Ambulance Paramedic living in Canberra. I love to be there for others and biology and pre-hospital medicine are a passion I share with my husband, Ben. The light of our lives, Henry, was born at the end of 2014 following a succession of four early miscarriages due to endometriosis. Our biggest Angel, Baby Pearce, who I carried for only 6 weeks at the beginning of 2013 has become the source of my inspiration for blogging and developing a Canberra-based online support group for women who have experienced a pregnancy or neonatal loss. My hope is to create a local support network, where we can share and be there for each other, as Sands created for me. As we begin our journey of conceiving our second rainbow there is still fear, but also hope and excitement.  

You can read Annika's personal blog here

Miscarriage, Infertility, and weight loss

A newcomer to Sands blog, Shanelle shares her experience of infertility, weight loss and a miscarriage...

In my trouble to conceive over four years it was put down to infertility due to hypothyroidism and obesity, it was a huge struggle for me, having conceived my son easily years earlier at 80kg but tipping the scales at 128kg, I had been trying to lose weight for years, exercising, trying every diet under the sun and even three cycles of Clomid with no success.

Low and behold we unexpectedly fell pregnant though ten weeks later we miscarried with doctors and nurses reassuring us that there was nothing I could have done and not to blame myself. Even the gynaecologist performing my D&C said not to blame myself, though my size could have contributed to the miscarriage but it was a fact I had try to accept and not beat myself up about it. After all, these things happened right? And I fully had faith in the wonderful nurses and doctors treating me throughout the whole deal.

Until, two weeks later when I had a follow up appointment with a new gynaecologist for review on an ovary cyst. Asking when it was safe to try conceiving again she replied that at 128kgs I be concentrating on losing weight and not even consider trying for another baby at my size, considering all the health implications like high blood pressure and diabetes. I was devastated; I couldn’t help but cry in front of her, to which she suggested counselling. Here was this lady whom I’d never before, without even asking my medical history (if she had, she would have known I had perfect blood pressure and sugar levels, along with a healthy lifestyle despite my size) judging me and making me feel like I didn’t have the right to have a baby based on my weight. The blame game hit with vengeance. 

I went home and attended I had a follow up scan with my GP for my cysts, and after speaking with him, he prescribed me Duromine to aid in weight loss while I fully recovered from my miscarriage, in hopes it would rally my spirits from what the Gynaecologist had said (all of which he disagreed with.)
Meanwhile I had my scan. It had been 6 weeks.  My world well apart all over again at seeing an empty uterus and a lifeless heart rate monitor, that I ended up taking the Gynaecologist advice and sought out a counsellor through the hospital, despite me being a trainee counsellor myself.  We spoke on the phone for an hour before she decided that what I was experiencing was typical grief and didn’t need to enrolled into their program but to call back, if needed. It made me feel alone, so alone that I alienated everyone and focused on exercising and eating right.

Another month passed and I had lost 5kgs, feeling hopeful at my final gynaecologist visit, I met with her assistant who, when asked when I could try conceiving again told me that she saw no harm in trying considering I was maintaining a healthy lifestyle but she had to ask the gynaecologist to be sure. She returned with the message I should lose at least 20 more kilograms before trying again. Devastated, self-loathing, I left.

It has been two months since that last visit and I feel through the experience judged and completely let down by the public health system, though I know they were only doing their jobs. But if nothing else this experience has made me determined.

Determined not to let my self-worth and confidence to be scarred by opinions, no matter how professional. And with the support my partner and my doctor I had added more and more healthy choices and exercise regimes to my Iifestyle while learning to accept myself for who I am, and better myself not for medical statistics but for myself, my family and my future family.

Shanelle Kay

 

If you require support please call Sands - 1300 0 SANDS

Shanelle Kay

Shanelle is a trainee counsellor and photographer based in Brisbane.
She believes the best sound in the world is her son's laughter and how he sings to himself when he wakes from a nap. She is also a proud mummy to an angel baby and through writing and various arts she is sharing her experience and finding herself, all over again. In her own words...

"I am all and I am nothing, but most importantly I am exactly who I need to

be in this moment... and that is sometimes the hardest thing we have to accept,

 openly and honestly.. Ourselves"

Remembering Stevie...

