Day 91: Joining the club nobody wants to join

#IHadAMiscarriage

I had a miscarriage. I never thought I’d say those words. I never thought I’d have a need for them. After 15 (count ’em!) years of unexplained but very barren childlessness, without a sniff of a pregnancy, ever – I never thought that my first pregnancy would also become my first miscarriage.

At the age of 37 I joined a club that nobody wants to join.

Our milestones

15 May 2015: 12 of my slow-growing and stubborn eggs were harvested.

20 May 2015: Of my 6 fertilised eggs, 3 made it to day 3, and only one little hope-baby made it to day 5 transfer. I got straight on a train out of town to work 18 hour days on my horrible project.

1 June 2015: A sort-of positive pregnancy test! Followed by a definite positive pregnancy test!

18 June 2015: We saw our little blob’s heartbeat on the ultrasound at week 7.

25 June 2015: At our follow up ultrasound we started to have doubts because our baby didn’t seem to have grown. This was followed by the longest week of my life where I slowly dialled down my hope until the next scan.

2 July 2015: We were told at our second follow up that there was no heartbeat. I would lose the baby.

 

It gets worse

When your pregnancy isn’t viable, you learn a whole lot more stuff that you never wanted to know. The small insults, as I call them, started as soon as I stopped being a “blessed pregnant woman” (who seem generally to be treated fantastically by everyone in the world and also seem to be everywhere when you’re losing a pregnancy) and turned into a “missed miscarriage”.

The name missed miscarriage is an insult in itself. There was nothing missed about my miscarriage. When we found out that our baby was dead, even if he (or she, but we always thought of Pizza Baby as he) was “just a ball of cells” – we were on Day 84 of a long, hopeful, heartfelt process of IVF. We were – we thought – nearing the end of our “infertility journey” (another trip nobody wants to go on). We had been going through appointments, injections and waiting and hoping for three months and all the lead in to that… We’d been waiting and hoping for a lot longer than that.

There are three choices (or “choices” as I call them) when you find out your pregnancy isn’t going to continue.

  1. Let it happen naturally. In theory your body will miscarry naturally. This could take anything up to four weeks. Apparently it’s “like a heavy period”. (More on that later, for those of you with strong stomachs.)
  2. Drug induced miscarriage. This is similar to a natural miscarriage but you’re given drugs in hospital to induce your body to miscarry. It hurries the process along, so to speak.
  3. Surgical intervention. This is the attractively named Evacuation of the Retained Products of Conception (ERPC) under local or general anaesthetic in hospital.

There is more explanation of the options we are offered in the UK here. I’m a pretty un-squeamish person and I don’t have an issue with injections, operations or anaesthetic as I’ve had plenty of them. When I’d thought through all the options, I decided I wanted to go for option 3. I was booked in for this to happen the following week. I didn’t have much expectation that anything would happen naturally as I’d had no symptoms like bleeding or pain prior to the final doom-laden ultrasound.

Plus I had a cake to make. (I know, it sounds flippant… but trying to maintain a sense of hope and concentrating on things I like to do, like making cakes, is pretty much what has kept me sane during this whole awful experience.) I had a challenge from a friend for a milestone birthday themed around Dr Who (something I never watch myself… it’s not my thing) and themed around the episode where the doctor meets Van Gogh in the famous Starry Night painting. Now, I don’t want to link up my other accounts to this one because I find a certain amount of comfort in a little bit of anonymity… but if you want to see the cake, have a look on Instagram for starrynight and drwho cakes. It was a big job but I was pleased with how it turned out!

I wore a new dress to the party on Saturday night, and I felt like my stomach was really swollen when I tried to put on the dress. Fortunately it was a kind of 50s style dress which is quite forgiving – I’m never usually into retro because I think it’s a bit weird when you’re ethnic, but I love nautical stuff… it looked like this (though I look different!). The bit at the top is tight but stretchy and I felt a bit uncomfortable, like my stomach was all swollen up. This was a warning sign.

