Pregnant 2-3 weeks! This is the result we normally want to see on the test. The amount of times I have peed on a stick and we have waited with baited breath to see the result.
What many don’t realise is that when you miscarry or have a pregnancy loss, it takes time for the pregnancy hormone to leave your body. The HCG hormone will still be prevalent for up to 11 weeks depending on how many weeks pregnant you were.
We did another test today with a heavy heart. It’s a test that you know you are going to pass but it’s going to be a false result. It’s a surreal and abstract part of our fertility journey. Normally we would hope and pray that we would see Pregnant or two lines however on this occasion we are hoping for Not Pregnant.
We need my body to return to a normality so that we can think about our future. If we want to try again naturally or undertake our second IVF cycle then we need my body to recognise it is no longer pregnant.
2-3 weeks pregnant
It’s heartbreaking when you are grieving the loss of another baby. We heard the words sorry there is no heartbeat after we had seen the heartbeat only two weeks earlier. Our minds and hearts are processing another loss and we are very aware of our situation but it’s like my body still hasn’t got the memo.
Sometimes I feel so betrayed by my body. It holds onto the babies when they have died. The medication to induce labour doesn’t work. It seems so cruel that it’s so good at safeguarding our babies yet the heartbeats have stopped. This pregnancy test should be showing 1-2 weeks pregnant as we were 8 weeks pregnant this time when we found out the baby had died. This is deemed as an early miscarriage and the hormone should reduce quickly in my body.
As I have been pregnant on 2 out 4 occasions with twins the hormone has taken longer to reduce as it would have been high in a multiple pregnancy. We were carrying a singleton this time so my hormone levels should (according to medical professionals) reduce more rapidly.
In January 2020 after the surgery for our heterotopic pregnancy my hormone levels took nearly 4 weeks to disappear. This time appears to be going the same way.
So what does this mean? It means waiting! What we have learnt is that trying to conceive, the wait to test, falling pregnant and losing babies involves more waiting then we ever anticipated and usually completely out of our control.
My body will not ovulate all the time it believes it is still pregnant. We can not get pregnant naturally while my body believes it’s pregnant still. We have to wait for my next menstrual cycle before we can undertake IVF again if that is what we are choosing to do. The medical professionals would also recommend waiting for the next menstrual cycle to start trying to conceive either way.
Most importantly it is very draining both physically and emotionally. People are very aware that pregnant woman’s hormones are “everywhere”. They don’t judge and they understand but people don’t recognise that losing your baby and still presenting as pregnant means you are contending with both grief and pregnancy hormones.
I know some of my closest friends had no idea that we would still get a pregnant result after losing and they weren’t aware that the HCG hormone stays around for sometime after. As I always say we know what we know. If you have not been around people that have lost babies or if you have never lost yourself and because pregnancy loss is not talked about as it’s still such a taboo subject then how are you to know?
So let me help you to know and understand this…
You might find me quick to snap, irritable, a sobbing mess, quiet, angry or managing. Please be kind and remember my body is pregnant, my mind is full and heart is empty!
It is very hard for anyone to truly walk in someone else’s shoes. A distant friend of mine contacted me this week to share her experience and thank me for finding the strength to write mine down. It touched me deeply and got me thinking.
Our experiences are very different and I will never fully understand her situation and even if it happened to me, it would be different as we have different life experiences. So I thought that what if instead of walking in their shoes how about we walk with them. When their experiences are life changing or difficult to relate to how about we find the courage to still walk with them.
So, I’m going to explain myself by asking you to walk with me. I have to go outside. My adorable dog is looking at me with those big brown expectant eyes. She wants a walk. You see life goes on, even though mine has stopped as our 6th baby just died.
Before I can even open the door and face the world I have the struggle of what to wear and whether to put any make up on. The chances are nothing is going to fit me or look ok as I’ve put on pregnancy weight and my body hasn’t returned to its normal. My boobs have remained bigger because I was pregnant yet there are no babies for me to cradle in my arms. Does this matter you might ask? I just don’t want to draw any unwanted attention to myself. Do I put make up on? The mascara will probably end up running down my face making me look like something from a horror film!
The sun is shining outside so everyone seems to be in a happy and talkative mood! Fear and dread overcomes me. Maybe I should put on my sunglasses to hide my red, blotchy and narrowed eyes from all the crying.
Flick (our dog) is getting excited. She knows the routine…I get ready and then we go out! Her tail is wagging and she has become playful. Oh those eyes! My grief has to be put on hold when everyday tasks need to be carried out. I need to wear the mask, put on the expected facade. So I open the front door to the world and we leave the house. Are you still walking with me?
When my mum died I found I would walk for miles and miles yet losing my babies I find I don’t want to be out too long. The grief is very different and my confidence has taken a battering. We will walk to the field then come home.
A neighbour that knows us stops to say hello. She knows about the loss of our identical twins as I had a bump and then it was gone. She is kind hearted and sent her condolences at that time. She is keen for us to fall pregnant again. She doesn’t know that we have had three more pregnancies since then. She doesn’t know about the IVF twins, the operation due to heterotopic pregnancy. She doesn’t know about the biochemistry miscarriage or the fact that I am miscarrying now.
She opens her mouth to speak. A wave of anxiety runs through my body. I know what is coming. The words bounce around in the air…”you have a glow about you, anything to announce”? I curse those pregnancy hormones that have made my hair look good and my skin clear (mainly due to sustaining from alcohol).
