Breaking the Silence of Miscarriage

1 in 4 women experience a miscarriage. That statistic is alarmingly high, yet when I fell pregnant, I never thought it could happen to me. My husband and I decided that we wanted to share our personal story of pregnancy loss to break the stigma and shame that surrounds it. We believe nobody should feel the need to suffer alone or in silence.

On 1^st April 2021 our lives changed forever. We stared in amazement at the unmistakable BFP! It was finally happening for us. We were due to become parents on 6^th December 2021. Immediately, we referred to our baby as Bubs.

I called my GP and begged the doctor to send me for a blood test to confirm my pregnancy. They stated there was no need to see me unless I started cramping or spotting. My pleas of “but in my home country” were met with, ‘my dear this is the UK and we must follow protocol“. I learnt via google that my next port of call was to refer myself to an NHS hospital to start antenatal care. After a vigorous search session of ‘best maternity hospitals in London’, I self-referred to St Thomas. Being down the road, this seemed like the logical step. I also loved the look of their maternity suite which has a front row view of the Houses of Parliament. Fancy! I fist pumped when I received an email saying I was under their care and should wait for my midwife’s call. I would have my very first scan… at twelve weeks. Yup. It would be three long months before our pregnancy could be confirmed.

We dived head first into planning mode. We dreamt of life as a family of three. We designed the nursery and scanned Pinterest for ideas. We started looking at a birth plan and spent hours playing the name game. We ordered every book on Amazon and read “What to Expect When Expecting” from cover to cover. I envisioned whether Bubs would inherit my blonde hair or daddy’s blue eyes? Life was so sweet and I was glowing!

As the weeks went on and my pregnancy symptoms got stronger, I was impatient and desperate to see Bubs on an ultrasound. Unable to wait for the NHS routine appointment, we booked ourselves in for a private early scan.

I lay on the bed with butterflies in my tummy and stared at the screen. We were in awe as we saw Bubs laying happily and snug in my womb with a strong heartbeat of 171 bpm. A baby girl, for sure! I startled as I heard the loud thudding of the heartbeat, only to be told it was in fact Cannon Street Train Station beneath us. We all had a giggle. We measured exactly what we anticipated – 8 weeks 2 days. That’s how you know you’re married to an accountant. Accuracy is key. All looked perfect and our report stated my ovaries were “remarkable”. We were given a printout of the scan at every angle, and left proud as punch. We walked home with a spring in our step, pregnancy hormones and parent vibes abundant.

Determined not to follow the damaging 12-week rule, we had revelled in mischievous delight as we surprised our closest friends and family with our news and recorded their overjoyed reactions with glee. Mike’s brother also announced they were expecting, and so the cousins would be just a few weeks apart. We were in a bubble of bliss.

Weeks later, we booked a little country retreat for some much-needed rest and time off. We would spend three nights in Kent and then drive back to London for our much awaited 12-week scan, before spending ten days in Cornwall, where I had carefully planned our beach inspired pregnancy announcement. We arrived in Kent on Saturday and I was rather taken aback by our accommodation. Mike had unbeknowingly booked us into a self-contained chalet. We had our very own lodge and it was so cosy. Something inside me told me to do a grocery shop, which I did much to Mike’s annoyance, and we had stocked up food. (In hindsight, it’s little blessings like this I am so grateful for. The leave, the comfy chalet and of course, the food).

On Sunday 23rd May 2021, I woke up at 5am with coffee-like stains in my knickers. I also had tiny cramping. Flustered, I told Mike we needed to go to an EPU (Early Pregnancy Unit) stat. I knew brown spotting was old blood, so I tried my best not to panic but I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. We got to the nearest hospital, which was deadly quiet, only to be told that they did not have the facilities and to drive a further 30 minutes to one that did. I ran to the loo and did a panic poo and then I saw more spotting. This time it was getting noticeably darker and stronger. The car drive to William-Harvey Hospital in East Kent was spent speeding down strange country lanes with sporadic bursts of prayer and stifled sobs. After being sternly told off “not to think the worst” by the A&E admissions nurse, I was triaged and sent to the EPU. The midwife said I had ‘first-time mum’ written all over me as brown spotting was perfectly normal in the first trimester. I was clearly being over-cautious. This calmed me down and I managed to chuckle. My bloods were drawn and I urinated diligently into a cup which was sent for testing. I hoped that my HCG levels would be normal, and I had my parents and my dear friends around the globe united in prayer. Finally, the midwife returned and told us a woman had not arrived for her ultrasound and the technician had a free moment. They would scan me in a few minutes, should I be up to it. Of course I would! Another chance to see my Bubs on screen? Yes, please! I felt the urge to run to the loo again and when I wiped, I was terrified. Although still brown, my blood had increased even more. All dignity lost, I ran back to the EPU ward with soaked tissue clutched in my hand and showed the mess to the midwife. She told me it looked like old blood and not a miscarriage and to go and get my scan as the sonographer was waiting.

