Baby Loss Awareness Week was an emotional rollercoaster. To see #waveoflight candles fill my social media feed was desperately sad, poignant, lovely, distressing, comforting, and difficult. So much sadness. So much potential never realised. So many loved souls, wanted babies, who are carried in hearts and not arms. It’s hard to bear, that level of sadness. I was so terribly terribly sad for every person, every would-be mother, father, parent, for whom the journey to Family was not straightforward.
How many there were. How many people I know, in real life or online, who have suffered loss. How many lives I know that have been touched by grief.
Yet how terribly lonely I felt when I was going through it.
My journey to parenthood was not simple. It took actual effort. It took medication with spectacular side-effects. It took months and months of frustration and tears and outrage at the injustice of the world that gave a teenager a baby the first time she had sex, but not me, who had wanted children since her conception, who was married and had a home and a job and LOVE, so so much love to offer.
It was isolating, taking calls from kind-hearted friends, sensitive to my situation, who wanted to break the news to me in person that they had succeeded where I had failed. Of course I was delighted for them, genuinely delighted. But their joy made my pain sweep over me in such hot heavy waves that it took every ounce of willpower to not hang up the phone and sob until the end of time.
I felt like I was the only woman in the world not able to have a baby. The irrationality that a desperate need and a medically prescribed overdose of hormones creates cannot be over-estimated. I carried my failure like a mantel, which grew heavier with each cycle, each unbearable negative.
Then one day, when pregnancy tests were as much a part of my routine as having a shower each morning, it was unexpectedly positive. The mantel was cast aside. I was so lightened by the load I floated through life, off on a holiday, my little secret joy fluttering somewhere deep inside me.
It all came to an end in a hospital room in the middle of France. I woke up with spotting and I knew. The very kind friends we were staying with knew. The hospital staff knew. Ironic that my first scan, my first experience of cold gel and black-and-white ultrasound, was to confirm my first pregnancy had ended. And so we went back to our holiday, via the pharmacy, where I spent three days curled on the sofa sobbing with sadness and a pain that was so much greater than “normal period pains” whilst DH sat helpless beside me, hurting too.
We came home. And I didn’t know what to do next. People were calling, texting, messaging, asking about our holiday. Instead of telling people I had a great time, and had some wonderful news, I was sharing a different holiday story. The mantel was back, heavier than ever with the knowledge that I was a Harbinger of Doom, bursting joyful bubbles wherever I went.
“I didn’t know you were pregnant!”
News of a miscarriage means news of a pregnancy that hadn’t been shared with friends and family. I had never felt more alone. I was the person you didn’t want to sit next to at a wedding, be stuck talking to at work: it was easier just to avoid everyone, everything. The tears came even easier than ever before, the frustration far greater because I had actually been pregnant, knew that it could happen, and yet it didn’t. It wouldn’t.
I didn’t know a single person then who was able to tell me it had happened to them. The one blessing of that- and subsequent- miscarriage experience was that I could help someone else feel less alone when they were going through it.
Eight years on, I finally feel like I am not alone.
Oh, my friend, this made me cry. I’m so sorry for your loss and your pain. Thank you for sharing it with us so eloquently. x
Bless you Amber. It was a hard post to write, even now!
Much love Kelly, a poignant post. Although it’s not something I have personal experience of, seeing the candles lit flooding social media the other night was incredibly moving and empowering x
It was a very moving evening Fable and Folk, but I found immense comfort in it. Thank you for commenting. x
Beautifully written as always. …This was pretty much me. ..on my birthday, on holiday 7 years ago. …chat soon x
That does suck massively Em. And thank you.
A very touching post Kelly, I too know the pain of such loss. I had two miscarriages between Little Bean and Beanie Boy, after the ease of our pregnancy with Little Bean we never guessed that there would be any issues the second time around so we excitedly told close family and friends before the first scan. At around 9 weeks I started spotting but rather than give me a scan, the hospital had me go in every day for 4 days to measure my HCG levels to see if they increased or decreased. The levels dropped ever so slowly which confused the Docs so by the 4th day they decided to scan me and that was when they decided I had an ectopic pregnancy. At the time I felt like a failure having to tell people that our pregnancy was over but then I received a blanket of love from those friends and relatives that we had shared joyful news with weeks before. When we fell pregnant again, we waited until the first scan to tell everyone our great news, only for the pregnancy to fail weeks later. It was so much harder the second time around as I had to have a medical procedure to have the pregnancy removed and it hit me very hard. Luckily we have gone on to have two more beautiful boys who I love with all my heart but I shall always wonder about the babies we lost, I have two friends whose babies were due at the same time as our lost babies and I always look to them and think what our babies would have been like and I thank them for allowing me the opportunity to know my loving, caring, funny boys and I promise them I will meet them again one day xxx
Oh I am sorry MummyMatters. That sounds like such a tough thing to go through. I have a friend whose son was born when the first baby I lost should have been: it’s the oddest thing to look at them side by side with my darling girl. I don’t doubt that you will meet those babies again one day.
I too felt very alone with my first miscarriage, afraid to tell others as we hadn’t announced a pregnancy. It’s so hard and lonely too and because we are afraid to make others sad we keep it too ourselves. I’m glad that sharing my stories have brought me closer to others and we all helped each other.
The wave of light had me very emotional too.
Thanks for sharing
You are most welcome Clare. I know what you mean: I didn’t want to bring anyone down. I couldn’t not say anything though. It’s a Catch 22. I wish #waveoflight had been around then..
I just wanted to say that I needed this post right now. Thank you Kelly xxx
Oh Vicky, I can’t imagine it’s terribly helpful, since it’s all about me. But thank you for saying so x