The internal dilemma strikes again. Do I say “actually I’m currently miscarrying”? Or do I deny this baby and the others with a simple “Not yet”? I decide to tell the truth as I stand for honesty and openness about pregnancy loss. Her face drops and she passes on her sympathy. There is a haste to end the conversation and move on with her day. She walks away and I wonder if she will want to talk to me again or will she cross the road to avoid me.
Hot tears form in my eyes and I fight to keep them there and not have them running down my cheeks. A wailing banshee is not what I want to show in public! I hold my shoulders back and find the courage to walk a little further. Are you still walking with me?
I pass a mother walking down the street. She is stressed and reprimanding her children. She curses lockdown and homeschooling as she passes adding the fly away comment “children who’d have them”! She laughs and smiles as she walks away.
The tears start to trickle down my face. My inner voice is screaming “I want them and would do anything to have my own”! I wonder if she thinks I’m really rude as I can’t bring myself to smile or respond. I scurry along wiping my tears away. Are you still walking with me?
Flick is oblivious and desperate to get to the field with her ball. Her energy and fluffiness gains attention from doting people as they pass with cheerful good mornings and sweet remarks about her. I smile and respond but I think to myself what is so good about this morning? Are you still walking with me?
At last we reach the field. It has felt like an eternity when in reality it is a 10 minute walk from my house. I’m hopeful that the big open field will result in less encounters. My hope disappears almost immediately when I bump into some regular dog walkers that have become friends.
I find the strength to stop and talk. I put on that facade that they have come to expect, the happy go lucky girl that I usually am. We talk about the mundane as normal. We ask after each other but I don’t mention this recent loss. I feel like I’m betraying the baby that is still inside me. I feel emotionally exhausted and I’ve only been out half hour! We say our goodbyes and move on. Are you still walking with me?
As I walk around and the dog runs after her ball we turn a corner and to come face to face with a woman we know well. She is heavily pregnant with her first baby. She is kind hearted and will be a wonderful mum. She knows about our identical twins as we met her when I was clearly pregnant with them. Almost two years ago on a similar sunny day.
She is so nice she avoids talking about her pregnancy. She is expecting in less than a month so the bump is literally the elephant in the room! From somewhere inside I find the ability to ask about her pregnancy and how she is feeling. I ask about the plans with her birth considering lockdown. I show a genuine interest because she is a lovely woman. We say goodbye and I turn another corner.
That’s when it happens! The wailing banshee has escaped. The grief and desire to be a biological mum (to living babies) has taken over. I’m going to have to walk the more sheltered and back way home. I don’t want people to stop me and ask me if I’m ok. I don’t want to talk about our losses with people that may say flippant comments with good intentions but have no true understanding of our experiences and losses.
It feels like a long hard walk to get home. I’m embarrassed and annoyed with myself. I want to ask you, are you still walking with me?
I get to the door of my house and walk inside with huge relief. I’m going to take of my make up off and put on some comfortable clothes. I’m going to stay indoors now as I don’t want to face the everyday world. I probably won’t talk to anyone now because it’s easier. I’ll try and find some chores to fill my day as I don’t want to sit around feeling low and crying, although that would be very easy to do!
You see, you may not be able to walk in my shoes and I may not be able to walk in yours but we can always walk together side by side during the darkest and hardest of days. So I ask you again will you still walk with me?
On Saturday I ended up back at the hospital on my own. The medical management of our miscarriage appeared not to have worked.
I had been struggling the days before with people who contacted me with kindness and well intentioned messages or meanings. However sometimes people say or suggest something without truly understanding the situation or just trying to be kind with something to say.
I am good at self reflection and I was very aware that by Saturday my fuse was ready to blow inappropriately at one person who was the next to say something (the straw to break the camels back).
I was not expecting the next person to say something would be a professional nurse working in the early pregnancy unit (EPU) of the hospital.
I had found the courage and strength to return to the hospital on my own to face whatever plan they had next. I never understand who designs the layout of hospitals and it is a horrible path to walk to the EPU.
Firstly you walk past the maternity ward often bumping into the new parents leaving with their bundle of joy. Then on the other side you pass the maternity ultrasound department which is one big glass window so you can see all the expectant mums with their bumps. Eventually you arrive at the EPU who often support women like myself who are currently miscarrying. It’s like a continuous slap in the face to get to this unit!
Due to Covid19 I had to ring the unit from outside the doors and a nurse came to them to allow me in. As the smiling nurse met me her first question was “how many weeks pregnant are you”? I wondered how this could be the first question in a unit that deals regularly with miscarriage. Surely the opening question should be something like “why have you come today”?
I surprisingly held myself together and the nurse in fact was extremely caring and considerate after that question which was swiftly followed with many apologies. She went off to speak with a consultant and get a plan for me, while I quietly congratulated myself for not screaming in her face and somehow holding it together.
Whilst sitting in the waiting area I overheard the nurse talking about someone she was discussing how unbelievable the woman’s pregnancy losses had been and what an awful ordeal she had been through. I instantly thought to myself that I needed to meet this woman as maybe we could support each other. That’s when the nurse said that the woman was in the waiting area. I was the only woman in that area, she had been talking about me.
It surprised me a little that the two nurses who had dealt with me (both with 20 years experience) were moved by what Neil and I had lost and just how many different pregnancy losses we had endured. They even said this to me and both seemed determined to help us as much as possible if we were to fall pregnant again.
