The days after we ended our pregnancy

It has been over three months since I ended my pregnancy. I can say now with hindsight that I have more or less made it through.

The first week was bloody hard. We chose to escape the city and headed to a remote beach a few hours away. During the day we skimmed stones, dawdled on the beach, visited walking tracks and touristy places. In the evenings my husband and I sat with a glass of wine in our hands, often quiet, often upset, talking about how shit life can be across the dinner table. It was a surreal time, it was as though everything slowed down so we could marinate in our sadness.

Being back at work was hard. I went back a week and a day after surgery. The first person I saw from work was in the lift, she asked, “is everything OK with you?” I’d been out of the office for nearly three weeks without much explanation. I thought I would cry then and there. I looked away and said, “yes, fine thanks.” For the first couple of weeks, I was OK maybe one day in three. By OK I mean that I was able to do some work. The other days I stared at the screen, thinking constantly of what had happened. Trying not to cry.

Then I had a meltdown. I was sitting at my desk one Monday and for some reason I was fixated on our loss. I couldn’t think of anything else. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I achieved nothing at work. My anxiety grew. I couldn’t continue like this, I had billable hours to meet. My boss would lose his patience and eventually I’d get fired. Surely. I panicked. I decided I needed time out. I didn’t know how much time.

I talked to my husband and my close friends, they told me to be brave and to talk to my boss. So I did. And he was fine with my taking some time out. But then I faltered. It was as though the fact of telling my boss lifted an immense weight off my shoulders and all of a sudden I felt like I was able to keep working. What a mess I was.

And so here I am. I didn’t take any time off after all. I have terrible days filled with anxiety and sadness, and then great days where I feel a bit like the old me. It’s a process  I suppose.

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The day of the surgery

We were asked to be at the hospital by 8.30am. We dropped our son at daycare and drove there with the music turned up loud and ragey, each putting on a brave face for the other. We sat in the waiting room and waited for an eternity, well, one and half long hours. It was not the best start to what you anticipate to be one of the worst days of your life. The explanation given to us for the wait was that I was right at the end of the surgery list of 14 women. It seemed to escape the staff that perhaps they could schedule patients to arrive at different times depending on their position in the list. My mind still boggles at how the hospital was prepared to leave  someone about to undergo a significantly traumatic procedure to sit in a waiting room for one and a half hours.

I met the charge nurse. She was short, probably in her 50s, with red coloured hair and matching lipstick. She apologised for the delay. She asked if I had been advised to bring in an urn or box. I cracked at this, “why does no-one ever tell you anything around here!!” I exploded and cried. “No, no-one told me that.” “Didn’t the social worker talk to you about taking the remains?” “No, but I’ve done it twice before. Can we take the remains?” I explained that the first miscarriage we had left me calling a blood test laboratory trying to find my miscarried remains after being given the wrong number by the hospital. “yes, you can take the remains home with you.”

The nurse then said something quite shocking. “Believe me, this is as hard for you as it is for me.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! I was incredulous. My husband was incredulous. I told her that I doubted that very much and set about disliking her for the rest of our stay. I was flabbergasted that she was the front-facing nurse of the ward. She then gave me misoprostol. I told her I knew what it was and swallowed it. It was a thousand times easier this time compared to my second D&C.

I then had to get changed into the standard issue backless blue hospital gown with underwear that they can cut off. So undignified. It made me cry. I felt like a nobody in that gown. The nurse came in to check that I was OK. She asked if she could give me a hug. That was nice of her. She said, “I don’t have any children either.” I told her, “actually I have a son, he’s at daycare today, he’s two.” Not knowing when to just shut up the nurse advised, “well you should be grateful that you have him.” I don’t know how I was so relaxed about that. Rather than punching her in the face, I let it roll off me. I had enough to deal with today. I was barely holding it together. I could chose not to let her get to me.

We were then ushered into a private room to wait for the misoprostol to take effect. All that really happened is that I began to shake uncontrollably from the cold, or from the drugs, I’m not sure. I ended up smothered in a hot air blanket. I listened to the clock tick away. My poor husband didn’t really know what to do with himself.

Finally it was time. I was wheeled up to theatre. I asked the theatre nurse to please hold my hand. She did. The anaesthetist was there. There was a man holding the blood pressure monitor. I thought to myself, “how can anyone perform this procedure? Doesn’t it break their hearts as much as mine is breaking? Don’t they feel as sick and guilty?” At that moment I completely lost it. I started sobbing uncontrollably and vaguely remember trying to sit up and protest something, although I don’t know what exactly. I felt the theatre staff quickly grab my arms and shoulders and I was almost immediately unconscious. I’m glad the anaesthetist put me out of my miserable state.

As I came to I wanted someone to hold my hand. I was eventually allowed to leave my bed to use the bathroom. And we waited to be discharged  in a small cubicle with another two couples. It didn’t seem the right place to be following such a traumatic event. That said, the anti-anxiety drugs were keeping me relatively calm. The anaesthetist must have really dialled up the dose, as I don’t remember feeling so at ease after my previous two surgeries. The nurse advised I was not to drive, to sign any legal documents, or drink alcohol in the next 24 hours. I had no intention of complying with the alcohol ban.