Fortunately, my body managed to hold up throughout the party. We didn’t tell anyone about the baby. I kind of tried to revel in being the cake artist (and the birthday boy thanked me in front of everyone, and I got a round of applause and everyone kept telling me how great the cakes were) so that took my mind off it a bit, and I drank bubbly (though didn’t get drunk) and had a nice time catching up with people. I’d been avoiding people and social occasions for a long time because I didn’t want to have to make excuses not to drink whilst I was pregnant, so it was just nice to try and act normal for a bit. Even though I knew my baby was dead inside of me.

They tell you that a natural miscarriage is “like a heavy period”. It isn’t.

Unfortunately for my best laid plans, I was asleep in bed having got back late on Saturday night/Sunday morning, when I woke up with stomach cramps. They got worse and worse, and I figured that it was most probably happening naturally.

 

If you don’t want to read the ugly truth then look away now.

I wanted to do a post on what a miscarriage is actually like. Because one of the worst parts of this experience is that I felt I was given hardly any information on what might happen and what it might feel like. At the EGU we had a brief chat with a foreign nurse who didn’t seem that interested and certainly didn’t recommend anything. During which chat we were in the “grief room” (signs on door saying Strictly no entry) when someone came bursting in carrying their lunch. It just wasn’t a sensitive kind of delivery, really, and the very basic leaflet we were given certainly didn’t give much of an idea of what a natural miscarriage might be like.

It was awful. It still is awful, and it’s now Thursday and this started in the early hours of Sunday morning. Just so you know, if anyone ever tells you that it’s “like a heavy period”, that is b*llocks.

I have heavy periods. My periods are so awful and heavy that sometimes I wonder how I can lose that much blood and be in that much pain every month. They are so bad that if I ever manage to have a baby, my next op will be to whip the whole lot out because I don’t want to have to go through that every month. Sometimes I have to work from home because I go through the most absorbent “protection” in less than an hour and it’s the worst feeling to be trying to be all corporate and cool-as-a-cucumber in an office whilst running to the bathroom every half an hour.

A miscarriage is not like a heavy period.

Unless you usually have contractions during a period. That’s right – it’s another small insult that my rubbish, not fit-for-purpose womb decided to have contractions to try and flush out the remains of my baby. They tell you that you should only use pads, which I never usually use, so that’s a whole nasty experience in itself. I usually don’t feel everything coming out of me… In this situation I had contractions, which were painful and horrible, and then I’d sit on the toilet and stuff would just gush out of me.

Miserable.

I have a low pain threshold at the best of times. The worst part, or one of the worst parts, was when I felt what must have been the pregnancy sac coming out of me. It felt big, and it was partly a relief and partly a big sadness. I’d already been told that they wouldn’t do any testing on the products evacuated during the operation (“because you did IVF” – apparently they almost expect it to go wrong – another small insult), so I didn’t try and save anything. I just flushed the toilet.

I flushed my baby down the toilet.

I know – he wasn’t a baby. A gestational sac. A heartbeat, vanished. By ultrasound estimations he stopped growing at 6 weeks, 3 days. I miscarried at 9 weeks, 3 days. Our little Pizza Baby.

The first time. Because here’s another thing they don’t tell you: you kind of think if it happens, it happens and then it’s done. But it isn’t. I carried on bleeding – not much, but enough to feel bad about it. I felt hugely tired, even though I couldn’t move far for a few days and have spent more time in bed and dozing than I usually do in a month, so by rights I should be full of energy. The first day, Sunday, I couldn’t even move out of bed apart from to hobble to the bathroom… bleed a bit… go back to bed.