I felt relieved to have a plan going forward but I felt anxious that this baby was still inside. Similar to Kora and Ava my mind and heart had accepted the reality that there was no longer a heartbeat but my body didn’t seem to want to let go.
I was given a progesterone tablet to take which helps tell your body you are no longer pregnant. I was asked to return on Monday for four more vaginal pessaries to repeat the same process only this time they wanted me to stay still for 2 hours once they were inserted.
The progesterone tablet started something as my body began to bleed heavily. After attending hospital Monday I came home and followed the instructions. It’s a harsh reality to put them inside you to end your pregnancy. With Kora and Ava and the heterotopic pregnancy everything was carried out with medical professionals or by them. This was the first time we had to manage it ourselves in our home environment.
The idea is that the pessaries work by preparing your cervix and making your womb contract to help push out the pregnancy (like labour). Apparently it can be very painful which is why they also give you painkillers.
I say apparently as on both occasions this time using the pessaries I have felt nothing. Most women have quite strong period-like pain and cramps and some find the process very painful, especially as the “pregnancy tissue is expelled”.
Talking about the baby…Neil and I had no idea if my body had passed the baby or not. I had passed 3 larger than normal blood clots but nothing was obvious. As I had no pain we were unsure if the medication was even working. Therefore it was back to the hospital I went.
I had a scan on Thursday. The sonographer and nurse both informed me that there was no sign of “product”. By this they mean the baby, sac and placenta. It’s another medical term that is banded about although the nurse did apologise before saying it, which makes me wonder if we really should review the medical terminology now we are in 2020 and understand how awful pregnancy loss is to the parents.
So, you’ve guessed it…we had obviously flushed our baby down the toilet. I’m personally still not sure how I feel about this knowledge, it is still very early days and both my body and heart are trying to heal and grieve. It does however add to my self worth and confidence battle as my mind screams at me “see, you don’t deserve to be a mother as you couldn’t even distinguish your baby”!
We believe the medication didn’t work as it is very unusual for the woman not to have pain. We think my body took care of the loss to the point where it did it naturally. We have learnt so much again, a different type of pregnancy loss and a different experience and outcome.
The loss is still as overwhelming and heartbreaking as the others. We had three scans and saw our babies heartbeat so no matter whether you call it a fetal pole, product, pregnancy tissue or non viable pregnancy it was and will always be our baby.
We were expectant parents who felt a little safer in the knowledge that our little speck had a heartbeat. We embraced what we thought was our rainbow baby.
We made plans again, we talked about when we would feel ready to prepare and purchase things, we talked about another sober Christmas and the possibility of the babies arrival being earlier during the festive time. We all protected me as an expectant mother during Covid19. We shared our joy with those closest to us.
Even when those niggling fears crept into our heads we pushed them aside with love and hope that this time we would bring our very own living bundle of joy home.
It’s Father’s Day and I wanted to take time out to acknowledge my husband, a dad to his beautiful 21 year old daughter Amy, a foster father to Alissa and a father to 6 angels.
I have learnt through our fertility journey just how difficult it is for the man. I believe as a society most people automatically empathise with the woman who is miscarrying. I understand that as the woman I have carried the baby and now my body has to either deliver the babies or miscarry them but they were also Neil’s babies.
We once went for a second scan when we had our heterotopic pregnancy and the student nurse tried to comfort me by holding my hand. Neil was pushed into a corner so I politely asked the student if he could let go so I could hold my husbands hand.
When we talk about our pregnancy loss or when we inform friends and family, most contact me with a sympathetic message. This is of course with the best of intentions but often (not always) Neil is forgotten.
We have been in hospital and professionals have looked me in the eyes and said how sorry they are for my loss. Neil can be sat next to me yet the message is directed to me the mother.
I have carried our 6 angels and every time I have known I am pregnant before my missed period. I have also known when my body changes and I fear the loss and those words sorry there is no heartbeat(S). I have recognised that my sense of smell has decreased, or my hunger has gone and other little tell tale signs that I might have lost another baby.
I try to talk openly to Neil with how I am feeling as it must be so difficult for him in our early pregnancy. He does not have changes to his body or any pregnancy signs that gives him an indication of how the pregnancy is progressing (other than my hormones and moods)!
When we were sorting the funeral for Kora and Ava the paperwork that had to be signed at the hospital only had a space for the mother to sign. When we questioned this the hospital stated it was because there is always a mother and she is always known.
It often feels like Neil is the outsider in our pregnancies. This has been even more impacted on our most recent loss during Covid19 where he has not been allowed to attend any appointments with me. I can’t begin to imagine how hard it has been on him to not be by my side when dealing yet another loss.
When we think we have experienced so much with pregnancy loss, fertility, IVF etc we are surprised that we face yet more different challenges or circumstances.
Our relationship has evolved from mad nights out and dinner dates to hovering over the toilet with the loo brush in hand dissecting what has fallen out of my vagina, trying to determine if it is in fact the sac and baby.
Our relationship has changed from sneaking to the toilet to let off wind so he doesn’t hear or smell it, to him sat by my side at the scene of what looked like something from a horror film after delivering Kora and Ava. I question how this man still finds me a sexually viable candidate!
The strength and courage of this man amazes me everyday. His openness and willingness to support in the most difficult of times. The way he approaches his fears of another pregnancy or another loss. The way he makes sure he is around to carry out an injection (I think he secretly likes doing that to me) or frees his time to attend more appointments. His often silent but strong approach which shines with hope and positivity where others would faulter.
