I am a married 41 year old with a five year old daughter.

My husband Pete and I had difficulty having our daughter – we both had fertility ‘issues’ and were on the IVF ‘treadmill’ when I fell pregnant a week after a laparoscopy in which I was given laser treatment for endometriosis. When I worked out that the baby was due on my father’s birthday (my dad having died 12 years previously) I just felt it was ‘right’ and ‘meant to be’. Our darling daughter Katherine arrived 9 months later.

5 ½ years on and having used no contraception in the intervening period, we had come to the probable conclusion that perhaps we were only going to have one child. That seemed fine. Neither of us felt a particular need to repopulate the planet and we felt lucky that we had our daughter. Then, somewhat out of the blue and as a big surprise to both of us, we discovered that I was pregnant again. The baby was due just before Christmas (“What bad timing!” we thought) and were shocked but pleased.

Everything proceeded fine. In view of my age and the high Downs risk we opted for CVS (which carries a 1 in 100 miscarriage risk) at 13 weeks and the test result was normal. Everything about my pregnancy seemed to feel the same as it had the first time and, when my mum died 2 weeks after I had discovered I was pregnant I again felt that this was ‘meant to be’. What a fool I was.

Not being one to count my chickens before they are hatched, we didn’t tell many people before 12 weeks but after that, we felt ‘safe’ and the news spread around fast. We told our daughter by showing her the 11 week scan photo and she was so excited. She bounced around the room singing “Mummy’s having a baby!” and “I’m going to be a big sister!” at the top of her voice.

We went on holiday to Canada in July and met up with an old Canadian friend of mine (Christine) and her husband and kids. Ready-made playmates for Katherine and nice for the grown-ups too. Christine commented that I didn’t seem as big at 18 weeks as she would have expected but I thought nothing of it. Looking back now, I think the baby’s movements were less than before, but not having been pregnant for 5+ years I had forgotten how it was supposed to feel. I had had no hint or indication at any of my scans or antenatal checks of there being any problem at all. This seemed an entirely ‘normal’ pregnancy.

A day before 19 weeks we all visited a marine park in Ontario. I had a slight twinge of pain at breakfast time but nothing significant and I was fine until about 11am when I started to have regular pains about every 10 minutes. By 2pm we were eating lunch and the pains had increased in frequency to about 1 a minute. Christine asked me how bad they were on a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being the worst, and although I didn’t answer the question, they were a 5. Stupidly, I just thought that I needed to rest and then the pains would go away. It didn’t even occur to me that I was having contractions – after all, you simply don’t lose a baby at 19 weeks, do you?

Christine insisted I should go to the washroom to make sure I wasn’t bleeding and for once in my life I went on my own, not taking Katherine with me. I checked and I wasn’t bleeding, so I felt relieved. I was just finishing up when there was a gush like my waters breaking. The reality of what was going on finally hit home and I instinctively cupped my hands between my legs and cried out “Oh God, don’t let me lose my baby!” Seconds later, I started to bleed heavily and my baby boy fell out of me onto my left hand. He was still attached to me by a thin umbilical cord. It took me a few seconds to realise that it was my baby on my hand, by which time I had started screaming. Christine found me, fetched Pete and took Katherine off with her and her husband and kids telling us not to worry about her – she would be fine. Pete kneeled in front of me and we looked at our baby. He was small (about 5” long) but perfectly formed. I remember telling Pete: “Look at him; this is the only time we will have with our baby.”

To cut this long horror story shorter, I was blue-lighted to hospital where I ended up with a D&C at about 7pm that night. They told me that the baby was very small and weighed only about 40 grammes when they would have expected a baby of that gestational age to have weighed between 250-300 grammes. So, somewhere along the line he had simply stopped growing (probably due to some sort of placental insufficiency) and had probably died a couple of days before. I was allowed back to our hotel at 11.30pm and I managed to sleep.

The next morning, Christine brought Katherine to us and she immediately asked “What was the problem yesterday mummy?” I didn’t try to lie, I simply said “I’m really sorry but the baby died and I had to have an operation”. We have spoken about it since and I have answered her questions but, 3½ weeks later, she seems to have forgotten about the whole event and is her normal self. I’m glad that she wasn’t around to witness any of it. To her the baby was just a concept, not a reality.

I’m back home and back at work but having a hard time of it. I’m still bleeding after the D&C (but only lightly now) and that is a constant reminder of what has happened. Also, concentration on my work eludes me.

I’m terrified at the prospect of getting pregnant again (and the same thing happening again) but terrified at the prospect of not getting pregnant again. 5 months ago, I had accepted that I just had one child and was happy with that, but that was before I almost had another, and then had it taken away from me. I’m 41 and entirely realistic about my chances of another pregnancy – I’m also now aware of the substantially increased risk I have (as an ‘older’ mother) of having another miscarriage. People say it’s too early to make any decisions but the fact is, I don’t have a lot of time.

I’m sure that I’ll eventually feel lucky that we have our daughter and this will recede into the background, but I know I will never forget. And just at the moment, I don’t feel very lucky…

Victoria
August 2007