Miscarriage: A lesson in Love & Loss
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If I’d carried all my babies to term I’d be a Mum of four. I can’t help wondering what that would be like. I love the idea of it. One of my problems is that I often feel like the grass is greener. I know it’s not easy to have a massive family. It’s relentless. It’s hard work. I know.
Miscarriage is a strange journey that you wouldn’t wish on your worse enemy. You have the initial high of finding out you’re pregnant. Your boobs get heavy and sore. You start to have those weird dreams and you feel like someone is trying to tell you
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something. You get your ’Baby on Board’ badge. You write down potential names. You think about whether you could get away with a name like ’Zooey’ and then realise it’s a curse to have a name that you have to explain every time you meet someone (I know because I have one of these names). In the bath you rub your tummy. A little person is in there and they’re steadily growing. A lot of the humdrum crap of life falls away.
The first miscarriage was a storm in a teacup. My hcg levels just went down and I got a heavy period. People told me
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it meant nothing. They told me that miscarriages make you more fertile (I’m pretty sure this is rubbish). They told me of silver linings. I tried to believe these things but struggled. It was like someone had turned the light down and all the colours looked faded.
The second and I awoke with heavy cramps. I dismissed these as ’growing pains’. But the pain grew. The baby was trying to fight its way out but it was only eleven weeks. I told God that if he’d save this pregnancy, I’d get married and stop living in sin. God said he was
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sick of me asking for help in moments of crisis and ignoring him the rest of the time. I sat on the loo and everything fell out. Just like that. I could feel my outlook shift. There was nothing to feel optimistic about and no way of rallying myself along.
The most recent miscarriage and I had a scan that revealed no heartbeat at seven weeks. The nurse looked at me accusingly – as if I’d somehow wished this on myself. I rang Mum afterwards but cried too hard and had to hang up. I walked in and out of shops and thought how meaningless
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everything on sale was.
Back at home, I retreated and spent days Googling – perhaps there was some good news. This baby was small. It was growing slowly. It was stupid to have a scan so early. I willed it to survive. Clutching my daughter in her bed, I cried. Yes I have a daughter. Yes I’m lucky. But still all these babies gone.
Since the miscarriages I’ve developed lots of superstitions. They help me feel like I’m back in control. I pick feathers up if I spot them. I rub a rosary that my Mum gave me years ago. I NEVER walk under
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ladders .We tend to believe that bad things happen for a reason- that we’ve brought it upon ourselves somehow. But we don’t deserve the shit things that happen. It’s just that we can’t control our bodies. This is a hard lesson when we’re led to believe that anything is possible.
As we walk to the park, my daughter hands me pebbles. These pebbles drive me mad as I’m forever finding them in my pocket.
’Is there a baby in your tummy?’ she asks.
’No – it’s just a big, fat jelly,’ I say and try to crack a smile.
She throws her
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head back and laughs. We resume our walk at a snail’s pace.
To the outside world there’s nothing more to see but an everyday tale of love and loss .
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Anniki Sommerville - 23 May 16
If I’d carried all my babies to term I’d be a Mum of four. I can’t help wondering what that would be like. I love the idea of it. One of my problems is that I often feel like the grass is greener. I know it’s not easy to have a massive family. It’s relentless. It’s hard work. I know.
Miscarriage is a strange journey that you wouldn’t wish on your worse enemy. You have the initial high of finding out you’re pregnant. Your boobs get heavy and sore. You start to have those weird dreams and you feel like someone is trying to tell you something. You get your ‘Baby on Board’ badge. You write down potential names. You think about whether you could get away with a name like ‘Zooey’ and then realise it’s a curse to have a name that you have to explain every time you meet someone (I know because I have one of these names). In the bath you rub your tummy. A little person is in there and they’re steadily growing. A lot of the humdrum crap of life falls away.
The first miscarriage was a storm in a teacup. My hcg levels just went down and I got a heavy period. People told me it meant nothing. They told me that miscarriages make you more fertile (I’m pretty sure this is rubbish). They told me of silver linings. I tried to believe these things but struggled. It was like someone had turned the light down and all the colours looked faded.
The second and I awoke with heavy cramps. I dismissed these as ‘growing pains’. But the pain grew. The baby was trying to fight its way out but it was only eleven weeks. I told God that if he’d save this pregnancy, I’d get married and stop living in sin. God said he was sick of me asking for help in moments of crisis and ignoring him the rest of the time. I sat on the loo and everything fell out. Just like that. I could feel my outlook shift. There was nothing to feel optimistic about and no way of rallying myself along.
The most recent miscarriage and I had a scan that revealed no heartbeat at seven weeks. The nurse looked at me accusingly – as if I’d somehow wished this on myself. I rang Mum afterwards but cried too hard and had to hang up. I walked in and out of shops and thought how meaningless everything on sale was.
Back at home, I retreated and spent days Googling – perhaps there was some good news. This baby was small. It was growing slowly. It was stupid to have a scan so early. I willed it to survive. Clutching my daughter in her bed, I cried. Yes I have a daughter. Yes I’m lucky. But still all these babies gone.
Since the miscarriages I’ve developed lots of superstitions. They help me feel like I’m back in control. I pick feathers up if I spot them. I rub a rosary that my Mum gave me years ago. I NEVER walk under ladders .We tend to believe that bad things happen for a reason- that we’ve brought it upon ourselves somehow. But we don’t deserve the shit things that happen. It’s just that we can’t control our bodies. This is a hard lesson when we’re led to believe that anything is possible.
As we walk to the park, my daughter hands me pebbles. These pebbles drive me mad as I’m forever finding them in my pocket.
‘Is there a baby in your tummy?’ she asks.
‘No – it’s just a big, fat jelly,’ I say and try to crack a smile.
She throws her head back and laughs. We resume our walk at a snail’s pace.
To the outside world there’s nothing more to see but an everyday tale of love and loss .
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I'm Super Editor here at SelfishMother.com and love reading all your fantastic posts and mulling over all the complexities of modern parenting. We have a fantastic and supportive community of writers here and I've learnt just how transformative and therapeutic writing can me. If you've had a bad day then write about it. If you've had a good day- do the same! You'll feel better just airing your thoughts and realising that no one has a master plan.
I'm Mum to a daughter who's 3 and my passions are writing, reading and doing yoga (I love saying that but to be honest I'm no yogi).
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