It is morning, and there is blood. Only a little, but... well, you know. My instant response is panic. But then I remember, when I was pregnant last time. There was “spotting,” as they call it. They told me to go to bed, to stay horizontal for a day or two. Not to worry.
So I go back to bed, and I try not to worry. My imagination teases me with awful thoughts, but I put it firmly in its place.
Then I ring the doctor’s. They tell me to go straight to hospital. They tell me gravity will make no difference. I am disgruntled. I was looking forward to a day in bed. It’s a big fuss about nothing, and I wish health professionals would make their minds up about what matters and what doesn’t.
We go to hospital, we bump into a friend in the waiting room, we crack jokes. Ally has taken the day off work, which touches me - because after all, this is a false alarm and no big deal.
I have brought supplies. I am prepared for a seige. In case they kidnap me and tie me to a hospital bed. I have cake, and fruit, and DVDs, and an iPod with a new audio book on it, and books to read, and spare pyjamas, and chocolate, and Clare’s Special Tea Bags. I eat a banana.
The nurse is sweet and pretty and apologises for interrupting my banana. She measures the usual stuff: blood pressure, temperature, etc. My signs are good. I feel apologetic about my ever-so-small bit of blood and really-quite-mild stomach pain. I am wasting everyone’s time.
“It’s probably just constipation,” I say.
“I need to let you know,” she says. “Bleeding and pain are not normal in pregnancy. There may be something wrong.”
It’s probably just constipation, I repeat to myself stubbornly.
After she’s gone we discuss her statement, which was obviously scripted and had the effect of punching me in the ribs. Why do they say such things? Surely it can’t help? It only encourages worry, and worry is Bad For Babies.
We are sent down for a scan. We sit in the waiting area, surrounded by pregnant ladies and their children. I marvel at one woman’s ability to handle two small children in a waiting room, heavily pregnant, on her own.
It crosses my mind that maybe I am about to be told bad news.
Don’t be silly, I tell myself. Everything is fine.
I feel some more discomfort, imagine myself collapsing right here on the floor, being carted away.
Don’t be silly, I tell myself. Everything is fine.
It’s just constipation.
I eat another banana.
You have to drink lots before a scan, so by the time I stand up I am dying for the loo and can barely walk.
They have to press down really hard to get a good picture. I forgot about this part. It’s not a comfortable experience, especially with a full bladder.
It’s OK though, because there it is on the screen. All curled up and cute. Aaah.
It doesn’t seem to be moving, but I don’t think they move much when they are only ten weeks old. Sometimes I think I see it twitch. She rearranges the scanner several times, viewing it from different angles. She measures it.
I wonder how she can tell whether it’s all right. Something to do with the heart, I think. Can they see it beating?
“Does it have a heart yet?” I say.
“Wait a minute,” she says, focusing on the screen.
Of course, she needs to concentrate on her job. She can‘t be expected to indulge in idle chit-chat.
Then she turns to me.
“It’s bad news I’m afraid,” she says. “I can’t find a heartbeat. The baby is dead.”
A flash second of calm realisation - that’s why she didn’t answer me before - and then the primal reaction kicks in. I curl away from her like a hedgehog, keening and sobbing and reaching for Ally at my side.
I’m trying to say things, but I can’t get beyond first consonants.
“I c...” (I can’t believe it).
“B...” (But).
“I s...” (I’m sorry).
I get a little articulation back.
"But are you sure? There's nothing you can do?"
“Sorry.”
It’s policy to get a second opinion, so I have to lie back again and let another radiologist have a go. I don’t look at the screen this time.
They go away, leave us alone. We cry. We hug. The dispassionate observer in me is glad. Has often wondered how good we’d be at supporting each other.
We want to hold each other. We are both upset, and able to share it. This is good.
There is a baby screaming outside in the corridor.
I want to go to the toilet. They want me to wait until we get upstairs. I don’t want to be a nuisance. But I don’t care about who or what I might bump into outside. I understand other people are still pregnant. Life goes on. And I go to the loo.
They lead us out of a Secret Back Door, so we don’t have to go back past the waiting mothers. The nice radiologist takes us back upstairs. Part of her job? How often does she have to do this? She looks very sad. She’s nice. She reminds me of Jodie Foster.
The nice nurse again. She talks to us about options. I eat a hot cross bun from my bag. I keep forgetting to wipe the tears away. She hands me tissues, which I twist in my hands.
I think about how upset Felix will be. He’ll be distraught. I can go to that yoga retreat in Spain now, in September. We can save up more money. We can get pregnant again. We’re good at getting pregnant.
We can hear someone sobbing in the next room. This must happen a lot.
It’s not over yet. There’s a dead baby inside me.
The nice nurse tells us our options: Let nature take its course, help it along with some drugs, or have a full surgical procedure: general anaesthetic, the lot.
Our friend’s father caught MRSA in hospital recently. We opt for the middle option: the drugs. They will admit me next Wednesday. It will take a day.
She gives me an injection, and some leaflets.
I have some questions, but the nurse doesn’t know the answers and looks a bit panicked. The doctor is coming in a minute. We can ask the doctor.
The doctor is another smiley young woman. Scottish, a little anxious, permanently on the verge of a nervous giggle. I like her, too.
She answers my questions: The baby has probably been dead for a fortnight. I don’t have to go to work. We can try again straight away. I feel better while I’m asking questions. Calmer, more in control.
We go home, we curl up on the sofa, we draw the curtains, we watch What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, together. Sometimes I cry.
Much much later, I remember something. Something I had forgotten. Something I know from my last pregnancy. Those ultrasound scans, they record audio as well as visual. You get to hear a heartbeat.
But all we heard was silence.
Should we have asked for a picture?
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Labels: Babies, Cheese Sandwich, Miscarriage
