The Untold Story of My Miscarriage

Twenty-sixteen has not been a wonderful start for me. . . I had a miscarriage. I was eight weeks pregnant when I went for my first scan. The waiting room was full of pregnant women. I had never seen so many in one place. The clinic was just for us, with posters about breastfeeding on the walls, and parenting magazines on the shelves. They laughed with each other, pointing to their bellies and breasts as they described their symptoms. The waiting area was divided from the examining rooms by double doors and every few minutes, a couple would float through them, absorbed in a printout of their ultrasound.

Then, it was our turn.

Hand-in-hand, my husband and I walked into the examination room. We were greeted by a young and pretty gynaecologist, who happened to be my husband's colleague. I sighed in relief, knowing that I was in trusty and capable hands. A generous amount of cool ultrasound gel was applied onto the lower part of my abdomen, leaving me a little ticklish, as she gently rubbed the ultrasound probe around, trying to locate our little miracle. I stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the image in front me, while patiently waiting for the appearance of a yolk sack or of that flickering sound of a heartbeat.

"We can't expect too see much at this stage," the kind gynaecologist said with an assuring smile, as she pointed to a black circle that looked more like an undersized peanut, than a sack, on the screen.

"Is that my baby?" I asked.

She nodded. "Your foetus is very tiny. Could be that your baby is taking after you in the size department." She added jokingly.

As much as I wanted to keep my optimism high, I could not help but worry. A reel of questions played in the back of my mind. Why is my baby too tiny? But, when my husband squeezed my hand and smiled assuringly down at me - the very picture of a proud new father - I knew everything would be alright as long as we believed in Him. 

"We will have another ultrasound in fourteen days. In the meantime, you have to get yourself a lot of healthy food. You are to take iron tablets and folic acid religiously until we tell you when you can be off the medication. I will see you two soon," she said in finality as she printed out a copy of the ultrasound and handed it to us.

"Thank you, doctor."

"Congratulations," she smiled.

With his arms around me, we walked out through the double doors of the examining rooms, completely absurd and enthralled with the printout of our very own ultrasound. In my other hand, was my newest companion, a giant pink maternity medical notes, which I was chained to for the rest of my pregnancy life.

Despite the conventional wisdom that a pregnant woman should wait until after the first trimester to announce her pregnancy, I broke the unwritten law of mythology and excitedly told our parents, then our intermediate families and a number of close friends about it. I even went to the length of overboard by sending the image of my ultrasound to each and every one of them, and demanded for positive vibes and prayers from them.

I have always dreamed of becoming a mother, and I was determined to enjoy every moment of this process. I changed my diet and soon found myself engrossed in learning what my baby's weekly progress was. My phone was full of pregnancy applications and baby names were at the forefront of my mind. At home, my husband and I stood in front of our room and swept our arms around. Here is where the closet will go. Here is where we will put the changing table. Here is where I will be nursing our baby. Every day before going to work, he touched my small baby bump and said to me Goodbye, mummy. And every night before bed, I touched my belly and said Goodnight.

We were in such a bliss.

🍁

Almost as quickly as the pregnancy news came, fear began to set in. It was a breezy Sunday morning, early last February, when my pregnancy began to make its ending known. From the beach deck, I watched as the large glowing sphere rose slowly into the dull morning sky, breaking the curtain of the rose-pink dawn with its majestic brightness, and casting sunbeams in every direction while it showered the buildings and hills behind me with gold-shimmery light. I remember I was walking along the beach with my husband, his mother and younger sister when I felt the first pang of pain.

I had been experiencing minor cramping occasionally throughout my pregnancy, but that pain that I felt that morning, was unfamiliar. Concerned, I excused myself to the lavatory and discovered a stain, which more closely resembled rusted metal than the colour of blood. Having read a lot of online articles on pregnancy, I ruled it out as 'spotting'. Blood is a colour that women know well, after all, I thought. I went about the rest of the day feeling concerned, but I refused to let myself be alarmed by my recent discovery because it could be the aftereffect of implantation.

