We conceived our first baby when I was 28 years old in January 2004, which writing this in January 2011, now seems like a whole lifetime ago. Our first child should have been, or would have been 6 years old now. I had just qualified as a lawyer in Australia and did not have any real job security in Ireland (being still on a short term residency permit) however despite anxiety about money and career issues, I was quietly excited.
I remember boarding the bus to work each day thinking - wow - I'm pregnant, I'm pregnant! I had been longing to be so since I met and fell in love with DH. Things went smoothly - I felt constantly hungry and craved Twix chocolate bars and fried egg sandwiches. My sense of smell was amplified by 100 to the point where I could smell someone eating an orange down the hallway at work. And before I had confirmed my positive test at 5-6 weeks, I had lost my taste for alcohol completely without understanding why - wine suddenly tasted bitter on my tongue. Around 11 weeks I decided to contact the local maternity hospital to arrange my first scan. I could barely do up my trousers at work anymore and thought the whole world would soon realise I was pregnant as I am a petite size 8. I did not have private health cover as I was not an Irish citizen and was put into the existing ramshackle public system which, I soon learnt was not the same as being a public patient in Australia.
I turned up for my first hospital appointment at 12 and a half weeks and was ushered into a waiting room from something out of the 1950s that was full of asylums seekers and local inner city Dublin teenage girls. I felt bewildered. There were not enough narrow wooden seats for all the waiting women - some of whom were heavily pregnant. I waited my turn and eventually was called into a petition. Dr S, who I immediately thought was very kind and personable, did an external Doppler scan - the type where you have to drink lots of water beforehand. I felt fairly relaxed until she asked me - "are you sure you are pregnant?". I nearly choked and said "uh yes - I am almost 13 weeks". She asked if there was any way that I had got my dates wrong and ordered me to go and pee in a cup to do a urine pregnancy test, explaining that if I were 13 weeks that she would see an image of a baby pop right up on her monitor immediately but she could not find anything. I didn't really ask any questions as I felt heartsick and duly went into the dirty toilet cubicle as ordered with my cup - tears silently rolling down my face whilst I did the needful.
The test showed positive and I was left to wait for another 45 minutes or so until I was finally told to come back on Monday morning to the Foetal Assessment Unit for a further internal scan. Whilst waiting to receive news as to what was to be ordered next I telephoned DH and sobbed and sobbed whilst telling him the news that something was wrong but that we had to wait out all weekend to find out what exactly was wrong. I was expecting only to be gone from work for 1 hour but ended up in the National Maternity Hospital for most of that afternoon so I had to break the news to my boss that I was pregnant that afternoon to explain being AWOL.
The weekend passed slowly. I remember there was a family dinner at DH's parents at which the news that his sister was expecting her second baby was being celebrated. She was around 16 weeks pregnant, which meant that our babies were due around the same time. I had been told at the hospital that our baby was due around 10th October 2004. I was very quiet and said very little. DH and I did not share our baby news with anyone.
On Monday morning we arrived on time at the Foetal Assessment Unit and were ushered into a room by a technician, who performed a vaginal ultrasound. She warned us that she would not speak to us whilst she undertook the scan so that she could better concentrate on the image - she was quiet and after prodding me for a short time told us that whilst she could see a pregnancy sac and foetus, our baby had no heartbeat and seemed to have died at around 9 weeks - 5 weeks earlier! I had never heard the term "missed miscarriage" before and heard it for the first time that morning. I always assumed, I guess from watching too many soap operas, that miscarriages were dramatic, painful and bloody and could not quite fathom that your baby might die but decide to stay put for some time. The ultrasound lady asked me if I wanted a print out from the machine - a picture of the ultrasound. I immediately refused - I wish now that I hadn't, but part of me thought what is the point. In hindsight I wish I had done a little better by that baby and honoured its memory better, but I did not know what lay ahead. We were ushered into a private room and handed the standard issue Heath Service Executive booklet on miscarriage. Once the door had shut we hugged each other and both cried. I told him I was sorry as I felt it was my fault the baby had died and he told me he was sorry too and blamed himself (for what I don't know). I was told that I would need to book into the hospital for day surgery for a D&C procedure to have the baby removed....otherwise I might wait another couple of weeks before I started to pass clots and I would have no control over where or when this might happen.