We are all in Sands because a precious baby has died.    Some of us have found it easy to talk about our experiences and our emotions.  Others have grieved in silence.    Some of us have the comfort of supportive partners, family and friends.  Some of us have felt very alone.  Some of us have felt judged -  our babies died in the early weeks of pregnancy - our babies had abnormalities incompatible with life - we shouldn't have been pregnant in the first place (too young, too old, too poor, unmarried ...)

Everyone in Sands has a  story .  "Stevie's Story" is about grieving a baby lost through termination.  It is a story full of pain and anguish, but also of support and hope. 

Stevie

6 December 1968, Parramatta

Remembering Stevie means different things to me at different times. Let me walk through it as (chrono)logically as I can.

Just after his birth I was confused, distressed, deeply shocked. Shocked to see a perfect, albeit small baby at 20 weeks. I knew immediately I hadn't terminated a blob of cells unrecognizable as human. I had to remember him – remember him as he was – translucent – beautiful – a perfect baby. I had to remember him. He had to be a thorn in my side to remind me of my failure as a mother – a failure as a human being. So I named him Steven, Steven to remind me that what I had done was unforgivable – there was no penance that could atone. Being told Stevie was hospital waste, not acknowledged by his father, not acknowledged by society served to reinforce by belief my life was to be a continuum of pain. That it was. Even as I write this my heart is breaking.

The next day I went back to work. Stevie was locked deep inside my heart. Life went on – somehow and I don’t remember how. We were married a month later and Stevie never mentioned. It was as though he had never been conceived; never been born. Stevie was locked deep in my heart – I remembered him day after day.

The years passed and I no longer conceived. Was it any wonder? I had killed Stevie – I did not deserve another child. In February 1977 I was diagnosed with cancer on the uterus, two days later I was in surgery; 2/3 pf the uterus were removed and I was receiving radiation therapy– I was to be punished by not being able to have children. Stevie was locked in my heart and he reminded me of my iniquity day after day.
In June 1977 when I was in hospital for radiation treatment it was confirmed I was pregnant and was told I needed to terminate the pregnancy immediately; the risk of the baby being deformed, retarded would be too great. Various tests confirmed the child would be severely disabled. Termination would be the only kind thing. Stevie was locked deep in my heart and reminded me what termination was and what it would be. Would I kill another child? Stevie was locked deep in my heart. I told no one of the risk and refused to have the child aborted. In January 1978 my daughter was born; she was healthy – she had no disabilities. The amniocentesis had given a wrong result. Stevie was locked in my heart and I was afraid I would forget him now.

Two and a half years later my second son was born. Stevie knocked on my heart’s door reminding me of all the experiences I had missed with him. My children were what I was living for. Without them I was less than nothing. I could never atone for taking a life.
My rainbow children grew up, flew the coop and with that my purpose for living. There was no point in continuing. I decided on exitus and began to plan and collect the tools I needed … and Stevie was locked deep inside my heart.

And this is where a good friend joined the story. He showed me I needed to liberate Stevie and he started by saying his name. He validated his existence by saying his name. By saying his name he could not be forgotten and he also introduced me to Sands. I can see it clearly now, how – starting with preparing for Stevie’s first memorial and chatting with a Sands supporter at the same time step by step Stevie was carried into my heart – precious and loved – no longer locked up in its deepest depths.
I feared Stevie would eclipse my living children; I learnt by dividing my love between the children it did not become less – it grew.

Lacking any mementos from the time Stevie was born I made memories and to my surprise the Sands community rallied around me when I was down, whenever I needed it. On 9 December last year, dozens of mums in the Sands community had changed their profile picture to honour Stevie and I was overwhelmed by their kindness. Stevie became a part of my family – there to see – embraced in my heart together with my living children. Whenever I think of Steven I also think of my unnamed brothers – brothers I have named in my heart.

