She doesn't tell you - Poem

She doesn't tell you what it means,

When she tells you her little one is no more

When you will say, 'I'm sorry.'

And she will wonder what you are sorry for.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you that inside she is feeling numb

When you will say, 'Don't worry.'

And she will wonder what she will overcome.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you her baby's body will not leave

When you say, 'Be patient.'

And she will wonder how to silently grieve.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you of the hot anger in her heart

When you say, 'Please calm down.' 

And she will wonder if she's fallen apart.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the torrents of blood released

When you will say, 'It's nature.'

And she will wonder at the flow of the deceased. 

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you her beautiful baby has gone

When you will say, 'I don't know.'

And she will wonder how on earth to hold on.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the sorrowful tears she's shed

When you will say, 'You're healing.'

And she will wonder if she's better off dead.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the endless days of bare breath

When you will say, 'Time will help.'

And she will wonder about her baby's death.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the dark silence that surrounds

When you were never there

And she will wonder at the pain that abounds.

She doesn't tell you what it means.

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Merry-Go-Round - Blog Post

***WARNING - long graphic post and a little bit of swearing***

I no longer believe in blowing away eyelashes and making wishes.

My whole life I used to get so excited when I saw the tiny hair fall from someone's eyes. I would carefully scoop it up and present it to them... 'Make a wish,' I would fervently say, believing that this was their special moment to call on the magic and power of the universe.

When someone would give me my eyelash, or I would find my own, I would solemnly compose my wish, send it out and blow my wishes into the air. For the last few months my wish has been the same and I would wish our little baby, our second pregnancy, would stay with their mama and papa this time. We affectionately named it a name that would have no meaning in our daily life, but the song was significant and I thought to myself, you can't have a second miscarriage when you have named your baby Chumba - short for Chumbawamba - that would be ridiculous. Yet here we are again, and the poor little one is stuck with a ludicrous name now.

I had lost my innocence of pregnancy the first time around. When we told family and friends that we had become pregnant again, without exception everyone congratulated us and then wished us luck. Every single time I went to the toilet I felt anxiety and scanned my knickers for any signs. I would check for the discharge to make sure it was the right colour and consistency. If I felt a twinge or cramp I would run to the toilet for a quick check. Sometimes I wouldn't even go the toilet, at home I would just drop my knickers and ask my husband to confirm my findings.

On my 8th week I had slight brown coloured discharge.

I was at work and left everything. I called my husband and he collected me and we went straight to Accident & Emergency. We were so lucky as within 30 minutes we had been assessed and sent to the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU) and was scanned. To our delight we saw our little perfect baby - they were the right size, there was a regular heartbeat and nothing seemed to be wrong. The nurses placated us with how lots of women bleed throughout their first trimester, that we haven't had pain and it was only a little brown blood so there should be no need to worry. Together we hoped so much they were right and I fled to the forums - all of them, I became a forums slut - Mumsnet, Netmums, Babycentre... you name it, I read it. There were so many stories of women who have bled and have been okay, even after miscarrying before.

Two days later at work I found more blood - red blood that filled my knickers - and I again called EPU. The next afternoon I was scanned again, fear filling me up and anxiety nipping at my heels, and I cried when the sonographer let me hear the heartbeat. I saw our baby who was very much alive. The Doctor later came in and gave me an internal, 'Your cervix is closed. There's no sign of cervical erosion. This just happens.'

So I calmed down. There were only spots of brown blood after that. No pain. No problem.

Except it wasn't.

A scan is a snapshot in time.

We went for a 'comfort scan' two weeks before the 12 week nuchal scan and we weren't worried as everything seemed to be back to normal. The bleeding hadn't returned, my belly did not seem so tender and I was feeling all the symptoms.

My husband had to park the car but as we were late I went in to the EPU first. I joked with the sonographer about my bloating, at 10 weeks my belly was so large I was wearing maternity trousers. The sonographer placed the scanner on me and said nothing, then after a while she said there was so much gas she couldn't see what was happening and asked if she could do an internal scan.

I asked if I could go to the toilet, stalling time till my husband arrived because I already knew what she was going to say.

He arrived just as she was placing the internal scanner in me and then she said the words I hate the most, 'I'm sorry.' No woman in the world wants to hear those words when they are being scanned. Ever. Now, whenever I have to let anyone know about my situation and the first words I hear are, 'I'm sorry,' I feel like I am experiencing a flashback and my reaction is anger - honestly, when someone says that, I may be saying some sort of trite response in return but I actually am just trying to find ways to stop myself from scratching that person's eyes out.

This time I left the sonographer's eyes alone but I burst into tears and clung on to my husband for dear life as yet again I realised I had lost a tiny little soul I so desperately wanted to meet.

So here we are again, on the merry-go-round of miscarriage.

I have calculated that I have spent just under six months in first trimester this year. Six months of nausea (and weight gain as the only way to stop my nausea is through eating), painful breasts, peeing constantly, and bloating so much I generally looked six months pregnant with a constant need to sleep at all times. What I have in return for this permanent hungover state is two babies to bury, a very deep and intimate relationship with my bed and so much knowledge about miscarriage and loss I didn't have previously. I am not sure this is much of a return on our investment - it has left me bereft, heartbroken, grief-stricken but most of all, it has made me fucking furious.

One of the hardest part of the situation is the loneliness of it all - the first time around everyone I knew had a story of miscarriage they could tell, they could relate to one miscarriage and the pain, discomfort and unfairness of the situation. Yet, this time around, the usual first response after the ubiquitous, painful, fury-inducing, 'I'm sorry' is about my being tested to see what's wrong with me, compounding the sense of failure I am already feeling. After that, it's usually silence or a random, 'Thinking of you' or an emoticon to let me know they are there. I am now not just a case of bad luck, I am recurrent. I don't blame people, life goes on, there's a world to be part of, but it is an uncomfortable place to be in - full of hard edges and muted impotent responses.