So on a day when others recognised with their children the Father’s, I want to shout out to all the Fathers’ to angels, to the men that also go through fertility journeys and pregnancy losses. I want to recognise all the men wanting to be fathers and possibly struggling and to the men who for some fertility reason can not be a father. To the men that adopt or foster you truly are appreciated and special.
I want to shout out to my amazing husband Neil who is not only a fantastic biological father but also a foster carer and a father to angels.
It wasn’t a pill to swallow and apparently we still had more to learn about pregnancy loss even after everything we have been through and even though this was our fourth loss.
Getting ready to go to hospital everything seemed surreal. I chose a summer dress that I thought to myself I will probably never wear again. I applied my mascara and it crossed my mind that there was no point as I would most definitely cry it off. I guess I was just going through the usual mundane getting ready routine.
When I arrived I walked through the doors on my own. I have never had to face this on my own as I always had my wonderful husband by my side. However Covid19 meant that I had to summon the strength and bravery to do this alone. While Neil found the strength to stay in the car not knowing what was happening.
I got to the desk and the woman asked if she could help me. I couldn’t speak, my throat contracted and tears forced their way out. No matter how hard I tried my name would not leave my lips. A kind lady sat nearby showed me where the tissues were and when my name finally escaped my mouth I took a seat as instructed.
I sat quietly sobbing too embarrassed to get up and get another tissue and hoping that they would call me quickly.
Fifteen minutes passed before I was asked to come through for the scan. The sonographer finished the scan and stated “I’m sorry it’s not good news today, I can’t find a heartbeat in the chest”. I found this very strange as I already knew this and I wondered if they had actually listened to anything I had just said.
What came next though was a battle I didn’t expect. She told me my “fetal pole” (baby, to most human beings) measured only 4mm and therefore shows I was 5 weeks pregnant. Due to this they wanted me to go away and return for a scan in a weeks time as they do not carry out a medically controlled miscarriage under 7mm.
I was 8 weeks pregnant. We had seen the baby’s very strong heartbeat at 6 weeks 1 day. We had been to three scans. We had the confirmed due date of the 6th of January. We have a recording of our babies heartbeat. I explained this and the fact that I seem to have small babies (Kora and Ava measured at 13 weeks when they were 16 weeks when they passed) but I was ushered into the butterfly room to await the nurse.
I knew that they were going by the measurements and that they would be concerned that I had my dates wrong. A baby at 5 weeks does not have a heartbeat as the heart doesn’t develop until 6 weeks. Therefore if I had my dates wrong then they could be medically miscarrying a successful pregnancy.
My frustration was boiling. We have been trying to conceive for 2 years, we have had four pregnancies in under 2 years, we have lost 6 babies. Did they really think I would have got my dates wrong or that I was mistaken about the heartbeat we had seen?
The nurse (Jane) was very sympathetic and understanding and decided to get a consultant to talk to me. I was hesitant about being in the Early Pregnancy Unit as our experiences before have not been positive and I have self discharged early on two occasions because of the treatment received.
However, both the nurse and consultant were very professional and listened intently. They went against their protocol after we called the private clinic to get my ultrasound report. This report showed our baby had a heartbeat therefore confirming that the pregnancy had stopped and I was in fact 8 weeks. I no longer needed to walk around for a week with our dead baby inside me, they were in agreement to give me the medication.
I left the hospital after 2 and a half hours with the medication in hand. When we lost Kora and Ava I had to take a pill that I swallowed. However as this baby was under 12 weeks (first trimester) I had been given 4 tablets to insert up my vagina to induce the uterus and miscarry the sac and baby.
I inserted the tablets at home and laid down for 1 hour. I have had to phone the hospital (with no avail) as 3 of the 4 tablets came out an hour later. Apparently this is ok and normal. We are unsure if anything has worked as I am not in pain as they stated and I have had minimal bleeding. We are trying to contact the hospital to find out what is happening. In the meantime our thoughts are running away with us. We are consumed with yet more grief. We have no idea if what I have passed is our baby.
There was a mass that passed after 1 and half hours. It was much smaller that the nurse described so we are not sure if that was our baby I flushed down the toilet.
You might be wondering what decisions Neil and I had to make and I have briefly mentioned one already. We had to have one of the most difficult conversations.
Previously we have had to decide whether we wanted a visual autopsy or full autopsy on our identical twins. We had to decide if we wanted them to be buried or cremated. We had to decide what we wanted in the service and what music we would play.
These were extremely difficult decisions to be made and ones that no parents would ever chose to make. Here we were again with more difficult decisions.
This time our decision was and I quote from the leaflet we were given, “You may decide to simply flush the toilet…flushing it down the toilet may seem right or it may not. You might decide to bury the remains at home, in the garden or in a planter with flowers or a shrub”.
So that was the decision this time…do we flush our baby down the toilet or do we scoop it out and do something else? It is a conversation and decision we never expected to have. It felt inhumane to flush our baby down the toilet but the thought of opening up the sac and finding the baby not knowing what we would see was also traumatic.
We agreed we would make our decision when we saw what came out if we could even tell. I think both Neil and I are surprised with just how many difficult topics and decisions we have had to make in our fertility journey. When we have been overwhelmed in grief we have had to find the strength to deal with conversations and questions you can’t even begin to imagine.
