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I walk into A&E, I have cramps and I’m bleeding. They make me pee in a bottle – why do they make those so thin? I always pee on my hand.
“Well if you’re miscarrying, which is what you think isn’t it…”
“We can’t do anything anyway.” Whatever happened to empathy?
A scan is booked for the following morning. I don’t sleep – I watch endless episodes of Gossip Girl on Netflix and try to forget it all. About 3am I know. I cry so hard. I’m consumed with this feeling that everything is so wrong but there’s nothing I can do about it. I rub my belly and beg my baby to hang on.
I don’t think I’d stopped crying for nearly 24 hours. I walk into the room for the scan with my husband and I tell the lady what’s happening. She tells me to go behind the curtain and get ready. When she scans me, she is silent forever. My eyes are closed and I’m repeating in my head “please tell me it’s all ok, please tell me it all looks fine and a little bleeding is normal”.
“I’m sorry honey but this doesn’t look good”. My heart breaks. “I can see baby but there’s no heartbeat”. These big sobs are coming out of me, the kind you can’t control. “I’m sorry,” I say to my husband, And I am. I’m sorry I couldn’t do this, I’m so sorry I’ve fucked this up.
She’s telling me options, but I can’t listen past the phrase “vacuum out your uterus”. I hate the terms. I hate that she tells me it’s common. I hate walking out past everyone through the hospital, more broken than I thought I could ever feel, eyes on us, then to the floor, embarrassed by our visible pain.
Our baby measured seven weeks and six days. Only five days before she died we had excitedly paid for an early scan. We saw that beautiful bright brain, we saw that crazy beating heart. We’d cleared a room out upstairs, done a boot sale to get rid of stuff. Taken a carload to charity. I’d ordered our first…