Another small insult: I missed Dog’s starring role in the local dog show. Something I’d been looking forward to for weeks. A small joy (because there are some): He won two rosettes, for Most Handsome Hound and Best Fancy Dress. (T is anti-fancy dress, but he took him to the dog show anyway because I asked him to. Dog came third in both categories, which is pretty fantastic considering he’s a cross-breed and rather badly behaved at the best of times. Of course, to me he is definitely the most handsome hound, but I’m fine with them letting the other dogs have their glory because we all know Dog is best.) I was just kind of delirious throughout Sunday, but happy when T came back with Dog and put his two rosettes by the side of my bed.

On Monday I went to the Emergency Gynaecology Unit and they confirmed that I had miscarried by doing another internal scan (the last thing you want to do when you are bleeding… man, I could do a whole post on the awful EGU but suffice to say that they seem to employ the least sympathetic people on reception, considering you’re going through what must be one of the most traumatic experiences in your life). The scan showed there was still some blood and clots and whatnot left inside and they said I would probably pass those over time. I had to come back in two weeks to confirm that the miscarriage had completed. They advised against the operation due to risks of perforating the uterus (more good news!). I was sent home again. To wait. Because we haven’t done enough waiting…

Not before I had to go and get signed off by the doctor. It feels like every part of miscarrying is like another small insult… Having to explain to the receptionist at the GP that you need a sick note is another one. They generally want you to explain what you want in front of everyone in reception. The good news is that they do have sympathetic doctors when you actually get to see one. (At my surgery you have to get up early and go and queue up at the crack of dawn to get an on-the-day doctor’s appointment – they do walk ins too, which is good, but they can’t give you a sick note.) Another small insult: My work called me today to demand the sick note. Because they couldn’t possibly wait until I return to work. It’s not like I work all the hours G-d sends for them – they need me to account for my time off sick before I’m even back to work. They literally called all my phones… I didn’t even give them my personal number so who knows how they got hold of that.

After the horror of Sunday, on Monday and Tuesday it got gradually better and I could go for short walks. I took Dog round the block. Small joys: dogs, or my Dog in particular. It’s hard to be sad all the time when you have an expressive little face looking up at you (usually looking for food) and a small body that likes to snuggle. I’m lucky with that; at least when T’s at work I still have Dog. On Wednesday I thought that the bleeding was tailing off, but Wednesday night I got hit by such an attack of pain that T was contemplating calling an ambulance. I was lying on the bed, crying (well – wailing) and Dog was sitting guarding me and I was just in so much pain… My stomach was all swollen up again. And the bleeding restarted.

It hurts.

But you know what else hurts?

The idea that we won’t have a baby after all.

The small insults continue: Having to send back my NHS maternity exemption card, the card I really wanted that finally came through, without ever getting to use it [for free prescriptions whilst you’re pregnant and until your child is 1]. The day after I miscarried, on Monday, a big fat letter arrived from the NHS saying Congratulations on your pregnancy!  and presumably giving a date for my first midwife appointment. I couldn’t read it. I will only read that letter if one day I have a viable pregnancy. T said he would deal with both of them.

Everywhere there are babies. The worst of the small insults is the fact that the EGU – where I have to go to deal with my miscarriage – is right next to the neonatal unit. So you’re surrounded by pregnant women. Happy couples hauling newborns and visiting toddlers whilst you wait to confirm that your baby is dead. The nastiest receptionist I think I’ve ever come across – so brusque that he made me feel like I was a criminal just for trying to get an answer about cancelling my ERPC procedure, loudly saying “I’ve had every lunatic in London on the phone today” and other snarky comments within earshot of everyone in EGU reception – who’s presumably called him today. Aside from that, it seems like everywhere you look in London there’s a massive pregnant belly staring you in the face. Oh and all our friends who recently got married are pregnant and wanting us to go and celebrate with them. I don’t feel like celebrating.

