I know a lot of people don't want to or don't believe you should openly talk about experiencing a miscarriage. For me, I see writing and sharing as a huge method of therapy. It works for me just being able to get it off my chest and out there. I find people who keep it all in tend to explode later on. I'd rather deal with things head on as soon as possible.
Knowing that statistically one in four women experience a miscarriage sometime in their life is reassuring. Having other women comment that they themselves have had to say goodbye to children that passed on is also comforting; knowing that you are not alone in this and that so many other women can connect with your grief. There are so many of us out there who have experienced this type of loss. Death is just a part of life but of course having to see your own die before you isn't something we expect to go through.
Before I go into my own story you have to know that A) I'm not into pity parties and B) I in no way feel sorry for myself. Shit things happen every day. You just have to roll with the punches and get back up on your feet again. I've found one of the things I hate the most about dealing with this situation is how some people feel like they have to tiptoe around you, speaking in a hushed voice instead of their normal one or putting on a sad face when they look at you. I silently tell them to go fuck themselves in my head when they act that way. I'm not into pity. Really not into pity. I feel pathetic when people treat me that way. Truly hate it.
I wish people would just speak and act as they normally would. It really makes me feel worse and want to shut down around them. It's great to let people know you care about them, do things for them, let them know you are there for them should they need anything, ask them questions, etc but the whole "let me treat you like a nervous headcase while whispering my words as if you've suddenly had severe ear trauma" really gets on my nerves. The people that have helped me the most are the ones who spoke to me normally, let me chat my way through what happened, cracked jokes, made me laugh and acted like they have always acted around me. You don't know how much I truly appreciate that.
On to the how, what and why of it all...
To start off with, when I discovered I was pregnant late last year I bled pretty much every day for the first four-five weeks. Due to this I decided not to return to work this year, feeling the safety of my pregnancy was a much more important concern. Each month that passed included at least one day of bleeding. Right from the start this pregnancy wasn't "right" and I knew I was at risk of miscarrying but as the weeks and then months passed that threat seemed to dissipate and it was no longer a worry for me. At 19 weeks I had the usual anatomy ultrasound and the only thing that was on my mind was "I wonder if it is a boy or girl?" I was told it was a girl. I walked away happy only to find out the next day at my doctor's appointment that there was a major problem.
My daughter seemed perfectly fine except for the fact that her right femur (thigh bone) measured at 12mm and was therefore less than half the size of the left one that measured at a perfect 30mm. I got in the car, rang my husband, cried my fucking eyes out and then drove home telling myself to pull my shit together and just get on with things. I immediately starting searching the internet for what type of condition related to this bone discrepancy. I found that PFFD was the closest thing and that it was treatable with either a leg amputation in the first year of the child's life or fifteen long years of surgery to lengthen the limb by a series of bone breakages. Either way was a painful and horrible choice and thing to put a child through but in the end you do what you need to do for your child. I was prepared for a hard road ahead, but prepared nonetheless.
After an extremely stressful two weeks in which I got very sick (which I talked about in my last post), lost countless hours of sleep and was basically a mental mess with things going through my mind at 3AM like "What if there are more problems than just the leg? What if there are severe mental problems that an ultrasound won't pick up on?" I was finally called into the hospital here to undergo a follow-up ultrasound, hoping they could tell me more about my baby's condition.
Within literally thirty seconds of the ultrasound starting the doctor told me there was no heartbeat, no movement and no blood flow. Another doctor came in to confirm it and I was told judging by her measurements that she had died a week before. During my whole pregnancy I had felt no movements even though I saw for myself that two weeks prior was she moving like crazy (as all my children did in the womb). Instantly I thought "alhamdulilah" and felt at peace. From there on out, as sad as it was I knew it happened for the best. The pregnancy was troublesome from the very beginning and obviously my baby wasn't strong enough to survive. It was God's plan that she passed away and perhaps a blessing in disguise because obviously the alternative was a very sick baby. I accepted it from the very instant the words came out of the doctor's mouth.