Another decision we have had to make is in relation to our future and the embryos we have frozen and waiting. We were offered by the IVF clinic to have them tested (for a further £2000+). The tests will tell us if they will be a positive or negative pregnancy test and if there are any chromosome problems. 90% of miscarriages in the first trimester are due to chromosome problems. (Problems is not the word I personally chose to use it is the medical explanation).
The hospital have now also referred me to have my blood tested. As it could be my blood that has a problem and stops me carrying full term. They also said that now we have suffered 4 loses they will see us instantly as soon as we know we are pregnant and they will scan us every two weeks and give me medication to support the pregnancy up to 16 weeks. This includes something stronger than aspirin and pessaries to insert for 16 weeks.
Of course it is comforting to know that we will be looked after if we were to fall pregnant again and that we have options. Finding another £2000 pounds now after Covid19 is an impossible task. Yet the anxiety it would alleviate and the hope it would bring is undoubtedly the best option. Even though the testing goes against my nature and doesn’t sit comfortably with me.
In the meantime our hearts are broken and we are still miscarrying this baby. We need time to grieve and physically cope with this baby before we can think now about our future. We understand why professionals are giving us options and information and are grateful for this.
What we do know is that we are not ready to give up our dream of being biological parents together but we just feel we can’t deal with this heartache again, we don’t know if we have the strength, we can’t face a further loss.
It’s 4am in the morning and I had been laying awake in bed with sudden overwhelming bursts of grief and tears. I’m going into hospital today to take a pill to end our pregnancy.
We had an 8 week scan yesterday and it showed our fears that the baby’s heart had stopped. We had only recently seen the heartbeat on the 6 week 1 day scan. The sonographer detected the “very strong heartbeat” even on an external ultrasound – something very rare.
Yet as we walked into the scan yesterday I had prepared my husband to expect the worst but hope for the best. I saw instantly that there was no heartbeat. I guess when you’ve had as many scans as us you can recognise the loss of the heartbeat and I say that without patronising the training required to preform ultrasounds.
I hadn’t felt pregnant and I kept saying how different I felt this time around. I told myself it was because I was used to carrying twins but to Neil and a few others very close to my heart I voiced my fears.
Of course the reassurance from them was to be expected. “Don’t worry, it’s important not to stress”, “you are bound to feel this way after your losses”. It was all said with upmost genuine intentions to comfort. I too was looking for the reassurance I think even though my body and heart was screaming at me that something felt wrong.
Neil and I wanted to believe that this was our unexpected rainbow baby. At only 13.6% chance of conceiving naturally we had yet again hit the low odds and were indeed pregnant. As hard as it was to be pregnant with the knowledge we now have we didn’t want to ever lose hope.
We shared our news early with a handful of special people as we know now that there is no safe point in a pregnancy. As I mentioned in a previous blog, maybe if we announced pregnancies early then miscarriage would be spoken about more. After all as the sonographer told us yesterday 40% of pregnancies result in loss. A statistic Neil and I know only to well.
8 weeks may medically be insignificant or non viable but to Neil and I, it had been a rollercoaster of emotions and felt like our dreams were coming true. If we could defy the odds in falling pregnant then maybe we could carry this baby full term and give birth to a living, breathing bundle of joy.
Yet knowing the harsh and heartbreaking realities we were hesitant to allow our dreams to wander too far into the future. We spoke about the due date of January 6th 2021 but it was often with “IF, the baby arrives on…”. This pregnancy was full of IFS.
Family and friends would of course understand our “IFS” but the reassurance would flow anyway. If I mentioned the lack of signs of pregnancy then they would kindly point out the ones I was showing.
Unfortunately their reassurance was lost on me. We knew that if I took a pregnancy test it would show I was pregnant whether the baby’s heart was beating or not. We knew that the hcg hormone would still be in my body and therefore I could be getting headaches, spots and a slightly heightened sense of smell. We knew that we didn’t have to bleed to have lost this baby.
Yet, hearing those words…”I’m sorry there is no heartbeat” is no easier at 8 weeks as it was at nearly 17 weeks with Kora and Ava. It was no easier in January this year when we saw the heartbeat of our other twin baby only to know that it was going to be removed.
As I sit here, alone in tears writing this I wonder how much more Neil and I can take. We are not ready to give up on being biological parents together but the broken hearts and the loss does not get any easier.
This has probably been the toughest time to face a loss. There has been no comforting hugs or embraces from family or friends outside the household because of Covid19 and now I face going into hospital on my own. Neil is not allowed in with me when I have another scan and get the pill to swallow to end our pregnancy. I have never had to walk into the hospital without him by my side. We have always done this together.
I can not imagine how hard it is going to be on Neil to sit in the car on his own knowing where I am and what I’m doing. Pregnancy loss is already so hard for him when the sorry’s and affection are automatically showered over the woman carrying. This virus really does have such a cruel impact.
I want to say I’m sorry to any friends or family I haven’t told yet our baby’s heart is no longer beating. I just can’t face anymore “I’m sorry” or “I don’t know what to say” no matter how well intended they are or how much love is oozing through that phone. I don’t want to hear the accidental hurtful or thoughtless remarks that are said in haste. I don’t have the strength or courage to understand how difficult it is for you to say the right thing. I don’t have the energy to pacify you when you stubble through your well wishes. Please give us time to piece our shattered hearts back together.