My GP said if the pain/bleeding got any worse I should go back to the EGU and I said that I didn’t want to go back there if I could help it. I told him what happened at the EGU and he was sympathetic. He said I should make a complaint about the receptionist. I said I’m sure that most of the people waiting there didn’t even understand what he was saying. (We have a large non-English speaking community – I live in the 7th most deprived local authority in the UK.) He was really nice and when I explained about how unsympathetic my work is, he gave me a sick note without the word miscarriage on it. The sad fact and another small insult is: My work would consider that a reason to treat me badly. I can’t share this with people at work. They’d think I’d brought it on myself.

And that’s a huge sadness… The idea that I won’t be able to quit (/take a break from) my really hard, not-much-fun job at Christmas. We’d worked out that with a due date in February that I would be able with holiday to leave at Christmas. It would be amazing. Now, we’re making small joys for ourselves. We’ve booked our trip to Orlando in October. (We won’t come round on the IVF list until at least then, probably.) We’ll have another grown up Christmas and it won’t be our last grown up Christmas without a baby, because we still aren’t having a baby.

My nine positive pregnancy tests are hidden in a drawer. I shoved my Crinone gel to the back of the bathroom cabinet. The scans and the letters are carefully hidden in the pregnancy book that I never filled in, next to the pregnancy milestone cards I never took photos with. (I felt somehow superstitious… the first picture was due at 8 weeks pregnant, and that’s when we were told to come back for another scan in a week, so I didn’t take the picture.) I’m living in the one-size up jeans that I bought to contain the baby-trying-IVF-drugs weight, and I expect when I go back to work that I’ll wear a few stretchy dresses before I try and lose the weight. The other day I went and spent about a hundred quid on makeup to make myself feel chirpier.

I feel tired.

I feel alone. T has been lovely, but I don’t think he fully appreciates what it’s like. It’s not his body that’s going through the pain of expelling a pregnancy. Apart from when I was whimpering with pain last night, all he knows is that I’m a bit subdued and a bit sad. He’s concentrating more on the trying again. He wants to help, but he can’t help. My body has failed me, as it has for all the years before this. I just feel tired.

The thought of starting another cycle of IVF is horrific. The side effects, the drugs, and with the miscarriage still happening and the pain… The thought is just not something I can contemplate right now. Anyway, the waiting list at our hospital means it won’t happen for around six months. We are lucky that the NHS will give us another two chances. I know this… but right now I don’t feel lucky.

My sister-in-law is pregnant with her second child. I’ll have another little baby in the family. I found it really hard to deal with the first one – I was going through operations for my various problems, and a separation from my husband, and I didn’t deal with it well. I have been trying to be a better aunt, to spend time with them, to be happy for them. And they’re easily having another one. Everything comes easy to my brother. He’s never had a problem in his life. I don’t resent him for this [any more] but it just makes me sad that I find it so hard to share the joy.

I couldn’t face telling my siblings so I asked my mum to do it for me. When I first told my parents about the baby, they were so happy. And when I had to tell them it wasn’t looking good, they still had hope. And when I told them that our baby had died, my mother was crying so hard that she couldn’t even speak with me on the phone. The awful thing about miscarriage is that it’s not just our baby that’s died. It’s my parent’s grandchild. It’s my siblings’ nephew or niece. My folks Skyped my youngest brother who lives overseas and told him, and he started to cry. My brother, the man. That made it almost worse to hear that.

The small kindnesses: A big bucket of flowers arriving from my brother across the other side of the world. Another bouquet from my sister. The few friends I told are sympathetic, even if they don’t know what to say. I wanted to tell them because I wanted them to understand that I wasn’t being antisocial, that I’m going through something. T cooking me pancakes with bacon and maple syrup because that was the only thing I could think of that I felt like eating. One of the only partners at work who’s nice sending me a text message to see how I was, because he was worried about me. My mum insisting on transferring me some money so I can go for a massage and facial to try and cheer me up. Having days to watch terrible wedding programmes (my guilty pleasure) and other trash TV. All you guys, my blogfriends, posting messages of support on my last couple of posts. It means a lot, and I’m sorry it took me so long to write this. The last week I’ve just felt a bit like I couldn’t face talking to anyone.

