The Day That I Miscarried

Laura Rutherford - 8 Oct 18

Please, please don’t let this happen to me.

I really want this baby.

I needed the world to stop. But it never stops. It just keeps on moving. Especially when you’ve got a toddler who is waiting for his dinner and you’re preparing to move house in the morning.

I needed there to be no blood. But every time I went back to the toilet, there it was.

I called the hospital under some foolish notion that I would be told to come in. That I would be reassured and that perhaps they could make it all stop. I told the midwife that my blood pressure had been high at my booking in appointment with the midwife and it was currently really high (I had bought a machine), thinking that she might tell me to come straight in. But instead, she told me that I shouldn’t be taking my own blood pressure. That I should just keep an eye on the bleeding and call back if it turned red.

The next morning, after a night of feeling utterly hopeless, my wonderful GP saw me and arranged an appointment for me at the hospital.

I spent the next few hours waiting for my appointment with a friend whilst my mum watched my son and my partner moved all of our stuff out of storage and picked up the keys to our new home. The world kept on moving. And everyone assumed that everything would be fine.

Except me.

The brown blood gradually turned to red on the way to the hospital and, as I walked in, scared of what was still to come, I could feel myself starting to miscarry.

I pleaded one last time with the universe when the nurse performed the scan, right up until the moment that she uttered the words “no heart beat.”

And then in a toilet, with my friend and the nurse waiting outside, completely alone I miscarried into one of those cardboard hospital pots.

The nurse then checked the contents and I felt like I had unwillingly scored miscarriage points with her when she told us she’d never seen “the whole sack before.” I then needed an internal scan to show that I had indeed miscarried. And another one because she apologetically “forgot to save the picture.”

Leaflets, tears and gynaecology followed (and a few days later, endometritis).

It’s hard to put into words being pregnant one minute and not the next.

It’s just shit.

And whilst there is no shame in talking about early miscarriage, despite the Facebook memes and an awareness week reminding us that it happens to one in four women, it feels like something you just shouldn’t talk about.

You don’t want people to think that you’re attention seeking. You don’t want to upset or offend friends who have had multiple miscarriages or who have miscarried later on than you. You don’t want anyone to think that you’re somehow comparing your loss to theirs. You would hate that.

So you keep quiet.

And on that day, every year you remember.

And you feel alone again.

Laura Rutherford

I'm Laura, mum to Brody & Sydney. My blog is about my life with a primarily undiagnosed beauty, who just so happens to also have GDD, autism, epilepsy, hypotonia & hypermobility (& a few other things!). I blog to keep sane & because it's good to get it all out (& even better when others "get it"). If you're a fellow tribe member, I'm sending you a virtual high five (& chocolate/wine/crisps - whatever floats your boat, I bet you deserve it!). x

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