I remember boarding the bus to work each day thinking - wow - I'm pregnant, I'm pregnant! I had been longing to be so since I met and fell in love with DH. Things went smoothly - I felt constantly hungry and craved Twix chocolate bars and fried egg sandwiches. My sense of smell was amplified by 100 to the point where I could smell someone eating an orange down the hallway at work. And before I had confirmed my positive test at 5-6 weeks, I had lost my taste for alcohol completely without understanding why - wine suddenly tasted bitter on my tongue. Around 11 weeks I decided to contact the local maternity hospital to arrange my first scan. I could barely do up my trousers at work anymore and thought the whole world would soon realise I was pregnant as I am a petite size 8. I did not have private health cover as I was not an Irish citizen and was put into the existing ramshackle public system which, I soon learnt was not the same as being a public patient in Australia.
I turned up for my first hospital appointment at 12 and a half weeks and was ushered into a waiting room from something out of the 1950s that was full of asylums seekers and local inner city Dublin teenage girls. I felt bewildered. There were not enough narrow wooden seats for all the waiting women - some of whom were heavily pregnant. I waited my turn and eventually was called into a petition. Dr S, who I immediately thought was very kind and personable, did an external Doppler scan - the type where you have to drink lots of water beforehand. I felt fairly relaxed until she asked me - "are you sure you are pregnant?". I nearly choked and said "uh yes - I am almost 13 weeks". She asked if there was any way that I had got my dates wrong and ordered me to go and pee in a cup to do a urine pregnancy test, explaining that if I were 13 weeks that she would see an image of a baby pop right up on her monitor immediately but she could not find anything. I didn't really ask any questions as I felt heartsick and duly went into the dirty toilet cubicle as ordered with my cup - tears silently rolling down my face whilst I did the needful.
The test showed positive and I was left to wait for another 45 minutes or so until I was finally told to come back on Monday morning to the Foetal Assessment Unit for a further internal scan. Whilst waiting to receive news as to what was to be ordered next I telephoned DH and sobbed and sobbed whilst telling him the news that something was wrong but that we had to wait out all weekend to find out what exactly was wrong. I was expecting only to be gone from work for 1 hour but ended up in the National Maternity Hospital for most of that afternoon so I had to break the news to my boss that I was pregnant that afternoon to explain being AWOL.
The weekend passed slowly. I remember there was a family dinner at DH's parents at which the news that his sister was expecting her second baby was being celebrated. She was around 16 weeks pregnant, which meant that our babies were due around the same time. I had been told at the hospital that our baby was due around 10th October 2004. I was very quiet and said very little. DH and I did not share our baby news with anyone.
On Monday morning we arrived on time at the Foetal Assessment Unit and were ushered into a room by a technician, who performed a vaginal ultrasound. She warned us that she would not speak to us whilst she undertook the scan so that she could better concentrate on the image - she was quiet and after prodding me for a short time told us that whilst she could see a pregnancy sac and foetus, our baby had no heartbeat and seemed to have died at around 9 weeks - 5 weeks earlier! I had never heard the term "missed miscarriage" before and heard it for the first time that morning. I always assumed, I guess from watching too many soap operas, that miscarriages were dramatic, painful and bloody and could not quite fathom that your baby might die but decide to stay put for some time. The ultrasound lady asked me if I wanted a print out from the machine - a picture of the ultrasound. I immediately refused - I wish now that I hadn't, but part of me thought what is the point. In hindsight I wish I had done a little better by that baby and honoured its memory better, but I did not know what lay ahead. We were ushered into a private room and handed the standard issue Heath Service Executive booklet on miscarriage. Once the door had shut we hugged each other and both cried. I told him I was sorry as I felt it was my fault the baby had died and he told me he was sorry too and blamed himself (for what I don't know). I was told that I would need to book into the hospital for day surgery for a D&C procedure to have the baby removed....otherwise I might wait another couple of weeks before I started to pass clots and I would have no control over where or when this might happen.