I’m not the only one going through this, even if it feels like I am. There are lots of people who have to experience this, and worse. I said to T, if a quarter of men had miscarriages, I’m sure there would be all sorts of processes to deal with it. You wouldn’t have to put up with mean receptionists, horrible work people hassling you, and the pain of having to deal with it in your own home. There would be some kind of miscarriage spa retreat that would be paid for by the government and everyone would eat Magnums and drink champagne whilst having spa treatments to get over it, and when you got back to work after a two month holiday, you’d have been promoted.

I’ll be okay. I know I will. I have T, and I have Dog, and I’m a bit broken but I will heal. I just need some time. And chocolate, rosé and dog licks.

 

 

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63 comments

  1. Infertile Before 30

    I’m sorry. I understand how you are feeling, so try not to feel alone. Even though I know that can feel impossible at times.
    You mentioned that you don’t think T fully understands, and is concentrating on trying again. My husband was the same. I think it’s because they feel a bit useless, and don’t know what to do to fix it.
    I’m sorry your work are being so shitty. Try not to think about them, or worry about going back to work. Concentrate on just you and T. And dog too of course.
    My thoughts are with you x

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Thank you. I know I’m not alone. And T has been good… I’m not knocking him at all. I think it’s really hard for a man to understand what it feels like. He doesn’t feel the pain or lose blood or anything.

      My work is always a bit difficult! They don’t really like working women, I think. I actually went back to the doctor to get a replacement sick note that didn’t put “miscarriage” as the reason. At least the doctor was nice about it. And I’m trying not to think about going back to work!

      Thanks so much for your well wishes. X

      Liked by 1 person

  2. My Perfect Breakdown

    I have tears streaming down my cheeks right now. Honestly, everything you’ve been through, everything, I get it. No-one should ever have to go through this, and yet here we both are, part of a horrific club. Dealing with work stress, telling family and friends that the baby died, flushing your baby down the toilet (and I personally am of the believe that it was a baby, not just a sac of cells), living with horrific pains, constant bleeding for days on end, possibility of surgery, trying to “live” through it with those who don’t know, lost hopes, loneliness, etc. I get it all. It’s horrific. I wish more then anything that you didn’t have to experience this. I wish no women/couple had to go through this. But all my wishing in the world will not change your reality. So, instead, I just want to let you know that I have been thinking about you every single day (I haven’t emailed because I didn’t want to harass you). I’m sending you and T love . Remember, T is hurting in his own way – it’s different but he’s still going through his own stuff. Also, I am also willing to promise you that it does get better, the pain will lesson. You will never ever forget, but you will learn to live through this. If you need anything, you know how to reach me – so much love to you my friend.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Thank you so much. I didn’t want to make you cry! It just sucks to have to go through this… and that so many of us do! I’m amazed! Really I feel like there should be more made of it than hiding it away (even though that’s what I’m doing at work). It’s crazy that people have to go through such heartbreak and for the majority of time it’s silent. Right now I’m just taking it one day at a time. I know that the pain will lessen… I know it will get better. It just kinda sucks right now. Thank you so much for thinking of me x

      Like

  3. babyangelb

    So sorry. I wish there was something I could say. I am still waiting for my miscarriage to happen. It is giving me some anxiety to not know when it will happen.

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    • Nara

      Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. It is rubbish to have to go through it. I hope it isn’t so bad for you. I mean everyone’s body is different so it might not hurt like mine has. I would stock up on pads and painkillers and hopefully you will be prepared for it. I am staying busy at home by watching lots of bad TV! I hope you’re okay and I’m sorry if I have scared you x

      Liked by 1 person

      • babyangelb

        No. I would rather hear honestly how it was for you. I have talked to several friends who have miscarried and they all have different stories. The Dr told me that for some people it is really bad and for some it is easier than a period. It is hard waiting.