We know how hard this is for some of our family and friends but right now I or maybe we need the safety of our bubble. We need to fight the bitterness and find the strength to carry on to face another day. My body needs time to lose the baby and repair. I need to find the strength to put that pill in my mouth again and of course the irony of this bitter pill to swallow is not lost on me.
I have never been an anxious person on the whole. I have the same small anxieties and worries as others but I would say I’m not a overly anxious person. That was until we lost our children.
As a sign language interpreter for the Deaf, I was given a sign name (a sign to use instead of spelling my name). The young people I worked with gave me the sign “whatever”. They thought of me as laid back and easy going.
When Neil and I started trying to conceive I had no preconceived ideas about falling pregnant or the length of time it might take. I knew we were older and I knew the average time to conceive was 2 years.
We didn’t constantly check when we were ovulating by testing nor did we check my temperature for the peak. We didn’t chart anything. We were aware of our window and we enjoyed ourselves both during, before and after. Our sexual life was about enjoying each other rather than doing the deed to make a baby.
We fell in our first month of trying. We took everything in our stride. Even when the consultant told us our pregnancy was high risk (meaning it could result in loss) I still believed everything would be fine. I thought that if I remained positive it would be a good thing as I was the one carrying our girls. My positivity would surely be a good thing for all of us.
We did lose our girls. Their heartbeats stopped at about 16 weeks and I delivered them at almost 19 weeks. They had moved so much in the sac they were sharing that they had tangled their cords and cut off their blood supply.
When we embarked on our IVF journey the medical professionals said to us that we were a very relaxed couple. Even after the loss of our girls and a bio chemistry miscarriage we still went into IVF with a positive mindset and calm nature.
I sometimes questioned whether I was deserving of live biological children as I would see on the forums the posts other couples would put up. I could see their desperation to become biological parents. I too wanted this more than anything however I wasn’t putting out crystals in the fertility moon and cleansing them with water. I was not eating pineapple cores or overloading myself with avocados (if this is your coping strategy then I am not judging).
We were told the grades of our embryos (I can’t even remember what they were) but unlike others we ignored this grading. We have seen people get very concerned about the grade and how good the embryo actually is. We asked the consultant if it was important and he said it will either stick or it won’t. They had said to us that our relaxed demeanour would put us in good stead, they believed we would fall pregnant with IVF.
As you know we were blessed with twins again (2 embryos implanted) however we miscarried one early as the other went into my Fallopian tube. This was now our 3rd pregnancy loss (5 babies) in under 2 years.
All our losses have been something that happened, a cruel act of nature. We did not lose our pregnancies because there was something medically wrong with them. We are in fact very fertile falling pregnant 4 times in 2 years.
People often say to us that we have been unlucky. I guess luck is how you perceive it. For me, I feel very lucky in comparison to others. We have fallen pregnant more than most couples in a small amount of time which tells us how fertile we are as a couple. We are not unlucky for having our girls.
We were blessed to have conceived identical twins. We were blessed and lucky to get to second trimester – no pregnancy is guaranteed. We were blessed to deliver our girls (some couples do not get this chance). We have been lucky to have 4 pregnancies. If we don’t get our rainbow baby then we have been blessed to be parents. We have become better, stronger people from our experiences.
The losses however is where I believe my anxiety increased. We wouldn’t be human if it didn’t have an affect on us. I now drive myself insane with the voice in my head. Even though I know that what I’m worried about is irrational I can’t help it. For example, I didn’t want Neil to swim in the sea in Egypt due to sharks. I was honestly worried he would get eaten by a shark. I know the chances are low but then I know throughout our fertility journey we have met every low statistic and chance (both in a positive and negative way).
My anxiety seems to be around the fear of losing people I love. I dream about my closet friend dying. I fear that I will lose Neil either by choice or death. I need more reassurance that he loves me now than ever before.
My heart sometimes jumps out of my chest with fear when I think or foresee something happening. I seem to react quicker to a situation believing the worse might happen. I have screamed at my fur baby when I thought she was headed towards the road when in fact she wasn’t.
The carefree woman I used to know has been replaced with a woman that fights to be that way again. A woman that hears the inner voice and has to challenge the fear it brings with rationality.
Although I still believe we will have the opportunity to be biological parents together, I now know the harsh reality and facts. I can no longer breeze through a pregnancy with the naivety of our first. We know to well that there are no guarantees when that positive line shows. We know that 12 weeks is not a safe date to announce the pregnancy – there is no safe date or time.
I guess when you have the faced the unnatural order of losing a child before your own demise it’s natural to fear more. When you have found the strength to attend your children’s funeral it’s only right that you may become more guarded and anxious. I guess it’s the harsh realities that we have faced that now mould how we face our future. We can only hope that together we can talk it through and help to fade each other’s anxieties.
I know from various online and face to face groups that what I am feeling is ‘normal’. Today I am struggling. I don’t know if it’s me and my expectations. I don’t know if I’m too sensitive. I don’t know if it’s just grief. Today my tears just keep coming. I don’t know if it’s because it’s my mums birthday soon and the anniversaries of Kora and Ava are coming round fast.
My mum used to tell me that I had a heart of pure gold. She told me I was the most caring and considerate person she had ever met and she wasn’t sure how her and my dad had made someone like me. She used to joke I must have come from someone else.
I never really understood what she meant as I have faith in human nature and I always try and give people the benefit of the doubt. However at the moment I’m left feeling let down and I’m not sure if it’s ok to be feeling this.