In the meantime, I have a number of things to remind me of Stevie, beginning with the copy of the memorial service. There is the Phoenix Ben a young friend drew for me, there’s Harry a lovely peacock given to me for Stevie’s 45th birthday, a Christmas bauble with a peacock feather in it, there is the NameArt and the pencil drawing and a pendant with the names of all my children. With or without these things I shall always remember Stevie. Since I have a pencil sketch of Stevie I no longer see him in that hospital bed gasping for breath. In fact when I think of Stevie I don’t think of him as a baby at all any more – no, he’s grown up. I now visualise him as a man in his mid-forties. I feel I have reached a milestone. I certainly know I'm at peace with that part of my past.

                                                         Lana 

If you require support after reading this blog please contact Sands on 13 000 72637

The Numbness and Disbelief of Miscarriage

Sands blogger Rachel Brown shares her story of her Miscarriage.

It was intense, how it happened. I had no signs of a loss and went in for an ultrasound at 14 weeks into my pregnancy. I started getting cramping on the way there. I dismissed it as nerves, stretching pains, bubs moving or anything but what it was. Only weeks earlier, at 8 weeks into the pregnancy, we had a joyful scan with a wriggly baby with a strong heartbeat.

The next scan was the most surreal thing I had ever experienced. It felt like I was watching myself. I can’t think of that room without feeling fear and sorrow.

We could both tell straight away. I’ve talked about it to my husband about it since and our minds went through a similar process. As soon as the Ob/gyn zoomed in we desperately searched for a heartbeat… then movement… then watched as he measured our baby and it came up with under 10 weeks development. We both showed no outward emotion. Just numbness, disbelief, and shock.

Then he said the words that crushed our hopes…“This pregnancy is not progressing. There is no heartbeat. I am sorry”. He left us alone. Even though I knew it… the spoken words made it real… I made noises I never want to make again. I wailed. I clutched at my belly… I remember saying “I can’t do this! I can’t do this!” I cleaned the gel off my little belly bump and got of the bed. I sat with my husband and cried with him. Without realising, I was apologising. I blamed myself.

I felt empty, numb, and cheated beyond belief.

We were sent to my normal GP with a medical report that said “This is a failed pregnancy” and had pictures of my precious baby. “Failed”? There’s no failure to it.

So much of pregnancy loss is clinical. It’s managed in such an emotionless way and can leave you feeling isolated and even more upset - at a time where you are already struggling.

After research I decided to wait to miscarry naturally with the support of medical professionals. I went through many intense emotions in that time as I grieved.

I went through a birthing process a couple of weeks later at home. Holding my tiny baby in the sac and seeing his tiny umbilical cord, eyes, little arms, and legs helped me to process the loss. Birthing the placenta was the more difficult aspect physically as it was condensed and the size of a lemon.

During and after my miscarriage, I dealt with my fair share of well-meaning but ultimately hurtful ‘advice’ and opinions. What I learned, ultimately, is that most people don’t like to feel uncomfortable. And pregnancy loss makes them feel uncomfortable. So they want – subconsciously, or otherwise – for you to ‘move on’ so that they don’t have to deal with it.

People don’t know what to say. So they sometimes say things that are less than helpful. I surrounded myself with people who knew I just needed someone to listen. They knew that their being there and caring was enough.

My subsequent pregnancies were anxiety-ridden and I struggled with depression (primarily unrelated to my loss). I have since gone on to have two healthy children. My loss was a learning curve and part of my motherhood journey. It was painful but without it I wouldn’t be the mother that I am today. For those lessons and how blessed I am now, I am so grateful.

For Support call: 1300 0 SANDS

More about Rachel Brown
Hi, I’m Rachel and I am an Australian wife and mum of two. I love tea, reading, writing and finding creative ways to play and learn with kids. I’m an over sharer (‘sharent’), a Pinterest addict and am an avid blog reader. I am passionate about learning and sharing inspiration with like-minded mamas. Prior to motherhood I was a nanny and dabbled in study. I’m a miscarriage survivor and&nbsp. I have generalised anxiety disorder and major depressive disorder and although it is ongoing, I am doing better thanks to therapy and medication. I’m always willing to talk to others who are struggling. Motherhood is the most difficult and rewarding thing I have ever done.
      

Get Back On The Horse

By Lara Cain Gray

I experienced a ‘missed miscarriage’ with my first pregnancy.  It came as a complete shock.   