It turned out the hospital could not do the procedure until the following Monday, so as it turned out I went home to wait 'just in case' something started. I kept thinking and hoping that the hospital had made a mistake and wondered whether I should ask for a second scan as I was still obviously pregnant - my waistline at least was and my face had gotten rounder. In any event I returned for a D&C on Monday 29th April. I don't remember very well the prep and going in and out of theatre, as I confuse this procedure with later ones for later miscarriages. The one thing I do remember clearly was being given oxytocin - a clear liquid which you drink - which is apparently given to women to induce labour. It commences contractions and opens the cervix, making it easier to perform the D&C. If ever a woman ever tells me that I have no idea about the pain of childbirth, I am equipped to inform them that I have a pretty good idea after taking the oxytocin - it was pure agony. It was pain of a type that I have never experienced and so extreme that I felt like I was soaring above my own body. DH tried to speak with me and said I was contorting on the bed and could barely answer him apart from groaning. In the end I was bumped up the theatre list, I suspect because of all the groaning and moaning I was doing. I returned home to our apartment later that afternoon and slept the day away. DH brought tea and toast to me in bed. It was the following day when the grief broke over me in waves - exacerbated by the fact that the following day was the 4th anniversary of my mother's premature death from cancer. I cried bitter bitter tears all day on 30th March 2004 - for my mother and for my unborn baby.
Two weeks later, DH and I became officially engaged to be married, after he negotiated a holiday for me with my boss and took me off to the south of France. It was a bitter sweet time. We went out for champagne to celebrate DH's proposal and my acceptance but I could not help thinking of how I should now have been 16 weeks pregnant and into my second trimester. I tried not to think about things too much and DH reminded me that we could try again soon after our wedding - which was something wonderful to look forward to. In our engagement photo from the time (below), I often think I still look pregnant in it - in my face. At least I know what it is like to be pregnant and that is something that I will never lose - the experience of being pregnant, my small silent treasure - sadly, some women never even get to experience this.
Two weeks later, DH and I became officially engaged to be married, after he negotiated a holiday for me with my boss and took me off to the south of France. It was a bitter sweet time. We went out for champagne to celebrate DH's proposal and my acceptance but I could not help thinking of how I should now have been 16 weeks pregnant and into my second trimester. I tried not to think about things too much and DH reminded me that we could try again soon after our wedding - which was something wonderful to look forward to. In our engagement photo from the time (below), I often think I still look pregnant in it - in my face. At least I know what it is like to be pregnant and that is something that I will never lose - the experience of being pregnant, my small silent treasure - sadly, some women never even get to experience this.
A week after returning from our holiday and whilst still celebrating our engagement, a letter arrived from the National Maternity Hospital on distinctive blue header bond paper. It was from the 'Bereavement Liaison Officer' and explained that my wishes concerning my baby's remains were not discussed with me whilst I had been in hospital and that they were holding them pending my contacting them. I could either collect them to arrange a private burial or tick a box on an attached form and have 'my baby's remains' interred in the communal plot of the Holy Angels section at Glasnevin Cemetery. I ticked the box for communal burial as it was quick and easy and I thought people might consider me morbid or neurotic if I were to make a big deal about a private burial and plot. I felt that people would think me crazy because my baby was, 'only 13 weeks', as some people had said to me (there seems to be more acceptance of the formal ritual of grieving for an unborn baby when a baby is 20 weeks or older; a perception which is very hurtful and reinforces a culture of silence and loneliness for women who have lost babies earlier than this milestone). I lived to regret this decision and feel guilt towards my unborn baby. I will always keep the blue-coloured letter dated 21 April 2004, as it is important to me. Its' importance stems from it being evidence of my baby's existence and reassures me that it is OK to feel grief. It states, "I am very sorry to hear of your recent loss" and "your baby". Our first baby.
