[written on Monday 19 August]
Seven days ago I had a missed miscarriage.
A bit of background: we have a 21 months old girl with Kabuki syndrome, a lifelong genetic condition that causes her heart congenital heart defects, a few other organ abnormalities, global developmental delays and possibly, we don’t know yet, might also cause seizures, autism-like behaviours and intellectual disability.
We don’t know if and to what degree she will ever be somehow independent in her life, but it is reasonable to assume that she will likely need extra support and care for the rest of her life.
With this in mind, we were really hoping to give her a sibling: we have so much love to give and we would have the capacity to deeply love and care for another child; we also have no relatives, here in Australia, they are all back in Italy. So we were hoping to give her a sibling who could help her once we are gone.
We were so happy when we found out that we conceived naturally another baby, and everything seemed to be progressing well.
Yes, at 5 weeks I experienced some mild cramps in the lower abdomen and I immediately went to emergency. My hormone levels were very good, there was no bleeding and the ultrasounds I did at 6 and 7 weeks showed a very regular, very health heart rate in the baby.
I was being extra careful, with my diet, with my exercise, with my lifestyle, and we finally got to week 12 and to the NT scan.
The day before we even made a pregnancy reveal video, to make this pregnancy official after the scan.
So, at 12 weeks and 4 days, I had a pretty busy morning scheduled, at the hospital.
The first one hour and half I had a meeting with the midwife, where we got through all my family medical history, my husband’s family medical history, mine and my husbands health, jobs, previous surgeries, allergies. Everything. And then you start planning for breastfeeding, birth delivery method, vaccinations, and all that jazz.
Then, I rushed to the genetic team with whom we discussed our options in terms of pre-natal genetic testing.
Although my husband and I initially asked for a CVS, to gather, antenatally, as much information on the baby as possible, on that day we decided we wouldn’t proceed with that test.
To us, the risks and complications that could come from it were just outweighing the need for further knowledge.
And there I finally went to have the nuchal translucency scan, which might already tell you the likelihood of certain chromosomal abnormalities. It’s not as accurate as a CVS or an amniocentesis, but it could give some extra information.
I lay down, the ultrasound technician starts prepping my belly with the gel, and the doctor starts telling me:
“Look, since you are not having the CVS we strongly recommend you do the non-invasive prenatal test. Today’s ultrasound will likely put you in the high-risk category for chromosomal abnormalities, because the algorithm combines your age with other factors, so because of your age it will put you in the high-risk group. And I can already from the ultrasound that there are problems, in fact we can see that there is no heart beat. I’m sorry, your baby passed away.”
She didn’t even finish explaining their algorithm and she told me that my baby was dead. Just like that.
She didn’t even consult with the technician.
Nothing.
I was in complete shock.
I literally stared at her, and asked her: “I’m sorry, what?”
“The baby is not measuring 12 weeks and 4 days, it’s measuring 8 weeks and 2 days”
I said “I know this sounds like the stupidest question ever, but I need to ask: ARE YOU SURE?”
“Yes, we are sure. There is no heart beat, I’m sorry”. And then she asks me: “Do you want to see the screen?”.
I thought about it for a second and I answered: “I literally have no idea. I’m in shock right now”.
Then I could tell that denial was really kicking in, because I was about to turn to the technician and say: “Ok, from now on I only talk to you, because that one has no idea what she’s talking about”.
I knew I had to see the monitor myself otherwise I would have remained in denial for who knows how long and I would have regret it for the rest of my life.
And there it was, a baby very similar to the shape we saw on week 7, but this time it had no heart beat.
It was just there, peaceful, still, floating in my belly with no life.
I kept repeating: “I had no bleeding whatsoever! Nothing, I had plenty of pregnancy symptoms, and no bleeding, no pain, nothing that could signal that the baby was not ok. How is this even possible?”.
I also asked: “What did I do wrong? Maybe I moved too much? When we conceived, I was under antibiotics for a bad cough, maybe that’s what affected the baby”.
The doctor reassured me that I didn’t do anything wrong, and that it was a missed miscarriage.
I could see how all my questions were just delaying the terrible truth: that the baby was no more and there was absolutely no way to get it back.