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      • Nara

        I hope it isn’t bad for you. I really have found it hard but I’m hoping it’s the end soon. I don’t think I’ll feel like it has completed until I get the scan in a week and a bit to say it has finished. Otherwise I’ll be thinking it might happen some more. But having read some other people’s experiences I think maybe it’s easier to come to terms with if it happens naturally? I don’t know.

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      • babyangelb

        I am sorry it has been so rough for you. I hope the worst is over. My Dr said it is better for my body if it happens naturally and I think he is probably right. Just the waiting and the unknown is tough. I can’t really think about anything else.

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      • Nara

        Oh that’s the worst. I really feel for you. In a way it’s a relief mine has happened now. I think when you find out, you just want it to happen already. I hope yours goes as easy as it can (horrible!) and I’m thinking of you x

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  4. She Patiently Waits

    Oh man..after reading that I am just SO SO SO heartbroken for you and T..and Dog! What a horrible thing you’ve experienced. I know you’re hurt and sad and feeling alone. I wish there was something we all could do! Focus on the good right now and when it comes time again to do IVF…then hopefully you’ll be refreshed from your trip in October. Also, the good news…silver lining perhaps, you CAN get pregnant. So thats something to hold on to. xoxoxoxo

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Yes, you’re right! I never thought I could get pregnant. With time we will break out the ovulation sticks and see if we can do it the old fashioned way! I don’t feel up to anything jiggy for a while yet though… At least we have our trip in October to look forward to. Thanks! x

      Liked by 1 person

  5. notabroodychick

    I am so very sorry what you’ve had to go through and that it was so awful, and that the Hospital staff and environment were not more sympathetic to the situation. Your post and the you tube video brought tears to my eyes. Especially as apart from virtual people such as on my infertility support forum and blogs, and our parents and 2-3 friends, I have not been brave enough to tell other friends and colleagues that I too had a miscarriage. And it makes me sad that I don’t have the strength to speak out more about it to more friends and colleagues.

    Have been thinking of you and I hope your recovery now goes as well and easily as possible. Oh and I loved the comment about the miscarriage spa if men had to go through this! Made me chuckle! Take care.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      I know… I think that’s the hard part. I really admire the video and a lot of it was how I experienced it, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling people at work or even people in my wider friends network. I feel like if I did that, they’d all be waiting and wondering when we are next going to try, etc. like you I only told 3 of my closest friends. Plus a couple of people I had to tell because of social things I couldn’t go to (someone all the way from the U.S.). I think if it were more normalised to talk about it, it might be easier to deal with… But I understand why people don’t tell.
      Oh and I’m glad you liked the miscarriage spa! We should totally set one up! 🙂

      Like

  6. ashleykyleanderson

    I am not someone with a “strong stomach” as you might say, but I read every single word of this post and after watching the accompanying video, I just sat on my bed and cried for you & T and also for Pizza Baby. I know that as much as I am hurting for you, it doesn’t even come close to the kind of pain you’re experiencing, and I am so sorry that you are living this nightmare.

    I have honestly thought of you every single day and only wish that there was something I could do for you to somehow make things better or easier. Please let me know if you need anything. And just know that you all are in my heart and on my mind right now.

    Also, I wanted to thank you for sharing your story. Lots of love & hugs to you. ❤

    & rest in peace sweet little PB. ❤ ❤ ❤ (I hope it's okay that I've written this. I know this may sound silly since we only know each other in the blog world, but I want you to know that I will miss him too…)

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      You’re such a sweetheart. Thank you so much for writing this. I know that you are thinking of me and that makes things a bit easier! I know it sounds strange but I do feel a lot of comfort knowing that there are people rooting for us and caring about us. Tbh I have always been quite active online at different parts of my life so I don’t find it weird to have “met” people online – I still have friends I’ve never met in real life from back on wedding forums and sports forums so I don’t think it is anything less of a friendship! And I really appreciate all of it. It’s great to have a way of expressing the deepest thoughts and the honest feelings without fear of people reacting badly or not wanting to know… I really do appreciate your friendship x

      Liked by 1 person

  7. love family money food

    Thank-you for sharing and for being so detailed. There are so many aspects of this process (IVF, pregnancy, miscarriage) where all we have is partial information and platitudes.

