Lydia’s story: the pain of recurrent miscarriage
Lydia has experienced three miscarriages, all within a year of each other. In her story, written on Mother's Day, she writes about her journey through fertility appointments, her three losses, her grief, and how each experience of pregnancy loss has impacted her.
It could take many weeks for this process to be over. The heartbreak and grief is impossible to fathom unless you have experienced it yourself. I write this on Mother’s Day, of all days. I write this in limbo. I write this as a reluctant member of the recurrent miscarriage club – full of strong, resilient, resourceful women and men.
“I am lost in a rainbow, now our rainbow is gone. Overcast by your shadow as our worlds move on… And I need to tell you, that I love you, it never ends. And I’ve bled, everyday now, for a year, for a year…I did sne dyou a note on the wind for you to read, our names there together must’ve fallen like a seed to the depths of the soil buried deep in the ground. I am lost, I am lost, now our rainbow is gone…” – This Shirt, by The Impressibles
Rainbow baby is a term used to describe a baby born after a family has experienced a previous pregnancy loss, such as miscarriage, still birth or infant death, symbolising hope and light after a dark time. But I lost my rainbow baby.
It has been one year and three miscarriages.
Now ask any woman in their 30s that wants to have children, and I think it is quite apparent that fears around fertility are deep-routed and complex. I have never had good health. My mother went through early menopause. I worried about possible fertility issues for years. This was always the elephant in my brain. I tried to convince myself that I would be fine if I never had children, that I could travel the world, continue going out drinking and having a good time. I told myself I was too selfish and not ready to be selfless. But the truth is I have always wanted to be a mum.
Being a carer is a huge part of my identity. I am a teacher and the kids at my school on numerous occasions have referred to me as ‘mum’. This has meant more to me than I ever let myself realise. I made a plan to come off the contraceptive pill, and let my body have a year or so to settle into its rhythm. I planned to go to a fertility clinic later on for tests to put my mind at ease, but my partner and I had discussed waiting two years after the wedding so that we could enjoy travelling together first.
One year ago, a couple of weeks before my wedding, I experienced very heavy bleeding and passed large clots. This went on for over 10 days. Confused and worried, I saw my GP, only to find out that what I was experiencing was a chemical pregnancy. This cold and clinical term is what they call an early miscarriage before the fifth week. Now we weren’t trying for a baby at the time, but it turns out that condoms do in fact go out of date. Maybe, Ross, they should put that on the box as well.
At the time my partner was away on his stag do, so I decided not to say anything to him. I only told my close friend that I work with, because I needed to leave work to seek medical help. I remember he phoned me that evening to ask if I needed company and I remember saying “no, I’m fine” only to break down on the floor of my kitchen minutes later.
I am so grateful that the next day he turned up at my door and looked after me for the weekend. But the guilt of this pregnancy loss weighed on me heavily. I had been out on my hen do drinking obscene amounts of alcohol and all the while I was pregnant. I blamed myself. It hit me hard. My mental health deteriorated. I did not tell anybody else for months. The reason being a toxic concoction of denial and misplaced shame. But I picked myself up. We had our wedding. Months went by. But I carried the loss with me, and the elephant grew larger.
Eventually, I booked myself in for the fertility tests. I was terrified they would find something wrong, and I avoided it for so long because I knew that they would. After having bloods taken the week before, we went in for our consultation. I could see the screen and I could see words in red. I had already read everything there was to read on fertility and I already knew this was bad news. The consultant didn’t say anything and went straight onto the scan. Her expression was serious throughout, and I spent the whole time knowing what was coming.
With a neutral tone, she told me that I had very few follicles on my ovaries and that my AMH levels were very low for my age, indicating fewer available eggs. With these two pieces of data, and my medical history, she advised that if we ever wanted children we should start trying immediately. She advised that we try for 6 months before returning to discuss IVF. The positive news was that I had a follicle developing, and so she could tell us that we were fertile that day, and that we should try that day. It was a whirlwind but the elephant couldn’t trumpet any louder and the decision seemed to have been made for us.