The next day, the cramps had gone from minor to dull ache accompanied by a medium flow 'spotting'. I'm bleeding, I told myself. It was not gushing or near hemorrhaging, but it was a shade of true red that my instincts immediately identified it as danger. I told my husband we should get our baby checked, even though our next sonogram appointment was not due in another six days, but I could not stand not knowing what was happening inside of me. As far as I was concerned, there was a life forming - a person whose quirks and looks I had been imagining for weeks - in me and I had to make sure that everything was fine.

My husband contacted his friend, who is a Specialist in Gynaecology, and I was immediately wheeled up to the labour room for Abdominal and Transvaginal Ultrasound Scans.

"Your foetus has not grown much since your first scan. Could there be any chances that you may have mixed up your menstrual dates?"

"My menstrual cycle is always regular. +/- 7 days," I answered, firmly. Not liking whatever it was that she was insinuating. 

"That's alright. We will perform transvaginal ultrasound scan on you so we can have a clearer view of your baby, okay," she smiled at us, particularly me.

My eyes widened at the sight before me as she held up an odd looking transducer probe that was fairly narrow at the end and looked more like a long, thin, plastic dildo, while waving it in my face, as she explained that it has been specially designed in such way to help women feel more comfortable during the scanning. She went on to add that I might feel some uncomfortable pressure when she moved the probe around in order to get a clearer view of my uterus and our baby, so I was reminded to always stay calm and not to tighten my muscles, as this action may cause tearing.

All I could do was, lay down on the hospital bed and helplessly nodded in understanding, even though the thought of running away was rather tempting. My husband, who looked like he was constipating from stifling his laughter for too long at seeing my frightened face when the probe was waved in front of me, squeezed my hand and reminded me whom I was doing this for.

The specialist slipped a condom on the probe, then lubricated it with a lot of lubricant gel that it was cemented on me for the rest of day, and gently inserted the transducer probe into my vagina until it reached the opening of my cervix. Frankly, it was not a pleasant experience, but it was not the worse.

"How many days have you been bleeding?" She asked, adjusting the unwelcome transducer probe in an attempt to view another angle of my uterus.

"Since yesterday morning. Initially, it was brown discharge, which I assumed was spotting, but this morning, the shade has become a lot more darker, it is more to true red tone. I've used one pantyliner so far, even yesterday."

She nodded. "Did you take a fall, or lifted anything heavy the past few days?"

A reel of probable played through my mind. But, nothing came up. "No, I don't think so. Well, not that I can remember. Did I?" I turned my attention to my husband, who simply shook his head in return.

"Very well. It could be implantation bleeding. Some pregnant women bleed for a whole week and some for a couple days, it varies on the mother. But, with the size of your foetus today, it is difficult to predict the viability of your foetus."

I stared blankly at the image of my baby on the screen and wondered where had I gone wrong. She went on and on about implantation, viability and whatnot, but nothing registered in my mind until she spoke of 'high-risk of miscarriage'. At 26, I thought I was not considered high-risk for a miscarriage. And coming from a family that is capable of carrying a pregnancy to full term each time, I thought I was able too. Not once did it ever cross my mind that I would be categorised in that 10-25% of clinically recognised pregnancies that are at risk and could possibly make me among the one in five pregnant women who miscarries at some point during her childbearing years.

"I'm going to put you on bedrest for the rest of the week until our next ultrasound, which is in another six days. That is the original date for your second ultrasound." She scribbled something unreadable on my pink book and printed out another set of ultrasound for us to bring home. Deep down inside, I could not help but felt like it was going to be the final remembrance of our little one.

Throughout the days that followed, I found myself saying the same thing over and over again: "Nobody talks about this part of pregnancy." My online searches for information unearthed clinical articles that described comically toned-down terms of what symptoms I might be encountering. Often time, I found myself staying up all night long after my husband went to bed, immersed in parenting forums and pregnancy blogs.