For a well-educated woman, I was surprisingly unprepared and uninformed about the possibility and frequency of this kind of ‘silent’ miscarriage, where no heart beat at your ultrasound is the only evidence that something’s gone horribly wrong.   My GP heartily assured me that it ‘happens all the time’ and I should simply ‘get back on the horse’. With the wisdom of hindsight, and having now known many women who’ve experienced pregnancy loss, I understand what my matter-of-fact GP was trying to tell me. One in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage; it literally does happen all the time. But, when it happens to you, for the first time, or any time, the statistics are irrelevant. It hurts.

The details of my first pregnancy are boringly conventional.  I was in my mid-twenties and healthy.  I’d been married for about two years. We’d reached the point of not necessarily trying to get pregnant, but knowing that if it happened, we’d be thrilled.  And BAM! – it happened.  Just like that.  My breasts were the first to find out.  Their tell-tale tenderness soon coupled with an inexplicable repulsion at the smell of the freezer section at the supermarket; a strangely enjoyable kind of nausea. We confidently told our parents and siblings almost as soon as the blue lines were dry. The announcement rolled like a wave through our family, friends and colleagues. By the time we had our first scan, everyone but the nightly news was talking about the baby on the way.

We luckily got a window to see a warm and friendly obstetrician and jumped through all the usual hoops.  I was only 8 weeks pregnant, but she ran an ultrasound then and there.  There was no heartbeat, but it was very early.  We couldn’t be sure of the conception date. She wasn’t worried. She asked me to come back the next week, just for reassurance. 

At the next appointment, my friendly doctor had been replaced by a gruff temp who seemed to dislike me only marginally less than he disliked his chosen career.  He ran another scan, looked vaguely irritated, told me he couldn’t confirm anything and once again asked me to come back in a week.

The next week, the world turned upside down.  There was no longer any ambiguity.  There simply was no heartbeat. ‘Your baby has died’, said our doctor, not so friendly now.  ‘You have a choice. You can go home and wait to see if your body rejects the baby naturally. Or, we can book you in for a D & C to remove the cells.’  I remember the expressions so clearly; the terminology.  When and where did this change from a dead baby to a cluster of removable cells?  I had no idea, myself, what my beliefs were around the point where ‘life’ should be acknowledged.  

I had gone from picking out nursery furniture to questioning the entire meaning of being human within days. 

I cried for weeks. I hated every single minute of telling people what had happened. I hated every cheerful, sympathetic client who came into my workplace. Most of all I hated every pregnant woman I passed in the street. It was many years before I could put aside my sadness and try again for a baby. 

When I was eventually pregnant again, there was no joyful anticipation in the ultrasound process – only fear.  My blood pressure rode high right until I held my daughter in my arms thanks to the anxiety I felt at every scan and check up.  Now, of course, I am one of the lucky ones, with healthy children and all of this sadness many years behind me.  I’m in that place where women chat constantly about fertility matters, and I know that there are many, many scenarios far more traumatic than what I experienced.

But, having said that, my GP’s words – telling me to ‘get back on the horse’ – had a profound effect.  They made me feel as though I was expected to just forget about my pregnancy; a silent response to this silent miscarriage.  Medical staff are all too aware of the frequent occurrence of miscarriage but it remains important to sensitively acknowledge the genuine grief felt by every woman who loses a pregnancy – no matter when or how. 

A miscarriage is not just one foiled attempt at procreating; it fundamentally changes your understanding of your body and of the bizarre complexity of human biology.  For me, it left a permanent stain on my trust and comfort levels when visiting doctors.  It is a routine, every day, one in four, BIG DEAL and we should always acknowledge it as such.  

Lara Cain Gray

Lara Cain Gray (PhD) is a writer, academic, librarian, curator and mother-of-three.  The order depends on the day.  She enjoys writing social commentary, book reviews, travel tales and therapeutic ravings about being a parent.   Her words have appeared in a range of academic and popular publications, from the Queensland Historical Atlas to Brisbane’s Child.   She blogs as This Charming Mum - Books, Arts & Culture for the Sleep Deprived.
  