    I hope you find a way to care for yourself while recovering.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Thank you. I’m caring for myself whilst eating a lot of chocolate and watching terrible TV! It’s not much but it helps. And I’m glad that you found it helpful… I just found it hard not knowing what to expect so I hope it is useful in some way. Given that so many people experience it, I wish it was more well known and talked about, but I also understand why people don’t want to know unless they’re in that position. Nobody wants to think it might happen. I can’t imagine how people manage to deal with recurrent pregnancy loss.

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  8. libraryowl33

    Oh wow. I am so very, very sorry for your loss and what you’ve been through. I hope that with time the pain will be less raw. Thank you for sharing your experience. It sounds horrific, yet I’m grateful to know what could happen. So many *hugs* to you right now.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Thank you for the hugs! I hope that it’s not something that you have to go through. I guess we pays our money… we takes our chances! If that’s what we have to go through to eventually have a viable pregnancy then we just have to deal with it. We will get through it and eventually the pain will fade.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Thank you. I know we will get through it and will be okay. I am a big wuss really so I’m sure with time and painkillers I’ll be fine! Plus two weeks off work – I should be grateful! I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this – it’s horrible. I’m still hanging out for the MC spa!

      Liked by 1 person

  9. Arwen

    I am so so sorry. Nothing makes this ok, no “at least you can get pregnant” no “at least you have another two IVFs”. Nothing makes this ok. I am so sorry. This post is heartbeaking but beautifully written in its honesty. I was in tears reading it because your pain and the loss of PB, such a wanted loved little baby, is so palpable.
    I am sending you chocolate, magnums of Rose and awkward British hugs up from Sussex
    xxxxxx

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Aww thank you! I know you understand. It is sad, but we will get through it and move on. I think we just need to get it straight in our heads that maybe we won’t have a baby, and if that happens, we’ll be okay too. It was a bit too much to hope it would happen the first time – we will give it another try and hope for the second (but not before a good rest!).
      Awkward British hugs are the ones I’m most comfortable with! 🙂 Thank you for those and the chocolate and rosé! X

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  10. stealingnectar

    My body is almost physically reacting from your writing. I feel almost shaky, almost numb, and with tears in my eyes. You are not alone. Your experience has been horrific, but it is not in vain that you share it. Those of us that have gone through it before feel less alone, and those that will stumble upon this post for many more months or years will finally feel like someone understands the most unfathomable pain. I have been thinking about you every day so it’s nice to hear how you’ve been. So many hugs for you. Thank you for being so brave and writing it all down. I am so beyond sorry you have joined the club.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Thank you, and I’m sorry about how horrible it feels for everyone who has to go through it. I said to T that I can’t believe that we still haven’t come up with a better way! It seems kind of un-evolved that so many women have to go through this as part of getting pregnant. Thank you so much for your thoughts. I really appreciate all your well wishes. X

      Liked by 1 person

      • stealingnectar

        I completely agree. Women’s health has a longgggg way to go! The fact that I am “unlucky” to have four miscarriages is a little ridiculous…obviously we have a lot to learn before women can get the pretests we need to prevent such horrific pain and loss. Xx

        Like

      • Nara

        Omg that’s so awful. I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been for you. I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through four miscarriages xx

        Like

      • stealingnectar

        Aww, thanks. I didn’t even think that you probably didn’t know that yet. Well, anyway, I appreciate your care and know you’ll get through this as you seem to know too. It’s a tough road but, for me, it made me much more compassionate in the end.

