As you may have guessed from the title, this will not be much fun for me write. & It’s likely to be a slightly uncomfortable read (sorry about that). But it’s something that is never too far from my mind. Even though 4 years have passed, events from the 14th January still devastate me. & I don’t suppose I’ll ever ‘get over it’. Because you can’t really, can you? Loosing a baby (at any stage of gestation) is incomprehensible. Earth shattering. Devastating.
I can’t bring myself to tell you exactly how this event unfolded. It was traumatic, & sharing those horrific details with you would serve no purpose. To be perfectly honest, my coping mechanism is to avoid going over the specifics.
It’s a dark cloud on our idyllic Mauritian wedding, & inevitably when the time comes to celebrate our anniversary, sadly this commemoration appears. Hand in hand. We got married, & 4 days later I suffered a miscarriage. We returned home to our wedding reception, where I put on a brave face. There was no avoiding the ‘Ooh. So now you’re married, will you be thinking of starting a family soon’ question from guests. How the fook am I supposed to have answered that, less than a week after loosing a baby? For crying out loud. I’ve no idea how I endured the ‘aftermath’ & having to relive the events, numerous times, for the sake of an insurance claim (a hospital stay).
I find myself wrapped in a constant guilt. If I try to move on, push those memories of loosing a precious, teeny tiny life, the pain & anguish it caused (not only me, but those nearest & dearest also) to the back of my mind, I can’t help but feel as though I’m doing this sweet soul an injustice. As if it’s not worthy of being spoken about, loved & being remembered. It may be a hard concept to grasp, how could you love someone you’ve never met? (Apart from as a by-product your body has expelled. Trust me when I say, what I saw was a textbook image of a foetus at 10 weeks gestation). At the risk of sounding crazy, I want to remember this life: to honour it in some way.
I feel guilty, for feeling guilty: I am blessed to have an incredible, rumbustious, happy & healthy little boy. Had I not miscarried, Bear simply would not be. He is my world, & my love for him intensifies daily. Then I feel guilty for not thinking of ‘Bean’, the lost one. You see where this is going….around & around in circles. I think we’re all genetically programmed to feel guilty, throughout life. I simply think of ‘Bean’ as my ‘Rain’ & Bear as my rainbow……
WHY? Why? Why did it happen? I look after myself: Exercise is my medicine. Living a balanced life & eating nutritious foods has always been integral to me. I felt (& still feel) angry, as though my body let me down, it failed me. I failed. I let others down. What did I do wrong? What could I have done differently?
An awareness of being deeply isolated surrounded me. Nobody knew what to say, or how to comfort me. Heck, I didn’t know how to be comforted. I just wanted to cry (I still do). More than anything, I just needed support. & Y’know what? IT’S OK NOT TO BE OK. Crying is good: it helps. In no circumstances do I believe you should bottle up any emotions.
I remember being told by various well-meaning individuals, that they too, had suffered miscarriages. Multiple ones. I’m confident their intention of sharing this poignant information was supposed to reassure me. It did the opposite & my heart sank even further. I appreciate I am far from unique, but hearing this when I felt so raw & vulnerable gave me no strength, just filled me with fear.
Oh, & some helpful sod thought reciting the NHS pregnancy loss statistics would help (In my mind, I told ’em where to go)
Counselling wasn’t offered, but I’d have jumped at the chance of having a professional to discuss my inner most anxieties with. In fact, even now, it could probably offer me some level of fortitude & reassurance I desperately seek.
I cannot wait to expand our family, even if this prospect scares me shitless. I pray for history to never repeat itself, & I live in hope.
I’ve gained an unshakable trust in my instincts from this unwelcome tale of events. I’ve learned to ask for help. Calling out for support does not mean I am not ‘coping’. It means I am.
Tonight, I will honour the loss of my innocent angel (& all other angels) by lighting a candle & saying a little something for her* (*I simply don’t like the reference of ‘it’). I’d be touched if you would join me.
If you have suffered miscarriage or pregnancy loss, my heart aches for you. It is shit.
Your grief may not get easier, but you will get stronger.