Being on the merry-go-round means I already know how to process the emotional response I am experiencing, I know what to do and where to seek support and advice. I know the process of grief and the journey that is laid out for my husband and I. I know about the possible tests I could take, what I would need to do to start them, how they are not always successful and how there may even be nothing wrong with me. I know about the physical process I am about to embark on and what I could try differently when we try again.

I also know I need to accept that the journey of parenthood is a path to becoming a warrior, whether we have a baby to hold in our hands or not. The whole process is refining us to be people who are courageous in the face of extreme adversity and forcing us to continually embrace acceptance and surrender in the deepest way.

Statistically, I still have a very good chance of becoming a mother. However, I also need to accept I may never become a mother in this lifetime. I may never know the joy of having a child in my arms that I can watch grow and become. I may never experience the labour of a woman who sees their child for the first time with a heartbeat and open eyes. I may only experience loss in this chapter of my life and somehow if I can make peace with this I will find freedom in this process.

I also need to accept that others will have the experience of motherhood and it is just as important for me to be able to remain open-hearted to their joy even in my deepest hurt - to be able to embrace everything this world has to offer so my heart can be open to it all. It will take some time, but that's okay.

But if I see an eyelash, there will be no more wishes.

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Limbo - Blog Post

***Warning - quite a graphic blog post***

I have never been in this position before and to be honest, before I found myself here, I had never thought about all the women who have been through this, who are experiencing the waiting for a natural missed miscarriage right now. It's comforting to know I am not the only woman in the world who is preparing for their child to enter the world even though we know they will never take a breath.

No one tells you about limbo - the waiting and uncertainty of each moment. The time between finding out your child's heart is not beating until the moment they can find their resting place. No one tells you about the agony of looking for and analysing blood on your pad or when you wipe and perceiving a glimmer of pain, hoping and fearing the process is about to start. No one tells you the tumult of emotions, looking at your belly every so often, knowing this is one of the last times you will see this child creating a hillock inside. No one ever tells you the struggle of never being too far from home. Just. In. Case. It. Happens.

Yet on motherhood forums there are stories, crashing together, all unique. On these pages there is fear, pain, agony, heartbreak, upset and the torture of waiting. And blood - lots and lots of blood, mixed with hCG levels, hormones, placenta, cord and the sac which some women will cut open so they can see whom they have carried, their particular miracle that was not meant to be, whom they call their Angels. I have read words of encouragement around the world from a sisterhood who have been there, who say you can do this and you will get through this, 'You have got this mama, you are a warrior and you will make this baby proud.'

And for those who had no indication of an imminent miscarriage, there is anger - so much fury at the injustice, treachery and deception. No one tells you how utterly betrayed a woman can feel by their body's lies. There is talk about hCG levels and how when they are still high, the symptoms of pregnancy continue - the broken sleep, waking up to nausea and having larger sore breasts. Women who are walking as if in water as exhaustion sits on their shoulders, their brains less capable of processing the world around them. And because of these hormones, their body still won't let go. It refuses to believe it will not be a mother to this particular child. It cradles the remains in mourning, clinging to its lifeless form.

No one tells you that if you are far enough along, a natural missed miscarriage can be like labour and you can experience the cramping, labour pains and blood just like any other pregnancy. No one tells you about women all around the world lying on their bathroom floor, almost wanting to pass out in pain or vomit with extreme nausea or sitting in a bathtub in bright red water needing heat or holding a sieve under themselves when sitting on the toilet as they don't want to lose their baby amongst the diarrhoea that is exploding because of the hormonal changes.

They don't tell you of women who want to miscarry naturally but who are bleeding so much they have to rush to A & E to be operated on.

Yet there is a huddling of women all around the world who repeatedly say they can't express what is happening to them to people in their Real Life because it's too intimate, real, gory and painful. The worry that people will not understand makes these women mute in front of family members and friends who can only say, 'I'm sorry' or 'I wish I could give you a hug.' Magnifying the impotence of friends and family who have no idea what to do or how to help, who have no idea what happens to a woman, or their partner, who is experiencing this. All I can say to those people is become aware, learn what it means when a woman says they are going to lose their baby. Please sit alongside them - whether in person, on the phone or by text - listen to them and hold them when they howl with grief, feel endless guilt, express their anger or anxiety about one tiny thing they think they did wrong.

Otherwise, your 'I'm sorry' means absolutely nothing.

And how to speak of the unbearable sadness of when you hear a pregnancy announcement, when you see another woman who is pregnant or have babies in their arms, against their chests. How to speak of the heartbreak and mixed emotions when people close to you bring a beautiful one in this world, ready for their adventure of joy. Sometimes no words can express what is felt very deeply inside.

One beautiful thing about humans is that it is in our nature to find a way through this. So in the forums there is also something else, other stories, and they are of hope, possibility and joy. Women who have braved the process again and have come out the other side with their baby's heart beating and breathing. Women who have had countless miscarriages, years of pain and heartbreak, who suddenly find themselves with a family of their own. Women who thought it was too late but managed one more time for their dreams to come true. 'It can happen!' 'You will be like us too!'

Now, in the waiting, I document everything. I document the slightest change, because I know that I will want to share my story with others so that whilst they are waiting, in fear of the pain, blood and their transition from motherhood into shidu fumu - a status so unbearable to the English language, we have to borrow from the Chinese. I will write so I am able to give someone else a little respite from their worry or concern and maybe one day, I will also be able to post a message of hope.

Until then, I will remain in limbo.

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