We shuffled into the ultrasound room with our glasses steamy and our masks wet from sweat. It was about six hours in and we were hungry, anxious and emotionally spent. As my stomach was prepped with chilly lube, I felt the sensation of the machine pressed firmly on my belly. It was in that moment I had a profound sense that the news about to be delivered was bad. I refused to look at the screen. Gripping Mike’s hand until my own knuckles were white, I eventually turned to the monitor and noticed that Bubs didn’t look like the 12-week baby my pregnancy app had predicted. The sonographer went quiet before saying the most feared words:

‘I’m so sorry Ainsleigh, there’s no heartbeat’.

I went completely numb. I let out a guttural sob. But there were no tears. Words will never do justice to what I was feeling, but the spider-web of thoughts that billowed in my brain were as follows:

Why had our precious gift been robbed from us? Why had my body betrayed me? How could this happen to us? Why did I still have symptoms? What did I do wrong? How had I not protected my child? I am built for childbirth. Why had I failed? Was it that slightly hot bath I took a few weeks back? The glasses of wine I had before I knew I was expecting? Was it that stressful acting job I cried about? That argument I had? Why? Why? Why?

(Logic told me it was absolutely nothing I had done and it was not my fault, but as I am being so raw – these were my honest thoughts)

Another sonographer reconfirmed the news by shaking his head slowly at the screen. Our Bubs’ heart had stopped beating around three and a half weeks beforehand. I was shattered.

Defeated, broken and gripping a box of tissues, we were led into a room with another pregnant woman. Mike objected and demanded we be placed in a private room. In hindsight, I am so glad for that. I called my parents in South Africa to break the news. They were distraught. Their sobbing unnerved me and finally my own tears arrived in unwavering streams. Mike and I hung onto each other and howled. The pain was so intense. I felt like if I let go of him, I would crumple away. I just felt so responsible and I remember repeating the words “I’m so sorry” over and over. Seeing my husband so crushed really knocked me. I just couldn’t believe this was happening to us. For some reason, I thought after losing my brother, my portion of grief was fixed. I couldn’t endure more heartache.

Eventually the doctor arrived and gave us his sincere condolences. His bedside manner was so gentle. He handed me a leaflet from the Miscarriage Association and explained I had three options. To be honest, I hadn’t even thought that I would need further attention. I was so naive and blissfully ignorant to the horrors of miscarriage, I did not even conceptualise what would need to happen next. My choices were equally morbid. I could naturally wait for my body to resolve itself (which could take weeks); I could have medical management to speed up the miscarriage, or I could be prepped for theatre immediately and undergo a D&C. My gut instinct was a firm no to surgery. My husband had just lost his child. My parents had just lost their first grandchild. How on earth would they cope if for some unearthly reason, they also lost me? It was an irrational, but very real thought. I asked the doctor what he would recommend if I was his wife. His answer was swift. Medical management. As this was my first pregnancy and I was already having an incomplete miscarriage, it made the most sense. The process would be over within the next couple of hours.

Without much time to process or prepare for what would happen next, I was lying horizontally on a hard bed with my legs apart. I had three doses of cold pessaries (Misoprostol) shoved unceremoniously up my vagina. Violated and in pain, I hummed the only song that came to mind: Matt Redman’s “Once Again”. I then had a painkiller suppository shoved up my bum. Crying and trembling, I put my trousers back on and was asked to stay at hospital for a while to make sure my asthma wasn’t aggravated. My uterus began cramping quite intensely and I shook uncontrollably. My stomach twinges increased from little pangs to deep, shooting aches. The midwife said this was a good sign as it meant the induction was successful and my body was getting to work. An hour later, we were given the all clear to leave. We chose to go back to our chalet as we didn’t want to associate my miscarriage with home. I left the hospital shocked, with my head hung and clasping an assortment of prescription painkillers, sanitary pads and adult nappies. I was humiliated and petrified.

The journey back was unbearable. I shook like a leaf and writhed around in pain. Every speed bump made me want to vomit. I pressed the nozzle of the scalding water of the shower to my stomach to try and soothe it. After about an hour, I had gone into labor and was contracting heavily. I began to bleed into my pad but I was too scared to look. Wailing, I tried to stop what I can only describe as gushes of blood, but it was relentless. I crawled to the toilet and clutched Mike’s legs as he stood firmly in front of me, trying his best to be our rock. Tears fell down his face and I could see his heart breaking. It was what I describe as a morbidly beautiful moment and the closest I have ever felt to him. Our shared pain was so palpable. We were a mere six months into our marriage. How brutal to already be bound together by such grief? I thrashed in agony as my contractions worsened and quickened. Suddenly, I felt a huge clot of tissue surge uncontrollably through my body and exit me. It splattered loudly into the toilet bowl. I screamed in horror when I realized what had just happened. I had just birthed our baby. I yelled at Mike to flush as I didn’t want to look. It was excruciating and mortifying . A vivid, harrowing trauma I cannot forget. The only relief I felt was that the cramps eased instantly. Crushed, I got into bed and sobbed into the pillow. I felt like the worst mother. I reminded myself that this was mere mortal matter. Bubs’ soul was already in heaven and even though I can’t hold my baby, I know the one who does. Mike and I clung to each other and cried non-stop for what was possibly three days. We prayed together and called out to God to comfort us in our pain. We felt so connected to each other. It was a privileged notion, brought on by the most sorrowful experience. The phone-calls and messages were a major source of consolation and we felt so honored to have the friends and family we do. T, S, K and J shared their own miscarriage stories with me, and we bonded over the anguish. We were so overwhelmed with the love and care we received.