I asked them: “What now? Do we have to surgically remove all the placenta?”
The doctor said she would give me all the details in a separate room.
“Of course, of course, I imagine you have other patients to scan.” I said, while I quickly cleaned my tummy from the gel and got my bag. “And I am sorry, it must be very hard for you all to give this news to expecting mums”.
Yeah, I actually said that. I’m such a nice lady when I’m in shock.
We get out and we go up and down the corridor looking for an empty room.
Once we found it and we got in, I completely let it out and started crying and sobbing, hugging my husband.
It felt as if they had cut me in a thousand pieces.
I had no joy left in my heart, just the deepest possible sadness. I couldn’t breathe, my heart rate was just out of the charts, and it felt like I was imploding.
I needed to get out of there like NOW, but I knew we had to figure out the next steps first.
So I “put it together” and we called back the doctor.
There were 2 options: the first one was medications that would basically give me contractions to signal to the uterus that it had to empty itself.
Very painful, very long process, outcome not guaranteed, so I could have possibly needed a surgery to remove remaining placenta or foetal material.
The second option was the D&C, where you get general anaesthesia and they surgically remove everything, with possible risks like perforation of the uterus, and complications from the anaesthesia.
I couldn’t care less about the pain of the medication, but I showed her my tummy. “I’m already showing, my bump is already so big…I can’t look at myself without thinking of the baby. Please, help me get some closure. I want the surgery”.
I was so incredibly lucky because they had a spot the morning after, and I took it.
The procedure itself was a piece of cake.
The problem was everything else.
First of all, they told me that after the procedure I would bleed for 2-3 weeks, like a period. But my body, again, was not bleeding a single drop of blood.
For 4 days I waited to bleed, but it seemed like my body was in denial.
“Don’t you worry people: if there’s no mucus plug anymore, I’ll just make some more”.
I begged my body to bleed, because that would be the sign that it finally accepted that it wasn’t growing a life anymore.
Period blood is a cleanser, it’s the body’s natural way to stay healthy and to get ready for a future pregnancy.
Seeing that my body was not reactive was just alienating.
Finally, at the end of the fourth day, my body got on board and accepted the absence of pregnancy.
Also, I was already instinctively rubbing my pregnancy bump, in the past weeks, and it still comes naturally to me, now and then; so I really need to be more aware to try and avoid it.
Apart from the physical and physiological aspects of having an interrupted pregnancy, the emotional damage has been incredibly intense.
I have experienced grief before, and in many forms, but not like this.
Miscarriage has its own dynamics; it’s abrupt, it’s sharp, it triggers the deepest sadness in unexpected ways and unexpected moments.
You feel so guilty. I felt this guilty (if not more) when I found out about my daughter’s syndrome, but not when I lost a relative, for example.
You feel so angry at the most random people and for the most random reasons. For example: can someone please explain to antenatal departments the stupidity of scheduling a midwife appointment before a nuchal translucency scan, when you know that the age of the expecting mother could increase the chances of miscarriage? Or when there is a history of genetic conditions, for example.
And to be honest, I already had a first midwife appointment in that hospital before, where I had to go through all my family medical history in details. How many times do I have to tell them that my mother died of cancer at a young age? If it was true 2 years ago, it’s not like they can expect a different story, this time.
How do they not save all that info on your file, so that they only need to update it in case of future pregnancies? Seriously, it’s 2024!
Anger, sadness, guilt alternate with shock and denial in a sick dance of fluctuating emotions, because now and then I still think that I will have 2 children who will be 2 years and 2 months apart and, no matter how many times I repeat to myself “not happening, girl”, now and then I still fall in the trap of thinking “oh, I’m so happy, that’s such a lovely difference of age”.
Finally, there’s fear. You are scared of trying to get pregnant again, you are scared of getting older every year that goes by, but you are also scared of rushing such important decision just for the sake of not wasting any more time.
I will end this video now. I want to share in a separate video all the coping strategies that are helping me through this hard moment, hoping that they can help others cope with their own grief.
If you too have experienced one or more miscarriages, I’m sorry.
Know that you are not alone, and you don’t have to go through this loss alone.
Stay safe.
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