Emily shares her story of having a missed miscarriage, which happened during the coronavirus pandemic. She talks about her feelings and experiencing flashbacks.
Right now, I feel like my life is divided between before and after. Before and after these six words: “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat”.
Right now, I feel like my life is divided between before and after. Before and after these six words: “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat”. That moment when I felt all our hopes, dreams, and plans shatter. I didn’t cry initially, I just tried to breathe. But when the consultant asked me to take a seat while he wrote his report, the tears came, and I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t focus on what he was saying and desperately wished my husband James were there with me.
At night when I can’t sleep, images from this ultrasound appointment replay on repeat. I’m reliving that silence as the consultant repositioned the probe on my abdomen before finally saying those six words. I’m reliving that image of our baby on the screen, little head curled up and arms and legs still, deceivingly peaceful looking. And I’m still reliving that walk from the scan room through a maze of hallways to the parking lot, tears streaming down my face, into my mask, fogging my glasses. When I finally crumpled into the car, I could only sob and choke out the words “no heartbeat” while I thrust the report and scan pictures at James who hadn’t been allowed in due to COVID-19 restrictions.
I still feel ashamed and guilty for walking around smiling, daydreaming about the future while our baby was no longer alive. I also feel like my body betrayed me, and how can I even trust it now? I knew miscarriage was a possibility, but as I continued to have morning sickness up until and even after that scan at the end of the first trimester, I just didn’t think it would be my reality.
I’m struggling to say out loud that I’ve had a missed miscarriage. I still feel like maybe I shouldn’t talk about it. It has been a couple of weeks since I woke up in the recovery room with that raw realisation that our baby was no longer physically with me, but the simultaneous emptiness and pain of that moment are still very present. Some days are okay now, and some days are crushingly sad. Nights are hard. More than once, I have found myself on the floor, hugging my knees, tears overflowing. I don’t think there’s a way to move on, but I am trying to move forward and navigate this new path. I do have support, and for that I’m thankful.
To anyone who is reading this – you are probably experiencing or have experienced such a loss, or you may be trying to support someone who has, and I’m so, so deeply sorry.
And to our first baby – you were so wanted and so loved. James and I will remember you always.