Later on I cried here and there but mostly felt at peace. Two days later I had to go back to the King Edward Memorial Hospital to be induced in order to give birth to my baby. Both of my two children were born by caesarian as I was unsuccessfully induced with my first child due to her being two weeks overdue and as they thought I might rupture my uterus they decided I needed an emergency caesarian. They had to cut me twice and because of the second cut that was internal only and along my uterus I was at a high risk of rupture brought on by contractions for any further children, being told any future babies had to be delivered purely by caesarian section.
Due to the fact that my baby had passed away at five months gestation and that she wasn't therefore the same size as a full term baby I was still able to give birth naturally to her. The midwives began a 24 hour process of inserting special capsules into my cervix that eventually brought on contractions. I was given the gas tube to suck on when the pain started and once it began it all happened pretty quickly.
When she was finally born I looked down as the nurse placed her on a tiny blanket. She held her out to me, I held her for a while and marvelled at how long she was, even with one shortened leg. I felt proud looking down at her, knowing all of my children were tall and took after my husband and myself. I took pictures of her, knowing I can see her face any time I want in the future.
She was taken away, washed and brought back to me wrapped in a soft, white crocheted blanket as she lay in a doll's sized bassinet with a white teddy bear seated above her head, guarding her. My husband didn't want me to see her at all, thinking I would be traumatised by seeing her lifeless body but in reality it was still a beautiful experience, despite the sadness of it. I'm glad I didn't shy away from holding her, from touching her head and singing nursery rhymes to her in the dark like I do with my other two children, night after night. I know I would've regretted it for the rest of my life had I not spent time with her before letting go.
Later on that afternoon I spent about an hour or two by her side until she was finally taken away. She had been dead for over a week inside my womb and I could see she was already undergoing the early stages of decomposition so I felt it was best to remember her as she was when I first saw her and not continue to see her body break down. I felt at peace seeing her leave the room knowing the midwives had made me a special memory box full of tiny baby items, flower seeds, knitted baby blankets, candles, token knick-knacks and photos taken of her; some of them snapped while I was holding her in my arms. The box was decorated with floral prints; soft lilacs and dark pinks. I smiled when I saw it - it's like they knew me well.
The most special of all was having her tiny hands and feet imprinted on paper in ink. They gave me a white frame and I have put them in there, placing it on my mantle piece at home so I can always see it. Those little marks really touched my heart.
The midwives really made it as special an event as possible given the circumstances. I even hugged the midwife Vanita who took me through the greatest part of the ordeal over the three days I spent there and trust me when I say I am most definitely not a hugger so that is something out of the ordinary for me. They were just so understanding, down to business and then so caring when the time came. They treated my baby just like she was alive and healthy and it made such huge difference to what could have been a very traumatic experience for me. They made it into such a special, beautiful time so much that I never once broke down and cried during the whole ordeal.
I left the hospital the next morning, leaving her behind, waiting to be picked up by an imam for the burial. I started tearing up realising I was leaving the hospital empty handed, save for a box full of memories.
On the way home we had to stop by the shops where I came across a man pushing a newborn baby in a pram. I tried to keep it together by looking away and ignoring the sight in front of me but I ended up feeling a stab of pain in my heart and silently carried on with tears running down my cheeks. I realised then that sunglasses are a girl's best friend and must take them everywhere with me for at least the next month so I can hide behind them somewhat when this happens again (which it will... for sure). As the days have passed (it's been nearly a week now) it has gotten easier. If I cry, I cry at home in private. I see other mothers with their newborns and just feel happy for them but at the same time try not to focus on it too much. It's still early days.
I know it's not something I can or want to forget but knowing I have two beautiful children at home makes it a hell of a lot easier. It's naturally going to hurt for the rest of my life but I know that her death stopped her from suffering in life and I find solace in the fact that everything truly happens for a reason, whether we understand it or not.
“….and it may be that you dislike a thing which is good for you and that you like a thing which is bad for you. Allah knows but you do not know.” (Quran Al-Baqarah:216)
On a quick side note - thank you to everyone that left a comment on my Instagram/Facebook account. It was especially nice to read comments from other mothers who have lost a baby. I read through each single one but wasn't in the head space to thank everyone individually.
Have you ever experienced something similar? How did you deal with the aftermath?