People pass comments which is human nature. Whether we say something in haste or say something just to say something or make an acknowledgement. Maybe we mean well but say something with little thought. What I think I find hardest is when people maybe don’t understand or don’t acknowledge.
I feel most let down by those i consider family and friends. I’m not sure if it’s because they are who they are (a certain personality or character) or if they truly have no understanding just how hard the last two years have been.
When we cremated Kora and Ava we chose to have a small funeral inclusive of just myself, Neil and Amy (the twins sister/Neil’s other biological daughter). However we had a gathering at our house afterwards to celebrate their lives. I wanted to show the funeral service leaflet which included everything we said. I wanted to grieve and share my emotions.
My father declined to read the service leaflet with the statement “you know me I’m not that way”. What he was saying is that he didn’t want to read it as he doesn’t deal with life or death the same way as I do. I understood and I love him (faults and all) but in that moment I felt crushed. I needed him to read it for me, to help me, to maybe have an understanding of the loss I was feeling.
My first Mother’s Day without both my mum and Kora and Ava felt monumental to me. My brother invited my husband to a football match that was on that day. I couldn’t help myself and I said round the table to my husband that the match was on Morher’s Day so he politely declined the offer. My father said “I hope you are not that morbid about Father’s Day when I’m gone”.
It was the assumption that I was mourning my mum (I usually celebrate my mum on Mother’s Day) without any thought that actually this was my first time as a biological mother facing a day that celebrates this but with no babies to hold, no card from my children. It was the fact that they were not considered that crushed me. My father was of course apologetic when I highlighted this. I couldn’t help but feel sad though because if my own father can’t recognise the significance then how can I expect the wider society to truly understand.
My brother made a comment that “I should get over the twins”. We have spoken in depth about this and he very kindly and honestly stated he said it without thinking and regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth. The sad truth is it is the opinion of some. There is such a lack of discussion, support and understanding to pregnancy loss, still birth, miscarriage etc that it is hard for others to understand.
I guess it’s like so many things that until you experience it yourself some people are just not able to empathise or appreciate the situation. I also feel this particular subject is taboo and avoided.
Friends that were very close to me became very distant. I went from seeing them weekly to seeing them once every six months. Texts stopped coming, replies took weeks. It has knocked my confidence as I wondered if I had changed that much by my experiences that I was no longer worthy of their friendship.
The year anniversary came and went and nobody contacted my husband or I until I marked it on social media. No one remembered their delivery date. I wondered if I was expecting too much for a grandad, aunt, uncle or close friend to remember this.
Some family members (not just blood ones but through marriage) did not pass on their sympathy. As the year went on there was no check to see if we were ok. One Christmas a family member talked about how tough the year had been for them with the loss of a good friend. It was a devastating situation and the person had died young. My heart felt for her and her grief but at the same time I sat there wondering how someone can feel this grief so deeply yet not really acknowledge or check up on her own family member when they cremated their daughters.
Family gatherings have become so hard! I attend but I find them so difficult. People avoid us or don’t talk about Kora and Ava. I once summoned so much strength to offer to help hold someone’s baby at a gathering only to be declined without a second thought. This was the first baby I had offered to hold. Something I find very challenging as I don’t get to hold ours.
Being pregnant again was also hard. I have struggled with this. When a young family member offered a comment about how my hair will get thick whilst pregnant and then look terrible after birth I had to hold back my emotions. I am an older woman than her. I have been a mother for years to teenagers with very upsetting and difficult childhoods. I have been pregnant more times than anyone I know within a two year period. I have been through labour and delivered my children. I have been pregnant and reached both first and second trimester. I know what happens when you’re blessed to be pregnant.
I also had a friend ask if she had been supportive. I didn’t know how to answer. Three phone calls in two years of which I made contact and called on all three occasions. One of these phone calls we talked about the girls the other two I listened to her distressing situation. The third phone call I had just come out of hospital following an operation to remove the other twin and my tube but I didn’t even have the opportunity to talk about it as she was down and it felt inappropriate to burden her with my troubles.
Even my husband and I grieve very differently. Another way that this can be so challenging. Neither is right or wrong and as humans we cope and survive how we have to. We have different past experiences. He is a biological father already. He doesn’t remember significant dates whereas they resonate so vividly to me. We are different and how we cope is different. However, I know I wouldn’t want to face this with anyone other than him.
This is most definitely my most negative post. I thought about whether to post. I do not want to offend my friends and family and I mean no maliciousness with this post. Then I thought about it again and it dawned on me that the people I have mentioned probably don’t read my blog anyway. If they do they don’t comment or send a text. They don’t mention it to my face. They haven’t shared it when I ask and state how how important it is to me. They haven’t been in much contact since the girls were cremated so the chances of them seeing this is very remote.
On a more positive note, I have found support in places and people that I never knew cared so much. I have had some lovely moments where I have been blown away by some people’s understanding and support. I was attending a support group before covid19. I guess like most people the negative is harder to swallow and can sometimes have more impact emotionally.
So today I sit here struggling. Feeling more isolated and alone in a grief that is truly hard to navigate. I just don’t know how to how to live in your world. I don’t know how to be a grieving parent and a possibly a future biological mum. I don’t know how to raise this topic and make it one we can talk about so this doesn’t feel so very very lonely.
I sit here struggling with my emotions today. Many I can’t or don’t want to express publicly at the moment. I struggle because we as a society aren’t very good with approaching pregnancy loss.
