Chemical Pregnancy | My Miscarriage
When I started this blog I never thought I’d have to write a post like this.
I’d seen so many other bloggers sharing their stories, but never thought I’d find myself in a position to write the same sort of words.
It’s not easy to talk about. We don’t talk about it. Even though we spend so much of our lives on social media, sharing every minute detail of our lives, pictures of our food, selfies showing us to be having the “best time EVER!”, we don’t often share anything of real life.
So here’s something real. Last week, I had a miscarriage.
Miscarriage. When you hear it, you think of dramatic portrayals in soap operas, women suddenly clutching their stomachs in agony. You think of sobbing, and of doctors and soulless hospital waiting rooms.
This wasn’t that. This was an inkling, a brief moment of excitement that perhaps we could be pregnant – a moment that wasn’t even properly vocalised. I didn’t want to say it out loud yet. But the thought was there, along with a few familiar early pregnancy symptoms. The symptoms simply stopped abruptly and were replaced by bleeding.
Officially known as a “Chemical Pregnancy” as the pregnancy is only detectable by testing of blood or urine, it wont yet show up on an ultrasound scan – an early miscarriage happens somewhere in the first few weeks of pregnancy. It happens when, despite the egg being fertilised, it fails, for any number of reasons. As they often happen around the time a period is due, many women aren’t even aware they’ve had one. I’m pretty in tune with my cycle so when I was pregnant with X, I knew a few days before my period was due, but decided to wait to test until I was late – and this had been my intention this time too after I started having very similar symptoms.
For some women, an early miscarriage can be the same as their usual period. Mine was not. I’ve spent a week on painkillers, fighting sleep and tears in equal measure, and trying to put on my pragmatic head.
Which hasn’t been easy – almost 2 years ago now I had to have my left ovary removed as the result of having an enormous Dermoid Cyst on it, and I have this fear that I may not be able to have any more children. It is that feeling that has left me the most upset. Perhaps I should look at it a different way – we made the decision that we’d like another baby only a little while ago, so strictly speaking I caught pregnant quite quickly. Sure, in this instance it wasn’t to be, but that’s not to say there’s anything wrong with me – just this egg.
Emotionally, it has been strange. As a blogger, my first reaction is to hit the blogosphere to see how other people have felt and coped, and it proved that there are as many different reactions as there are people to have them. Some write how they were grieving the loss of a baby. Many talk of their overwhelming feeling of disappointment and sadness. And I’m certain there are many more out there who can’t find the words to express how they feel, or just don’t want to.
A week on, the initial emotional tidal wave has somewhat subsided, and I find myself wanting to talk about it – but where can I? I’ve only told a handful of people, one of whom was my GP – it’s just not something that comes up in conversation.
“Oh hi, how are you?”
“Not great, had a miscarriage…”
” Oh, erm… ” awkward silence
I didn’t want pity. I just don’t want to have to hide it because it might make other people awkward.
So here I am, telling you all. This doesn’t have to be a taboo subject, a secret, something to be ashamed of. I might seem like I’m being cold about it – perhaps it’s because I’ve already got X, perhaps it’s because I’ve got a analytical, scientific mind that’s focusing on the fact that this was just a tiny bundle of cells; perhaps it hasn’t even properly sunk in yet. But even if I appear unemotional, I still want to talk about it. I don’t want to hide it.
I have had a miscarriage. I am sad. It hurt, physically and mentally. Don’t be afraid to ask – I’m OK. Wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea and a chat though…