A few weeks later, I started waking up really early in the morning. This was completely unlike me as I have always been one to set exactly six alarms every morning. I had a bit of blood so I thought the chances were nil zero but I took a pregnancy test and it was faint but positive. I couldn’t believe it. I thought this must be fate and that it was meant to be. That everything that had happened leading to this point had happened for a reason.
I then continued to bleed red blood for four more days. I thought this was excessive for implantation bleeding so I told my GP but they said it was “probably fine, don’t stress”. Two and a half weeks later I bled for another four days. Concerned, I phoned the GP again, and again was told “this could be normal” and “we don’t do anything when you are only 6/7 weeks pregnant”.
I remember phoning almost daily at this point because I was so concerned. I asked if they could measure my HCG levels and check they were ok? “no”. Could they do an early scan? “no”. Could they prescribe me progesterone? “no.” Could they refer me to the EPU? “no.” It is important to note here that I don’t blame my GP – they are only operating on strict NHS guidelines, which they may or may not even agree with themselves. I finally decided to pay for a private early scan.
I was told the embryo hadn’t developed to where it should have given my number of weeks. They suggested a repeat scan two weeks later to have a definitive answer but I knew it wasn’t ok. I was 100% with my dates because a literal fertility consultant had told me I was ovulating. My husband was away. My mental health crashed. I was suffering with insomnia. The GP still couldn’t do anything for me.
A few days later, at the weekend, the blood got heavier, I became dizzy and the cramping worsened. One of my close friends drove straight over. We called 111. I was seen by an out of hours GP who again told me I was “still pregnant”, “it might be fine” “this could be normal”. They finally agreed to refer me to the EPU but that would have to wait until the Monday. They said if the bleeding worsened to go to A&E. So we went home. My friend made me food and we tried to “be normal”. Shortly after, I had stabbing pain, went to the toilet and lost a large amount of blood along with the “pregnancy product”. I had no idea what to do. My friend was amazing and wrapped it in a sanitary towel and put it in a sandwich bag. 111 told us to bring it with us. So we did. In an uber.
At A&E I was seen relatively quickly. They gave me strong painkillers and then took my blood. At this point I was soaking through sanitary towels every 30 minutes which was a concerning amount of blood loss. After having my blood taken I suffered a seizure. I then spent hours vomiting with a drip to replenish lost fluids. The doctor that looked after me in A&E was incredible. She understood the pain all too well. She sent the “product” off to be tested. She then asked what I wanted to happen to the remains. At this point I was dissociating and basically said I didn’t care. I feel so guilty about this decision. Of course I care. That’s my baby. And it was cremated with all the other lost rainbows at the hospital.
Come Monday my husband had returned and we went to the EPU to have a scan where they told me my uterus was empty. They gave me a leaflet on “pregnancy of unknown location”. I knew where the “pregnancy” was. Wrapped in a sanitary towel in a lab, or waiting to be cremated in a pile of other “products”. But this meant the process was over. I admittedly felt relief at knowing that the pain and bleeding would soon end.
Except a few days later I was one of the 1-3% of women that develop an infection. I continued to feel dizzy and unwell, and developed a high fever. We called 111 and went to the hospital at 1am. We were referred to another hospital so a gynaecologist could painfully examine me and tell me I had endometritis, an inflammatory condition of the uterine lining caused by infection.
By 6am we were leaving with antibiotics, which he said should work quickly. He also told us that the antibiotics have been known to boost fertility. He said if I experienced bleeding again in a future pregnancy I should contact them for progesterone supplements. The antibiotics did work quickly. A few days later I went away to Suffolk with friends, afraid that somehow something else would go wrong, but “at least” I was able to begin the grieving process.
I hate “at least” statements. “At least” you were able to get pregnant. “At least” you found out now and not later. “At least” it’s over now. “At least” there are other options. The other statement I hate is “it wasn’t meant to be”. It was meant to be for me, and for my husband. “It wasn’t meant to be” sounds like the life should never have happened. It relates to the clinical terms “incompatible with life” or “non-viable pregnancy”. One thing these terms do is help you to dissociate from the emotional pain you are suffering with, so you can flit between dissociation and absolute heartbreak.
Lydia has written about her miscarriages in her blog. To read the rest of her story, click here.
