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At the next appointment, my friendly doctor had been replaced by a gruff temp who seemed to dislike me only marginally less than he disliked his chosen career.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.
  

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