Last night I joined a statistical group.
One in four known pregnancies ends in miscarriage. I italicised the known as goodness knows how many more may go early on.
The posters in EPU prepare you for the worst.
During our first visit for a viability scan I thought it was a bit doom and gloom.
Our unexpected little bean was alive but not yet kicking.
Less than a week later it was dead.
On Friday (September 4) we were back in EPU after I became concerned.
When the sonographer passed the sonographic thing over my stomach I could see it didn’t look like a nine-week embryo.
More searching and she called my husband over: “Here is your baby, I’m afraid there is no heartbeat.”
I felt an overwhelming sadness and guilt. Having a second child wasn’t something I wanted at 44.
I felt bad for not wanting it, but I had got used to the idea so my love was growing.
“It’s not your fault, there’s nothing you could have done,” Claire the EPU sister told us.
Just two weeks earlier we had joked about our unexpected middle aged pregnancies and how we should know better.
“We’re old, our stuff isn’t high qualify,” I replied.
“Not old,” she responded, “We have extensive life experience.”
It made me laugh.
The rule of thumb is don’t tell anyone until you’re 12 week, but I told loads of close friends and family.
Passing on the bad news was not great. Mostly by text after short calls to my mother and sister.
I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
Four days later it decided to leave at 3am.
It’s been a rough night.
Even though it was tiny and didn’t look like much, I wasn’t going to flush it away.
We’ll bury it in the garden. At least it didn’t feel or know anything.
Now we press on and love our two-year-old even more.