        Liked by 1 person

  11. ourgreatestdesire

    I can’t say much more about it than the others already have. You very definitely painted a very accurate picture of what it’s like to go through a miscarriage. I was surprised when mine lasted over a week too. I would take a day off thinking it was going to happen that day, and then it wouldn’t. I ended up having daycare kids the day it actually happened, but luckily, J had called in that day to be home with me. I’m also sorry that you have deal with asshole receptionists and that your work is so unsupportive of anything. Those things can make all the difference on how you’re able to get through these things. Sending you so much love, my Friend. I am so sorry that you’re having to go through this.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Gosh, I can’t believe how hard it must have been to have kids with you. That must be horrible! So sorry that we’ve had to go through this and that it lasts so long. It’s not much fun at all! I hope we all have success stories in the end. X

      Liked by 1 person

  12. Disorderly Love

    Yes, all of this.
    When I was miscarrying, my OB was soooooooooooo insensitive! I’ve never been, nor will I ever be, back with her.
    When the nurse called to confirm I was in fact miscarrying after my bloodwork, she generically told me she was sorry. End of call. I called my OB to ask if there was anything I could do. Nope. Come see her in two days…..got nothing from that appointment but, “Oh, it was probably just a chemical pregnancy.”
    Oh, is that all?
    Thanks, a bunch. I feel much better now. Only not.
    Grrr

    They really do need to inform people on what to expect. My experience was similar to your’s-sooooo much pain!! That I was not at all prepared for.
    Hugs & love to you ❤

    Like

    • Nara

      Wow, it still surprises me that people who work in this field can be so insensitive. I find it strange that people act as though it’s no big deal and we should just get over it. It’s horrible. It seems so odd in this day and age that we can’t better prepare women for experiences like this. Thank you for the hugs, back at you!

      Liked by 1 person

  13. lgandlg

    I’m part of that club currently. Thanks for being honest and letting me know what’s ahead of me. Hugs to you as you move past this. I believe good things are on their way!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Ah, you poor thing. I hope it isn’t too bad for you physically – I know it’s always hard emotionally. I hope we can both move past this. Thank you for the hug – back at you!

      Like

  14. thegreatpuddingclubhunt

    I’m so terribly heartbroken for you, thank you for sharing your story, it must be so hard to write these things down.
    I can’t get my head around why they wouldn’t test your baby just because you did IVF 😦 I really had no idea this would ever be the case.
    I’m crying at the thought that your work colleagues would not be able to handle the idea of you miscarrying, to think they could ever blame you is so sad.
    I just want to give you a huge hug right now. I cannot begin to imagine what you are going through and you are strong to share what happened here on your blog. I admire your resolve to recognise that you will be OK and its going to take time. I know that only brighter things can be on your horizon, I hope they come along soon for you X

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nara

      Thank you for your kind words. It was hard to start writing (I couldn’t really talk about it for a week or so) but I think it’s cathartic to put it into words.
      I don’t know why they don’t test either… From what I read online re US and Canada process (where people have to pay, incidentally) they do a lot more tests than they seem to do in the UK. Here they seem just to try everyone on IVF and only investigate after 3 miscarriages. Which seems a bit strange as I never had a pregnancy before so it’s like not investigating why you don’t get pregnant, nor why you can’t stay pregnant! We’d have to exhaust all our NHS funded rounds of IVF before they’d investigate any potential causes… which seems counterintuitive.
      My work are just not very female friendly, but there are pockets of nice people. I wouldn’t admit to trying to get pregnant though as I have no doubt it would jeopardise my career.
      Thanks so much for the virtual hug and I really appreciate your kind words. I’m hoping that eventually this blog will move to a happy place! I mean, generally my life is pretty enjoyable, aside from the challenges! I really appreciate your support x

      Like

  15. andthewindscreamsmary

    I’m so sorry Hun. I wish I could give you a big hug. A spa retreat sounds lovely about now, and if men were in charge it would for sure be the norm. Be kind to yourself and soak up time with Dog and T to allow yourself to heal. xxx.

    Liked by 1 person

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