Where to begin?

Writing is important to me, sometimes for me to make sense of things or to get things out of my system. But this is the first time I’ve written about the loss of a baby. I actually hate the phrase ‘lost a baby’ – I haven’t misplaced one. I also hate the word ‘miscarriage’ as if it’s simply an unsuccessful outcome.

I count myself very lucky to have two amazing children who are 9 and 11. I always wanted children, and to have them relatively young, and I was 29 when I had my son. The relationship I was in, though, was horrific. Trying for children was not easy with him, for reasons I don’t need to go into, and my son arrived because of IUI – in utero insemination. Somehow I conceived my daughter naturally but I don’t even remember taking a test or seeing it. I just don’t have babies easily in my mind.

One of my best friends became my boyfriend – a surprise to me but not my children who had always wanted him in their lives. We hadn’t been officially together more than a few months when a chance conversation with another friend revealed that he’s always wanted kids. This was a complete surprise to me and as soon as I knew, I also knew that I wanted to have a child with him. In a way, this was complete madness as I had hyperemesis gravidarum (extreme morning sickness) with both my children and the idea of putting myself through that again….Well, it’s crazy, but I could see how important it was to my partner and so I volunteered to do it again.

We did try naturally for a few months but I soon found it very stressful – it brought up old memories of what it is like for me to have a baby. So we went to a fertility clinic where they told me that my hormone levels were low (as expected with my age). We *could* get pregnant naturally, but our chances were very low.  They recommended IUI.

I was very positive about IUI and the clinic, as that was where my son had been conceived first time. But this a different experience. One missed opportunity – they scanned too late when my follicles had collapsed – one failed IUI and then one successful one. It felt like I’d spent the whole summer traipsing in and out to be scanned or have blood tests, and inject myself and take drugs that made me feel ill. I knew before the pregnancy test that I was pregnant because at 3 weeks (and so really only 1 & 1/2 weeks from implantation) I was already throwing up. I then spent the next month just about getting through teaching. It was just like my previous experience of being pregnant – horrid.

We had an early 7 week scan and because it was during half term we were all there – my partner and my two children and obviously me. I knew what I was going to see – a tiny kidney bean with a heart beating away. I’d seen it with my son. So I was really excited and keen to see the person in miniature who I’d been talking to for weeks before.

The clinic experience had not been as good as when I’d had my son there. Mistakes had been made, blood had been taken badly, information had not been passed on. Nothing major, but not a great service. I had already resolved to say all this once we’ve got this scan out of the way – I hadn’t wanted anything to affect it.

The kids were reading books, and my partner was next to me while the nurse began the scan. Completely out of the blue – with no warning, no preparation, no nothing – she said ‘There’s nothing there, your womb’s completely empty – look’.

That was the moment when something fractured in my mind (& my body). It felt like an electric shock – my body went completely cold, my heart was pounding and I stopped processing everything.

The nurse then asked me if I was sure I was pregnant and what did the tests I’d done at home say? I was totally numb at this point – I did cry, but not as myself. I absolutely did not want to be there and to listen to her. She made me do a pregnancy test, telling me it would probably show anything straight away. In fact, it came up instantly and so I had to have my bloods taken. As she did so she said that I would obviously have to stop taking the progesterone supplements, which had been supporting the pregnancy (obviously) and then we were sent home.

That afternoon, being with my children who were very sad about the baby, and then waiting to hear – that was surreal. When the blood result came through it showed my pregnancy hormone (HG) as really high and so we had to then speak to my doctor to arrange to go into the Early Pregnancy Clinic at Addenbrooke’s Hospital.

We went the next day where the scan experience could not have been more different. Even though they knew what they would see, and I knew it too (though I secretly hoped that maybe I had two wombs and the baby was just hiding), they were kind and considerate and compassionate. The sonographer held my hand to tell me that she could see something but that it had stopped developing. She cried with me, and then let me sob my heart out in a private room. My bloods were dropping but not by much and I had to go in every day to be monitored. Somehow we did things with the children the next few days. The Monday, 4 days after, was upsetting because I stopped feeling sick. Then on the Tuesday, unfortunately on 31st October, a day I cannot possibly ever forget, I had to go in early because I was suddenly in a lot of pain and feeling unwell. They decided I needed an emergency operation to check my tubes.

I had a laparoscopy that afternoon. It turns out that my tubes were OK – not an ectopic pregnancy as thought. There was something in the womb – ‘the product of conception’ as it says in the clinical notes – and this was also removed. I also had internal bleeding, which was the cause of pain and feeling awful. At that point, I felt pretty good! I’d survived an operation, there *WAS* a pregnancy – my womb was not empty – and I could only get better after this right? Wrong. The day after I came out of hospital I felt unwell. First, with a heavy cold and then with labyrinthitis and then total exhaustion and nausea that despite many, many blood tests, was unexplained. I should have been able to go back to work within a few days. Instead, I was laid out for weeks – unable to get out of bed until 2pm if I was lucky. Not able to work and so also not earning any money, as I’m self-employed. Not able to see people or go out for walks.

How I deal with things – life in general – is to eat well, exercise, get out in the fresh air, and see friends. I couldn’t do any of those things, except the eating bit. I was stuck at home, mostly too tired to read. Stuck with daytime TV and just existing, rather than living.

My doctor, I have to say, was very unhelpful. I was so distressed about still being ill but she dismissed it. She never asked me about what had happened – she only knew the medical facts. It was entirely clear to me that my unexplained exhaustion (not just tiredness, as she liked to call it) was obviously because of what had happened. Telling me I needed to have it for 6 months before it was regarded as chronic fatigue was not helpful when they were such an obvious cause.

Letting my students down caused me significant stress and distress; I love my job and have never had a day off teaching in 7 years. But I felt that people were judging me, disbelieving that I was ill, constantly telling me that I looked well (even though I’d been in bed all day). I tried to have psychotherapy but it got me nowhere. A good day, being able to sit up by noon and possibly managing a small walk, would then see 4 or 5 or even more bad days. My improvement was in continuous fluctuation with no obvious sign that I was actually just getting better. There was no real improvement.

Then a friend suggested that I had PTSD. They’d had it themselves (from an actual war zone). Another friend told me about EMDR. I researched both and suddenly, my world did make sense. EMDR also seemed to make a lot of sense to me. My doctor, again, wouldn’t really listen, so I referred myself to an NHS psychologist. We had a phone referral session – I didn’t think I’d like talking to someone over the phone, but it was fine. They confirmed that I most certainly did have PTSD, that I was really high on a scale of it affecting my life, that EMDR would be great for me, but the waiting list was over a year (eek). Thankfully my partner has insurance at work and this was covered on it. All I needed was a letter of referral from my doctor, to get on and have this treatment and not use NHS funds, but it took weeks for me to get it. Fighting for something while you were ill is pretty bloody awful, but I got it in the end. The day I got the letter, I sorted my first EMDR session out for the week afterwards.

It is 5 months since I had the operation, and I’ve now had two EMDR sessions. I am finally able to start processing things and write about how I feel (hopefully with shorter posts)! I hope this will help me to begin to heal.