(I wrote this yesterday – Friday – but didn’t finish it so posting it now in the early hours of Saturday.)
I never really knew much about miscarriage because I never knew about pregnancy. I knew that they happened, and that they were common. But I’d never thought about it that much because I’d never really even had a shadow of being pregnant.
This time, I let myself hope. Not until I’d done 9 positive pregnancy tests, and seen my baby’s heartbeat on an ultrasound.
I wish they’d told me at the first ultrasound that it didn’t look good. Instead they focused on the fact that there was a heartbeat even though baby was too small. They only got me in for the second scan on the pretext that “It wasn’t very clear”. They should have told us it wasn’t good from the start. We went home home happy. I showed that ultrasound to my parents. They thought they were getting a grandchild. The second ultrasound there wasn’t any change and it didn’t look good, but they were still very ambiguous about what might be happening.
I wish they had been clearer about the fact that it was most likely not going to proceed, rather than giving us false hope.
I wish that the emergency gynaecology unit wasn’t where you have to go for “early pregnancy” ie miscarriage. Because you have to wait with all the pregnant women with children and babies. I wish it wasn’t right next to the neonatal unit. It seems like it’s rubbing your face in it. I’m surrounded by pregnant women and children and I’m waiting to arrange to get my dead baby suctioned out of me.
I wish I hadn’t had to explain that to my GP’s receptionist in front of other people when I went there yesterday to get signed off from work, as they’d told me at the EGU I should do. I wish the receptionist hadn’t been some temp who had no sensitivity and told me I’d have to come back tomorrow and see the GP. I said that I was sick of appointments and just wanted a sick note and said I didn’t think I should be made to go through all the details repeatedly when it was right in the letter in front of her. Fortunately a locum who overheard our conversation said that he completely understood how distressing it was and wrote me a sick note whilst subtly telling the receptionist that I was obviously upset and needed to be helped rather than faced with further bureaucracy.
I wish I didn’t need a sick note. But I’m glad I’ve got one as I can’t face people in general. Especially not people at my work, where being female is almost a sackable offence and where any evidence of femaleness is looked on with distaste.
I wish I didn’t live in a predominantly ethnic area which happens to have a culture of having lots of children and apparently being really fertile. Every woman in my area seems to have three to four children. I feel unduly angry that I don’t seem to be the ethnicity that is super fertile. I feel like a fraud for being one of those annoying “ethnic immigrants” who can’t even get up the duff and get a council house. I feel really annoyed when I see them covering up their little girls, and covering their faces. I think, if you can’t even accept how your child looks without thinking it’s somehow sinful, you don’t deserve to have children.
I wish I didn’t feel so angry that everyone who seems to pop out kids doesn’t even deserve them. I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke. I have enough money. I’m in a stable relationship. And yet everyone who feels like getting pregnant just clicks their fingers and has a baby.
I wish I could have enjoyed the weeks I was pregnant but I didn’t. I didn’t because I was so petrified that something was going to go wrong. I wish I wasn’t right.
I wish there wasn’t such a stupid irony of being the product of adoption (unwanted pregnancy) when I can’t even get pregnant successfully.
I wish I hadn’t gotten my hopes up. I was actually kind of okay about not ever expecting to get pregnant naturally but as soon as you’re into that process, you’re on heightened alert for hoping. I wish we hadn’t hoped.
I wish I didn’t have an NHS (UK national health service) maternity exemption card (so you don’t have to pay for prescriptions) that I’ll now have to send back. I wish I’d had the chance to get one of those super smug Baby On Board badges to wear on the tube so people will give up their seat for a pregnant woman. I never got to do that. Hardly anyone ever knew I was pregnant.
I wish I was pregnant rather than just fat. I have put on loads of weight from the fertility IVF drugs and even before then and I now feel like I have nothing to show for it apart from rolls of flab. I feel terrible about my body right now – I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been – and I don’t have any justification for being fat.
I wish I hadn’t had to go through IVF with no support from work and a really stressful job. My client had a hissy fit about my day off for egg collection, and went postal when I said I had to stay in London to get the scans. I wish I had been able to say screw you but I didn’t because I need my job. I had to get straight on a train to work away from home as soon as our embryo had been transferred. I wish I didn’t have to stay in a job where they treat me like **** because I want to keep my maternity leave rights. Rights I may never get to use.
I wish the miscarriage options conversation in the EGU hadn’t taken place in a room that’s supposed to be a sort of grieving room with signs on the door saying Strictly no entry! which still didn’t deter the person on their lunch break from bursting in carrying their lunchbox.
I wish the people at the EGU were as nice as the people at the fertility clinic. They’re not. I wish I’d been told about miscarriage options by a doctor or a sympathetic nurse rather than a foreign speaking person who didn’t seem very interested or knowledgeable and couldn’t provide any information other than what I already knew.
I wish I wasn’t so angry and resentful of every pregnant friend and everyone who’s easily had a baby, and all the pregnant women wandering around now, and all the mothers pushing prams.
I wish I didn’t want to tell my friends that I was pregnant… I am suffering and I could just go out and have fun. But I can’t. They all met up this evening and I was going to go but I didn’t. I want someone to say to me I’m sorry you’re going through that. But even my best friend regaled me with tales of how common it is and how other friends have had it worse. I’m glad I haven’t had it worse. I’m grateful I didn’t have a problem with a later pregnancy. I understand my pregnancy didn’t even really “count” and it never really got to the stage of looking like a baby.
My baby was just a little blob of 5.3mm. But to me he was a baby. I’d thought of names. I knew what pram I was going to get. I even went for a wander round Mothercare (though I didn’t buy anything). I’d told my parents. T and I had talked about what we would do.
Now I’m just how I was before, only fatter. There will be no baby in February. I won’t get to quit my job any time soon. I am lucky – I have a great partner and I have a lovely dog and we have a nice life. But I spent the last 3 months going through this big thing and now it’s almost over, and we feel slightly less than we did before.
I’m okay. I haven’t been crying. I’ve been keeping busy. I’m going to have the operation next week, assuming nothing happens over the weekend. And then we wait.
We’re good at waiting.
I hate waiting.