It began in earnest on 10th February 2016 at 1 o'clock in the morning. The cramping I had been feeling since the past three days intensified to the sensation of labour contractions. I tried to sleep it off, but by the time I almost fell asleep, I felt an uncanny pain - the one that I have been enduring since puberty invaded - surged throughout my uterus and across my lower back. I was left with just enough time and energy between them to cry into my husband's helpless arms and prayed that by some miracle, our baby would survive. But, when I felt a light shade of red ran down my thigh, my instincts immediately screamed red code. Without a second thought, my husband carried me into our car and rushed me to the emergency room.

Several hours, a few more blood tests and another probing transvaginal ultrasound later, I was told by the ER doctor that 50% of women who bleed during early pregnancy go on to carry to full term, and those sharp sensations I was feeling, were in deed labour contractions. 

"Is my baby okay, though?" I asked.

The young ER doctor nodded and pointed to the black hole on the screen. "But, we will only know the complete result once your blood tests are ready. We are going to send you to the labour room for another scanning. Then the Specialist in Gynaecology will rule out the possible symptoms that you are having and their next plan for you."

I was, then, wheeled through the same set of doors, which my husband and I had just walked out from a day ago, towards the labour room and were seated in the waiting area, before the nurse came and took me in for another transvaginal ultrasound scanning. I tried to keep my optimism up, but sitting there alone in the labour room with a rough and inhospitable medical officer, it was impossible to keep up the tricks of faith. She was a year younger than my husband, with a thick black set of eyebrow and an unsmiling face.

"How far along are you?" She asked as she put a condom on the probe and lubricated it.

"Nine weeks. Today"

"And you are here because of?" Irritation was evidence in her speech, as she roughly propped both of my knees up and pulled them apart.

"Bleeding for the past three consecutive days." I answered, curtly, as I squirmed from the contraction pain and the rough action by the medical officer. 

Realising that she was not going to be gentle on me like my previous doctors, I demanded to have my husband in the room.

"Husbands are not allowed in the labour room." 

Before I could even respond, she ruthlessly inserted the forever unwelcome transvaginal probe into me. I hissed in pain as sharp aches surged through me, forcing my entire body to go into convulsion. A sweet metallic iron pungency filled the air-conditioned room, as I felt warm liquid pooled around my thighs and my bottom. My breathing became ragged. I closed my eyes and whimpered softly. Because I knew in that instant, any chances of saving my child, had become thinner. 

"That hurts." My voice seemed to come from somewhere other than my own mouth, and I was surprised at how calm it sounded.

Panic was written all over her face. As she gently withdrew the probe out, I saw spatters of blood on her gloves and on her blue scrub. My heart fell at the sight before me.

"Please, I really need my husband right now." Eyes brimming with tears.

She tossed the bloody condom into the blue bin and walked out of the labour room, leaving me on the bloody hospital bed with both legs propped up. Five minutes later, she came back in with a woman in her early 40s by her side, but she left soon after. My husband was still no where in sight.

The elder woman, who turned out to be the Gynaecology Consultant, sat down next to me and helped to clean the pool of blood around my thigh. Another transvaginal ultrasound scan was performed, only this time, it was a lot more gentle. With a 'sorry' as a comfort blanket, she gently inserted the unwelcome probe in and some times adjusted it around in order to get a clearer view of my uterus.

The long silent became unbearable.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

A pregnant pause.

"Is there a heartbeat?" I prompted.

Another long pause. "I'm sorry, unfortunately I don't see a heartbeat."

The sadness met me forcefully. I knew that the inevitability was certain. My husband and I had come to terms with it the day before, but to receive the devastating news alone, was unbearable. I had just lost my first baby. And I was all alone. My husband was not allowed in the labour room. And my family was an ocean away. Hence why, I was surprised to hear myself calmly said, "Okay."

"We're going to have to admit you today. If the sack does not pass naturally, we have to perform a minor surgery on you," she said as she scribbled in my pink book. The papers reported my condition as an 'incomplete threatened abortion': the medical term for an incomplete miscarriage.