I couldn’t imagine going through this grief alone or in silence. Our precious creation deserves to be acknowledged and our very real experience, validated.

We made the decision to continue to Cornwall. The ocean brings about such healing and as a surfer, I find solace in the sea. It was a quiet time spent breathing in the salt air, being gentle with one-another and appreciating nature. My bleeding was now similar to that of a light period, and although I was uncomfortable wearing a pad in the heat, I got used to the feeling. A week on from my miscarriage, we went to lunch at The Lizard peninsula, a beautiful cove at the very south of England. I felt the immense urge to wee. The only bathroom was a ten minute hike away in an open field. Exhausted, I arrived at the well-kempt cubicle. I wasn’t prepared for the fact that I would pass a very large clot, about the size of a plum, which I now know to be the placenta. Being alone, I was terrified. I changed my pad and hiked back to the restaurant slowly. As we stood up to leave, a cascade of blood fell from me and didn’t stop. My entire jumpsuit from my pelvis down had turned cardinal red. Blood was pouring out of me like a tap. I was in public having a prolonged miscarriage and utterly humiliated. My efforts to cover myself was futile. I had messed all over. I sat on makeshift piles of Mike’s T-shirts as not to spoil the seats of our car as we sped to our new accommodation. We arrived at our less than impressive digs which had a shared bathroom. I was devastated. Uncomfortable and traumatised, I sat on the toilet seat and cried as I watched my incredible husband clean up the mess of my miscarriage. He changed my pad and picked up the clots from the bathroom floor. I monitored my heart rate and tried to calculate the amount of blood I was losing but it was impossible. We knew the risk of me hemorrhaging was very high so we planned how we would get me to hospital in case I needed medical attention and a blood transfusion (as so many do). Thankfully my bleeding subsided over the next few hours and I started to feel physically ok. I was through the worst of it. Over the following days, we took it incredibly slow. We spent some time at Gwithian Beach and watching the surfers at backline was torture. I absolutely had to surf. Mike was totally against it, but as my bleeding had now stopped and I knew my risk of infection was low. I needed to get in that water. As I paddled out into the Atlantic ocean and felt the waves crash beneath my board, I felt restored. It was incredible and I laughed the loudest and hardest I had in a long time. I caught a wave and dedicated it to Bubs.

It is now exactly three weeks later and a negative pregnancy test has confirmed the miscarriage is now complete. As I open my laptop to write our story, I’m bombarded with notifications about future midwife appointments and a swarm of emails congratulating me for reaching a milestone mark – the end of the first trimester. Social media’s algorithm has made sure I’m barraged with baby pics and my feed is full of pregnancy announcements. I cry at the tragedy of it all but I pray consistently for my heart not to harden. We long for our rainbow baby and we know our time will come once we have healed. Not just from the immense physical pain my body has endured but from the emotional scars that are forever etched within us.

I don’t know why I had a miscarriage. I don’t know why Bubs was taken from us and I will never have the answers. Perhaps this was God’s way of sparing our child a life of hardship caused by chromosomal abnormalities? Maybe He took away what would have turned out to be a harrowing decision for us? We won’t know. One thing I do draw comfort from is my faith. We know that our baby may not have been fit for this world, but Bubs is made perfect in heaven. I was devastated that my brother would never meet Bubs in this lifetime and it really haunted me. Now I take comfort in knowing that our baby is being looked after by Uncle Wes. I also feel my brother now knows a huge part of Mike, which has brought me such solace. We have a profound understanding that when we get to eternity’s shore, our family will be complete. And for us, that is everything.

If you are the 1 in 4 women who has experienced a miscarriage, my heart goes out to you. Take the time to really grieve your loss and guard your heart. I urge you to open up about your story and join me in breaking the stigma of pregnancy loss and silence during miscarriage. I love you and I am here for you whenever you need to talk. If you prefer to go online, you might find the following resources helpful:  Tommy’s, NHS counselling, The Miscarriage Association, Saying Goodbye Charity. I also highly recommend The Baby Loss Guide book. It has helped me tremendously.

If you are fortunate enough to never have gone through the trauma of miscarriage, I hope that my story has enlightened you somewhat. Be gentle and kind to the women in your life, as the chances are very high that they have experienced this. If you’re struggling for something to say to someone who has experienced a miscarriage, a simple “I’m sorry for your loss” is a good place to start. Please just don’t keep quiet. We need you to acknowledge the baby we grew in our belly and gave us the greatest gift – parenthood.

Remember dear friends, hope is stronger than fear.

X Bubs’ Parents – Ainsleigh and Michael x