I don't really know what to say. This has been the toughest week of my life. I have been so moved by all the comments left on my blog. The empathy and the kind words from everyone has been a great support. Thank you.
I never even realized how much I already loved this baby until I was told 'something's wrong'. Something's wrong. I will never forget that for the rest of my life. I felt like my heart had been ripped out my chest. Where's the heart beat? I asked Dr. B. He shook his head and turned off the machine. I'm sorry, he said. I screamed for my mum who was sitting beside me. I began shouting, screaming as the dreadful reality became clear. My baby. My baby. The shock was all consuming. No sound came out when I cried anymore. It was though everything was happening in slow motion. I will never forget that day. The smell of the room. The clothes I wore. My telephone call to Mr. T. The tears, the pain, the helplessness.
I don't know how I managed to get home. I don't know how I put one foot in front of the other to walk out the clinic. I don't know how I kept breathing at all. If it wasn't for my mum holding me, crying with me and soothing me I wouldn't have managed to have coped at all. I will never forget that awful day. Mr. T was incredible. He booked a flight home for that evening and jumped in a cab that cost him 600 Euros to get to the airport. The whole time he was on the phone to me, consoling me, telling me he loved me and that he was going to be home soon. God knows what our phone bill will be this month. That night I cried myself to sleep, still wearing my clothes, surrounded by tissues and clutching my mum. When Mr. T arrived I felt a strange mixture of relief but also a surge of bitter sorrow and despair - I was so sorry to have to bring him bad news. So sorry that it was this bad news that had brought him back to me.
A silent miscarriage. How cruel. My body believed I was pregnant as I was still carrying the baby. So all the morning sickness, the sore boobs, all the pregnancy signs were still there. They made me believe everything was okay. But all this time. For nearly a month, my baby's heart has stopped beating and he or she had stopped growing. I had continued to feel nauseous, to vomit and felt so secure that my pregnancy was progressing well. How was I supposed to know? That hurts and scares me the most. That I had no idea something was wrong - what had I done? What had I been exposed to? Why had my body not recognized something was wrong? Why was there no bleeding, no cramping? I ached so much knowing that my baby was still there. Floating inside of me. But dead. It was agonizing. When would my body eventually recognize that something had gone wrong and start the process of bleeding out? Could I cope with the wait until then, not to mention the physical and emotional pain of bleeding out? What
if an infection was developing, what if I needed to have a d & c right away? I decided that whatever was needed I had to go back to the UK. I wanted to be seen by a specialist and if a d & c was what I needed then I wanted it done in the UK.
Getting the flight home was so hard. My mum and Mr. T surrounded and protected me as much as possible. A hat saved me from brushing my hair and large dark glasses allowed me to cry freely and hide my swollen eyes. Airports during the Easter holidays are full of happy families. It was like baby central, everywhere I looked, it was so damn hard. The Moroccan airport officials were so kind. As we stood in the immigration line, I was surrounded by babies and infants. The lines were long and moving slow. Mr. T saw I was losing it. He found an immigration official and had a gentle word with him in Arabic. Before I knew it we were called into a small room, where they stamped our passports and then led us into the departure area, away from the long queues. As we walked out, the immigration guy said to Mr. T in Arabic, 'tell your wife to be brave. To be patient.' It still moves me that in the midst of all that bureaucracy, that sterile official environment, behind someone's uniform and glasses, their compassion and humanity shone out.
My amazing dad had been on the phone all day with OBGYNs in the vicinity of the airport and had got an emergency appointment for me. I went straight from the airport in London to the hospital and the consultant confirmed everything Dr. B had said. She suspected that I might have a fibroid. But the uterus changes during pregnancy and so it was hard to tell - we will have to wait until my uterus is back to normal before we can know anything. We discussed my options and she booked me in for a d & c after the weekend.
Over the weekend I tried to bring on the bleed naturally. I was scared of the d & c and thought that it might be better if my body did it naturally. I went running, did power yoga, lifted weights and drank cupfuls of raspberry leaf tea. My mum stimulated the reflexology points of my uterus on my feet. It was the most difficult thing emotionally. Everything I was doing felt so wrong. After trying so hard to keep the baby safe, to do the right thing during my first trimester, I was now doing the opposite. I decided to switch off and not think anymore, just do. By the time the d & c appointment came around I had started to have a slight bleed but nothing much and no cramping.
So I had the d & c yesterday. Or what they call the Evacuation of the Products of Conception. Ugh. Awful name. I have to admit I was so scared. Scared of the pain. Scared that something would go wrong. That I might be scarred, that my womb would be damaged and then there would no chance of ever having children (we had a big discussion with the OBGYN and made her sign a paper that stated this would be a guided d & c and not done blindly. I think I will post more on this later.) The tears ran down my cheeks as I lay there in preparation room. The general anesthesia was a welcome relief. When I awoke, I remembered where I was and why I was there, I felt the soreness in my womb, and I cried unconsolably. It's over. My baby is really gone now.
I still feel the ache in my womb. The emptiness and sense of loss is palpable. It makes my whole body ache. I wish I could have known whether my baby was a boy or a girl. I wish I could have given him or her a name. I wish we could have known each other. Mr. T tells me the baby is in a better place now. That one day we will be reunited. He tells me that God tests those he loves the most. And that special blessings will come to mothers who have lost children. He tells me that the baby always belonged to God. And there is a comfort in his words. A kind of solace. It makes it easier to say goodbye. To let go.
As I lie in bed recovering from the procedure, I try to understand. But there is no comprehending, just hurt and pain. But there is also love. Lots of love. Love from my family, my friends, even the strangers who have reached out to me in this difficult time. And most of all love from my husband. My dear husband. Who is suffering the pain and sadness too but who has been so strong for me. He holds me up when I feel like I am falling. He comforts me in the middle of the night, when I wake up crying. He has done so much for me these last few days when I have been completely lost. Just when I think I can't love him anymore than I do, I find a whole new deeper level of love and admiration. He truly is my everything. To my husband - thank you. I love you. You are right. Together we can get through anything.
I have lit candles before for others' losses. Today this candle is for my angel. You will be in my heart forever. I love you.
