The article I wish I’d read before my Miscarriage
In late February 2020 I experienced a miscarriage.
It started with light bleeding during my ninth week of pregnancy. Of course I googled it — as we all do — only to find that it might mean a miscarriage is on the way, and it might not.
I visited my GP, who told me everything is probably fine, but sent me for a scan the next day just to be sure. I wasn’t in any pain at that point, so I allowed myself to feel hopeful that my pregnancy would continue, and I’m sure that for many women, that is the case.
On the day of my scan I did all sorts, I went for a long walk, visited family (hardly anyone had heard of Covid-19 at this point) and my in-laws were staying with us too, so we all went to the hospital together. I wasn’t in any pain or discomfort, I was just bleeding and anxious about it.
It was only at my ultrasound scan that I found out something had clearly gone wrong very soon after conception. As it turns out, my body thought I was pregnant and was producing all the hormones and bodily changes you would expect, but nothing was growing in my womb. I believe the medical term is a blighted ovum.
They sent me away and told me to come back the same time next week to see if anything had changed.
It was at this point that I wish I’d found an article or a leaflet or something that said what I am about to say. Consider this a letter to the me of seven or eight months ago. If you have stumbled across this on google and this is happening to you right now, go and grab a hot drink, a hot water bottle, and some painkillers, or if you have a significant other, ask them to get these for you. My heart goes out to you and I wish I could give you a hug and hold your hand through this.
The GP didn’t want to upset you by going into the details of what might be about to happen, but I would prefer to be informed of ALL possibilities, so I can be prepared in case the worst happens.
Change into comfy clothes. If you start to experience pain, take painkillers. I was stupid and didn’t have any in the house and it was the middle of the night so I just had to cope. Don’t make that mistake. Be prepared.
It was painful to sit up straight, it was painful to stand, it was painful to lie down and it was painful to move. The least painful position for me to be in was sitting on the sofa, hunched over a cushion on my lap. I stayed like this for a long time.
This pain is the womb contracting and trying to push out the tissue that’s in there. Sorry if it’s TMI but no one told me this and I wish they had. For me it kind of felt like I really, really needed a wee, but in an extremely painful way. That’s the only way I can describe it. I set timers for myself to help the time pass. Five minutes hunched over my cushion on the sofa, ten minutes on the toilet. Repeat. All night.
Ever seen chopped liver? That’s what it feels like when it comes out. The pain is this tissue being passed through the cervix.
You’ll need to be on the toilet for a long time. Get some magazines, make sure you’re going to be warm enough and take painkillers as often as you can according to the recommended dosage.
For me the pain truly kicked in at about 1am. Before then the pain was just like period pain that came and went. Eventually it got too much and I could no longer stay in bed or try to sleep. I passed the chopped-liver tissue at about 9am the following morning and that was the start of feeling human again. Right before that point though I was honestly starting to panic and felt like I just couldn’t cope any more.
I’m not going to lie, it was horrifying, and I haven’t even begun to discuss what was going on emotionally at this point. Devastation, shock, pain and panic filled my heart and body that night. My poor husband was with me the whole time and distraught that he couldn’t take away my pain. He was there though and that helped more than he knows.
Speaking from a UK point of view with our wonderful NHS, we do have the option of going into hospital if we are feeling truly awful, but I would always prefer to be in my own home if at all possible. Plus, once it all kicks off, travelling feels out of the question. If you have the phone number of your early pregnancy unit (you’ll get given it at your scan) call them if you are worried about anything at all. This is something I forgot to do in my little cloud of fear and pain, and I probably could have done with speaking to a professional.
After you’ve passed the tissue (you may not pass it all at once, but if your experience is like mine was, you’ll know when you’ve passed the last of it), the worst is hopefully over and you can begin to rest and recover. It will take time to process the fact that this experience is part of your story now and it will be part of who you are going forwards.
Watch as much rubbish TV as you can stand, I went for Miranda and it really, really helped. A friend of mine opted for The Vicar of Dibley when she was in the same awful situation, but it’s also perfect light-hearted viewing at times like this. Eat all the chocolate. Lie on the sofa for a fortnight.
Take time off work.
You have been through one of the most devastating experiences a person can go through and you’ve come out of the other side. You are so much stronger than you ever knew. You will get through this and you will feel strong again.
This may be how it happens for you or it may not. Your experience may be far worse or it could be painless and you might not even lose your darling baby. But the scenario above is a possibility and now you are armed with this knowledge.
I am not prone to exaggeration or elaboration. I do not see myself as a dramatic person. This is simply my experience.
At my next ultrasound scan the following week I was told that not all of the tissue had passed. I was devastated by this and terrified that I was in for more nights of pain, but the following week honestly just felt like a light period and at the next scan I was told all the tissue was gone.
It was at that point I was given a leaflet on miscarriage.
Ermm, what? I was given a leaflet two weeks after possibly the worst experience of my life? I was baffled and I told the staff they were too late. I needed that information before and to be totally honest, I’d found that same leaflet (link below) online already and read through it. I just wish my GP had given it to me when I first started bleeding. It wasn’t certain that a miscarriage was going to happen but I’ll say it again: knowledge is power in situations like this and I want to know all the possibilities.
If you are going through this right now, this is probably the best place to start reading and finding information about your options and about what is going on.
I find it so strange that medical professionals don’t warn us that this pain might happen, I have to wonder if they just didn’t want to upset me? If a patient was at a high risk of a heart attack you wouldn’t tell them they’ll probably be fine, you’d let them know in no uncertain terms what might be about to happen. Miscarriage is different though. It affects us on an emotional level just as much as a physical level, and no one wants their patient to panic.
My response to that is this: being informed of what a miscarriage involves does not make a miscarriage any more or less likely. It just means you can be prepared for all outcomes. Surely that is the more empowered way to move forward.
I really hope you found this article helpful. Since my miscarriage I have felt a responsibility to speak up about it, as it happens to so many of us and yet it’s not something a lot of us feel comfortable talking about. Sharing experiences means that fewer women have to go through this alone, fearful and uninformed.
In my experience, writing and talking about it has been hugely cathartic and has helped me process what has happened, and there’s the possibility that articles like this may help women in the same horrible situation I found myself in last February.