For Support call 1300 0 72631

Sands has a suite of brochures to assist you maybe interested in:

Early Pregnancy Loss

Caring for Bereaved Parents

The importance of listening to intuition

Sands blogger Amanda Cox writes about her early miscarriage:

As the tandem blue lines, albeit faint, slowly exposed themselves I was overwhelmed by a feeling incongruous with those that I had anticipated.

It’s not like we didn’t want this. Maybe it was that I hadn’t expected these lines so soon. It had, after all, been only four weeks. Surely it must be wrong?

The sore breasts, the persistent nausea and the otherwise inexplicable weight gain, however, gave me no cause to doubt the little whist stick which loudly proclaimed to be 99% accurate.

It was so unlike my first pregnancy, which provided me with none of these textbook symptoms. This one, this felt more real. I was experiencing those things, as uninviting as they were, that a ‘normal’ pregnancy proffers.

I emerged from the sanctuary of the bathroom where I’d spent the last ten minutes, perched upon the toilet, wondering how I was going to inform my husband. It was an odd feeling, because I knew he, too, wanted this.

I plastered a smile on my face, and overwhelmed by the weight of the stick and the emotions it had produced, I went to share the good news.

“Take a frigging look at that,” I stated, throwing the pregnancy test across the table towards him. I sat in a chair, placing my head in my hands.

None of this felt right. The wanting to be pregnant did, the trying we’d done for a mere four weeks, that was real, that was what we both wanted. 
My reactions, however, were in contrast to that which I should be feeling. I couldn’t understand it, nor could I explain it.

It was three weeks before I could see my obstetrician and the nagging thought that something ‘wasn’t right’ persisted.

Extended family received word of my pregnancy and their elation and congratulations grated upon me. Smiles and hugs were thrust upon me. I couldn’t help but reflect on how my feelings were in such discrepancy.

It wasn’t Depression. I’d been through that. This was different. I ‘should’ have been happy and excited, and all I could feel was that it was ... not right.

I confided in a few people; my psychologist, my sister-in-laws, a few close friends. I explained my fears that something was wrong.

I wasn’t worried, although everyone, without fail, assured me it was very normal to worry, to be fearful and to have concerns.

I wasn’t worried, I knew something was wrong.

By  the time I saw  my Obstetrician, I felt more alone, more unsure and more confused than I thought possible.

I smiled anyway. No one was listening to me and all I had left was to go along with what was expected from me; to smile, to be excited, to pretend that the ‘worry’ was ‘normal’.

We crowded into a small room so the foetus could be checked out, due dates estimated and the plans for the next few months.

I lay on the narrow bed, pants pulled down to just above my pubic bone. My husband, wedged in the corner, furthest from the door, a student midwife beside him and my Ob beside me, squirting a barely warm gel on my lower abdomen.

I was the only one not surprised when he gently placed his hand on my arm and said “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

My beloved went pale and was ushered from the room by the others, leaving the door wide open and looks of concern on their faces.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to say “I TOLD YOU!”

Instead, I pondered the situation. I giggled to myself as I lay on the crisp white bed, my luminescent white belly and girly bits on show to whomever walked.

“I’ll just wait here, then?” I said to no one.

They weren’t listening anyway. 

Maybe it was shock, and maybe it was relief that what I knew was confirmed that caused the giggling.

I was booked for a Dilatation and Curettage (D&C), under general anesthetic the next day.

I spent that time, and the next few days, comforting those who were saddened by my news. Most had arrived under the pretence of supporting me, yet the roles had seemingly reversed.

They had all ignored me when I told them something wasn’t right. Now they were sad and needed me to comfort them.

All I wanted to do was lie under the doona and be left alone.

They hadn’t been there when I needed them.

Although my intuition – perhaps that Mother’s Intuition – had been spot on, I had still lost a soul that I had wanted. 

My being right didn’t change the fact that I had lost, and had lost so much; a trust in my instincts, my trust in others, the trust in my own body to do what a woman’s body does.

I had lost. I was sad. I needed comforting, too.

About Amanda:

Amanda Cox is a published author, writer, blogger, speaker, wife, mum and founder of Australia's online parent support, information and resources website, Real Mums. She shares her open, honest and often humorous experiences of raising three boys in today's current climate and society at Diary of a Mad Cow (www.diaryofamadcow.com.au) ... laugh, cry, relate ...

 

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