In the following hours, I was thrust into the world of loss - the harsh clinical world of 'threatened abortion', 'spontaneous abortion', 'product of conception', 'byproduct of a pregnancy', and many other. Nobody had mentioned this part. No one had ever mentioned that a pregnancy could end so quietly. All of my ideas about miscarriage came from the few scenes I had seen in the movies, where women emerged from bathrooms covered in blood.

Clad in an unflattering green hospital robe, I laid down in the hospital bed, as I tried to fight off the contraction pain that had only intensified and become laborious. By quarter to 4 in the morning, the contraction waves suddenly calmed, and my body was at rest.

It was over. Physically, it was over.
I passed a few large, longish, black blood clots. Followed by the foetal sac, the size of a large egg yolk. My baby seemed deformed. It did not look remotely like a baby, but I could make out the shape of it. It was the size of my index finger, had limb buds complete with fingers, a tail bud and the oblong head of an embryo. Basically, it looked more like a prawn, with red skin and lidless peppercorn eyes.

But, honestly, who would not give everything to have her very own prawn, right?

When the physical side effect receded, the sadness resurfaced in various forms. Despite the fact that, in majority of the cases, it occurs as the result of a chromosomal abnormality for which nobody is to blame, and the countless times I was told that the miscarriage was not my fault, I could not escape a sense of self-blame. A reel of probable causes played through my mind: I had not taken folic acid soon enough, or had spent too much time outdoors when I was supposed to be on bedrest, or had not taken sufficient nutritions.

Before I had a miscarriage, I did not really know what an impact it would have on someone's life. When I started to share my grief with my friends, the responses were mixed. Some said, "I am so sorry. How awful. How sad.". And some said, "At least you knew you could be pregnant" or "It was for the best, obviously something was not right with the baby". Those were alright. But there were also those who had the indecency to say, "It wasn't as if you lost an actual baby." That, hurts the most.

With miscarriage, nobody physically died. There is no physical evidence that there was a baby at all.  There is no funeral services to be held. I get that. I may not physically lose a fully formed baby. But, in my heart and mind, that embryo that I had been carrying for nine weeks was a baby. It was a person, a somebody to me. Even it was not a somebody to others. People need to realise that I had a baby, but it died. And that is my story.

Grieving over a baby that has no physical evidence is as much real as losing a bigger baby. One should never tell the parents what they lost, was just a clot of blood. One should never tell the parents that they should get over it. These kind of people need to learn that it is okay for the parents to grief as long as they need. As an outsider, you may not understand or think that it is not the same as somebody actually died, but my baby was a somebody to me and my husband. My baby existed, and you can never take that away from me.

You will never understand the depth of losing a baby this early. We did not just lose a baby, but we lost all the firsts- the first talk, the first walk, the first dance, the first school day- we lost a whole life of someone. And every time we see our friends' kids, they are the walking, talking representation of what we had lost. Hearing senseless comments like, "That wasn't an actual baby" or "When are you gonna have kids?" disturb me to the core. I am not an easily offended person, but you have no idea how much of an impact your senseless questions are to me.

If someone you know has gone through or is going through an early pregnancy loss, a miscarriage, or a stillbirth, please acknowledge their baby's existence. It is not an attempt to become famous with a piteous, sad story, but rather to have people to recognise that a mother and a father have lost their child. Their baby was a somebody to them. I had been so hooked up in my own sorrow that I forgot there are countless women who had endured one or even many lost pregnancies, or have not had their wombs be occupied by a living thing. I felt guilty and selfish for my sorrow, but, I can never deny or pretend that my miscarriage did not devastate me. I was, indeed, lucky enough to be given the opportunity to carry a child even it was only for nine weeks and a day. 

In the months that followed, I deleted my September due date from my iCloud Calendar and PregnancyCentre application, fully erasing a future for which my husband and I no longer needed to plan. I continue with my life like it has not been any different than it was the day before. I try to focus on my life, rather than the baby that I will not be having in September. One thing for certain, I will never be able to shake off the worry for my subsequent pregnancy. I will worry as the weeks slowly pass and I will worry that I would not be able to carry it to full term again. The fear will always live in me.

😔