The elevator juddered down to the ground floor and I fell out in a daze, the OBYGN’s words whistling like a crescendoing kettle in my ears.
My then-husband Chris and I had ridden that same elevator barely an hour before, sweetly nervous at seeing our tiny foetus on the ultrasound monitor.
We made jokes as the doctor slid the wand back and forth over my belly, but as she gradually fell silent, I looked away from the still, grey screen to search her face. “I’m sorry, but there’s no heartbeat”, she said apologetically.
I had expected to leave the clinic clutching a precious printout of an oblong bean. Instead, I held a note with the date and time of the “d&c” (dilate and curettage) procedure I would need to clear my uterine lining. The earliest booking available was four days away which left me no choice but to carry my dead foetus around for the ensuing days and nights in numb disbelief.
I had just experienced a “missed miscarriage” which is when a foetus dies in the womb, but the mother hasn’t had any symptoms, such as bleeding or pain. Usually revealed at an early pregnancy scan, it instantly turns one of the most thrilling moments of your life into one of the worst.
Heartbroken, we held a private ritual by the Yarra River and vowed to give ourselves time before trying again.
In the meantime, support poured in from family and friends who showed their love by honouring our loss. Close friends from country Victoria drove to be with us and fresh flowers and chocolates were delivered to our door.
A few months later, two faint lines appeared on a leftover pregnancy test. The delicious feelings of possibility I felt after the first positive result, were replaced by somersaulting anxiety. Worry, excitement and nausea became my constant companions as I waited for the eight-week ultrasound.
When the time came, we sat in another waiting room waiting for another pregnancy scan. The innocence and nervous jokes of our first scan were gone. We were jittery, uneasy, and mostly silent until the sonographer pressed the ultrasound wand uncomfortably against my overfull bladder and a flickering black blob immediately appeared on the screen. I didn’t realise I’d been clenching every muscle in my body until they all relaxed at once and I melted into the bed with relief.
Succeeding after failure framed the miscarriage differently for me. The loss now seemed like a bump on the road to success. A complication. A stumbling block.
As we tried for a second child, the miscarriage became a fading stain. An unpleasant memory that dimmed after the birth of our precious child, and one that I, whether consciously or not, assumed wouldn’t happen again.
When a third positive pregnancy result materialised in the little results window, I steeled myself for first trimester nausea, but I wasn’t overly worried otherwise. The excitement felt more real now that I had a child because I knew the wonder and infinite love that lay ahead. I couldn’t help but tell my toddler that there was a baby in mummy’s tummy. She gently patted my stomach and ran off to play.
During a toilet visit a few weeks later, I noticed a streak of red on the wad of paper in my hand. We drove straight to hospital. Chris found a wheelchair and steered me up to the triage counter while a puddle of blood pooled underneath the chair. The waiting room looked on in horror and I felt helpless, infuriated, horrified, that something so deeply private had been exposed to a bunch of strangers in such a graphic way.
I had to explain something I could barely grasp myself, to my toddler. “Sweetheart, the baby had to go, the baby is gone”, I said as she ate her honey-drenched porridge and tried to watch TV over my shoulder. I didn’t think she understood until we were wheeling through the aisles of Coles a few days later. I was putting this and that in the trolley when I spotted a woman pushing a stroller towards us. I tried to look the other way as we rattled past but my toddler strained to peer into the pram, seeming to study the sleeping infant. As we reached the end of the aisle I heard her whisper softly to herself, “baby gone”. The realisation that she did understand, coupled with the truth of her short sentence, saw me abandon the trolley and run us both to the car.
As word got out to friends and family about another failed pregnancy, support was noticeably quieter this time. Some of our friends turned up, but many did not. I was left to wonder why. Did they think two miscarriages hurt less than one? Did they feel uncomfortable? Did they even care?
Now in my late 30s, I knew we no longer had the luxury of “giving ourselves time”. We had to get back on the horse immediately, whether we felt ready or not.
On my 40th birthday, I was eight weeks pregnant for the fourth time. Flicking through a magazine at a hair salon, I felt a distant twist in my abdomen. Once the hairdryer was switched off, I walked down a long, squeaky-floored corridor searching for the toilet. Too terrified to look, I sat on the cold, plastic seat until the hairdresser came looking for me. Calling my apologies through the door, I balled up the paper and wiped myself. It was pink.
I gave the triage nurse my details on autopilot. When I mumbled my date of birth, she looked at me in horror and said, “Today’s your birthday?” I nodded. Not knowing what else to say, she returned to typing on the computer while I found an orange plastic seat in the corner. “Happy Birthday” notifications popped up again and again on my phone as I tried not to scream.
The timing of the loss was impossible to fathom — not just for me, but for our friends and family too apparently. The stoics again showed up for us, but otherwise, tumbleweeds rolled through my inbox, and my phone stayed uncharacteristically silent. No one, it seemed, knew what to say.
When two pale lines came into focus for the fifth time indicating a positive pregnancy test, the result felt as flimsy as a lottery ticket. I knew I probably wouldn’t win, but at least I was in with a chance. When the familiar pink streak followed four weeks later, our dreams of having a second child were lost, once again.
Pregnancy announcements rained down around me as I threw away unused pregnancy tests. An absent friend materialised to remind me how lucky I was to have one healthy child. I reflected on the statistics: up to one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. Recurrent miscarriage, defined as the loss of three or more consecutive pregnancies, affects just 1 per cent of people trying to conceive. I didn’t feel lucky.
People urge you to “be positive” when you experience pregnancy loss because of their own discomfort with your grief. But telling a bereaved person to look on the bright side is like offering a bandaid to somebody who has just lost a limb.
Miscarriage is an invisible loss. There are no rituals, no funerals, no graves, no formal goodbyes. This makes the responses of loved ones even more vital.
If you’re unsure what to say when a friend loses a pregnancy, try, “I’m really sorry you lost your baby”, and then take their lead. Some will want to talk and some won’t, but knowing they have the option may be comfort enough.
If you’re more of a doer, you could provide practical help without waiting to be asked. Drop off meals that can be easily frozen. Organise a grocery delivery. Offer to do a school run or provide childcare for younger kids.
And don’t forget the other parent, if there is one. They need support too.
Whatever you decide to do, don’t turn away because it makes you uncomfortable; turn up because you care. And don’t assume that subsequent miscarriages hurt less. On the contrary, the pain becomes almost impossible to tolerate. The kindness and love we did receive helped us through the first agonising days after each loss and made us feel more human and less like an unlucky statistic.
I never needed reminding to appreciate my daughter. She is a miracle, the bud that bloomed within the graveyard of my body. In time, the lost pregnancies, foetuses, children, have become like whispers in the dust. Almost imperceptible save for pricks of loss that jab me now and then.
October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month. But for most of us, remembering isn’t necessary because forgetting is impossible.
Below are some organisations to contact if you need support for miscarriage, stillbirth or the loss of a child:
- Red Nose on 1300 308 307. The Red Nose Grief and Loss Support Line is available 24/7 for anyone affected by miscarriage, stillbirth, baby or child death on 1300 308 307 (Red Nose recently merged with Sands)
- Stillbirth Foundation Australia for information and resources
- The Pink Elephants Support Network for miscarriage information and support.