Our first pregnancy and subsequent loss.

tw: pregnancy loss

I took the pregnancy test on Fathers Day, 2018. Jeff was at the gym so I was home alone. On autopilot, I immediately got in the car and drove to Tesco to buy a Fathers Day card and that's how I broke the news. "You're going to be a daddy!"

From that moment, I did everything right. I started taking prenatal vitamins, I didn't drink, I avoided heavy lifting, I avoided all the 'danger' foods. I even refused to go wild swimming with my friend just in case the bacteria of the lake somehow affected the baby! Silly, I know. But that's how much I wanted to be a mummy.

When you get bad news at a pregnancy scan, it isn't like the movies. You don't get told immediately that you won't be holding your baby in six months. Well not in my experience anyway...

At first the technician was quiet and studious, gliding the probe over my tummy and giving nothing away. But I already knew. I was watching the monitor and I hadn't yet seen any shape that resembled a baby. A couple of minutes passed and then we all saw a flickering. A heartbeat. I was momentarily relieved. But when the technician excused himself and walked out of the room, I knew it wasn't good news for us.

Ten minutes passed and I couldn't look at my (now) husband. I knew his face would reflect my own fears.

A specialist entered the room and had another look. She suggested that my bladder was too full and I should go to the loo so she could get a better look. I sat on the toilet and cried. When I returned, there was no more scanning. It was just a ruse to get me out of the room so she could discuss her findings with the technician.

We were lead to a waiting room which had a box of tissues tentatively placed on a table in the middle of the room. 'Ok', I thought. This is clearly the bad news room. We sat for what felt like hours but in reality was probably closer to thirty minutes. The door soon opened and we were joined by a consultant called Ben - and I strangely remember that he was wearing crocs. It was explained that the baby I was carrying had several severe abnormalities and would not be compatible with life. The skull had failed to form around the brain, the main organs were growing outside of the body and the limbs had not formed either. It was suggested that I should have a medical termination. To continue the pregnancy would be harmful and the baby would most likely not make it to full-term or pass away shortly after birth.

It was a heart breaking decision but the only option we felt was sensible after being armed with all the facts. I took two pills to start the process and was asked to come back in 48 hours with an overnight bag for the second stage of the procedure. I was advised to opt for the pessary induced termination to allow the pregnancy to expel naturally so that the foetus could be sent for genetic testing.

One thing they don't prepare you for when you terminate a pregnancy at 12 weeks is that you actually go through a mini labour with very real contractions. I remember writhing in pain on the bed every few minutes and struggling to get my head around how life could be so cruel.

I couldn't look at what had left my body, choosing instead to cover the bedpan with some handtowels as I called in the midwife to take it away. I had hoped we could go home as soon as the process was finished but the paperwork was endless with registration forms, release forms, consent forms etc. I was asked if I wanted to name the baby and I was offered some keep sakes which somehow felt inappropriate. I was sad but I also felt a huge wave of guilt for indulging in my sadness when other women lose their babies much later than I did. I didn't feel my pain was significant enough to warrant special treatment. I just wanted to go home and grieve in peace.

After a few weeks we were called in for the results of the genetic testing. The baby had Edwards Syndrome. One of the three trisomies they vaguely mention at the start of pregnancy. Between 90-95% of babies with the condition do not make it to their first birthday.

The weeks and months that followed were very difficult. It felt like there was a huge void in my life. I didn't want to talk about it but I didn't want to talk about anything else. Each week I would think about how many weeks pregnant I 'should' be and what I might be doing if fate has served us a different hand. I could feel the patience of those close to me waning. "Is she still not over it?" I could imagine people saying, and so I withdrew from friends for a little while out of misplaced paranoia.

Over time, that pain has lessened to a point where it feels like another life. They say that after every storm comes a rainbow and we were blessed with ours in October 2019. But more about that later...