It’s very British culture to keep that stiff upper lip or to make do and carry on. We have over the years struggled to discuss very sensitive topics such as dementia or cancer to name just a few. There was a time we referred to cancer as the c word rather than say the horrid full word.
I have learnt through my losses that how society views pregnancy loss is a mine field of complexities. I have spoken to people that believe someone who loses a baby (miscarries early before 12 weeks) can just carry on and try again. Even our professional medical service undermines the significance of a pregnancy under 12 weeks and even under 24 weeks.
The midwifery team do not get in contact until you are 12 weeks pregnant. If you have any worries or concerns you are passed to the gynecological department. A miscarriage or pregnancy loss at this stage or before the 24 weeks is classed as non viable.
Let’s look at the meaning non viable. The dictionary has two definitions for the term. The first meaning not feasible or practical. Can you imagine saying to a person who miscarries at say 9 weeks that their baby wasn’t feasible anyway. The second definition is medical – a fetus or unborn child) unable to survive independently after birth.
I feel personally that this term is horrendous. Kora and Ava’s heartbeats stopped in the womb as the cords tangled their necks and cut off their blood supply. They would not have survived after I delivered them because they had already passed! My other twin pregnancy which was heterotrophic and resulted in the baby being cut out with my fallopian tube.
Neil and I saw 3 out of 5 of our babies heartbeats. All our babies were very much viable to us and still are! From the moment we saw the positive pregnancy test we had a baby. For me I personally prefer to call it what it is and what it feels like which is a loss.
To me it’s not important at what point you suffered the pregnancy loss, a pregnancy is a pregnancy and whether my baby is the size of a blueberry or the size of a watermelon it’s in my womb, it’s my baby. We have loved it from the moment we saw the positive line!
I have heard people say things such as you can try again, you’re young enough or their is still time to have another. My losses (babies) have been referred to as stresses. People have also with good intentions longed for us to have a rainbow baby or babies.
We too would love to go full term and deliver a happy, healthy rainbow baby. It would mean the world to me to become the biological mum I’ve dreamed of becoming. However I need you all to know that if I am blessed with a rainbow baby this will be my 6th child. I will never stop grieving for the ones I have lost. They have made me who I am now. They have given me so much more than I was able to give them. I will love them all forever and will never forget any of them. I will grieve them for a lifetime even if their lifetime was far too short.
It’s 2 years since I was pregnant with Kora and Ava. I can’t quite compute this. In one way it feels like longer with everything Neil and I have faced in those years but it also seems to have suddenly arrived.
We took the test on the 16th May 2018. I find, I always struggle around this time of year. Not only do I struggle with the loss of our beautiful identical twins but it also my mum’s birthday on the 2nd of June. This somehow compacts and exaggerates my grief. I’d long to talk to my mum right now or get some much needed guidance (not that she would have been any good at that)!
I remember someone saying to me that I seem to have a lot of anniversaries in relation to the twins. It’s true I remember every significant date including when we tested, when we were told they had no heartbeats, when we delivered them, the date they were due and the date they would have been delivered by c section.
I think about the other babies and the significant dates. I think about how we have even less to hold onto in relation to these. We don’t even know their gender.
The comment got me thinking. I often publicly talk about the girls as it’s so important to me that the world becomes more accepting about pregnancy loss so I post the dates and my feelings, I talk about it to whoever will listen. I bare my heart and soul to the public. I want their names to be spoken with the love I feel not the hesitation or remorse that I so often receive.
I guess when you have a baby that is delivered at term who continues to blossom you end up remembering just the due date and celebrating their birthday (which may or may not be the same date). This becomes the most significant date and from there on you rejoice and celebrate milestones and developments.
For Neil and I we have so little dates and memories to hold onto. Our scan photos were accidentally thrown by the midwives so we only have copies sent to my mobile. Our babies were so small we have ink prints of their feet and hands (which if you didn’t know what they were you would think it was a black smudge). We have a few photos of them in the basket when they were delivered but that is it.
We were not blessed with capturing their first smile, the week, 2 weeks, 3 weeks old and so on photos. We will never know whose colour hair and eyes they would have. We would never get to watch them grow and develop. We did not get to hold them in our arms but rather our palms. We went to their funeral and sent them off with so much love and gratefulness for everything they had given us.
Without fail every year I think about how old my children would have been. I wonder how we would have celebrated if they were here compared to how we mark the anniversaries now. I wonder if we would have accidentally fed one twin twice as they were identical. I think about how we would have met the challenges and just how blissfully happy we would have been to hold them not only in our hearts but in our arms (something I feel the world can understand how difficult this is when at the moment so many can’t hold their loved ones – even if for them, this is only temporary).
So I guess for us all those anniversaries are hugely significant. They are all we have to hold onto and whatever our future brings these dates have changed us forever. We will always remember and share these anniversaries. For me Kora and Ava gave me, my first experience of being a biological mum. They have shaped me into a different person who I hope has even more empathy and understanding. A person who is more resilient then ever before. So please speak their names, talk to us about our girls, the other twins (one, whose heartbeat we saw on the scan) and the very early miscarriage.
Let them live on and never be forgotten. Let’s talk more about loss and life without our babies. Let’s not shy away from the grief that so many of us face or experience. Let’s embrace those like me that mark the anniversaries. Let’s make this grief less lonely!
Stars in the Sky 