The Miscarriage
The Miscarriage
Bad Blood
I started spotting in my 8th
week of pregnancy. It brought on a panic and a distress within me that I hadn’t
felt before. I tried to focus on my work but it was so hard to do. Amidst the
panic, I managed a comical text to my bestie, Jean. Perhaps a little comic
relief would ease the fear, I thought.
Kris: Jean, I’m spotting. I don’t know what to expect. We have a doctor’s
appointment soon but I’m scared.
Jean:
Ok, it’s normal to be scared. Let me know how it
goes.
Kris: OK.
Kris: Btw, ‘Baby, now we got bad blood’ has taken on a whole new meaning.
(Y’know the Taylor Swift song)
Jean: OMG Kris
---
(the following are adaptations of entries
from my journal circa Sept 15)
In many ways, throughout history, blood has
been a symbol of life. I think of how so much of who we are is in our blood. I
think of how from a sample of blood in a test tube, our futures are altered
forever- at risk, not at risk, sick, not sick, pregnant, not pregnant, among
others. I think of how in some way life comes from blood and blood from life.
In pregnancy, the sight of blood represents
quite the opposite. Spotting in my 8th week of pregnancy brought on a
panic and vulnerability I had never known.
“Could I possibly lose this baby?”
The thought ran through my mind in
intervals, between classes, between conversations, between breaths. That afternoon,
as expected but completely contrary to what I had hoped for, there they were
again- those ugly brown stains. Light but definitely present. My heart dipped a
little and I felt panic start to rise. I was still at school and I had an
appointment at 4pm with the doctor.
At the doctors, they drew blood. She said
it was the best way to find out how the pregnancy was going. Three test tubes
full and unlike before where I was usually cool and calm, I began to feel a
little faint. But it helped talking to someone I knew had more expertise than
me. The results would be out in a day or two. Until then, I told myself not to
panic. What was I thinking? Of course I would panic.
----
The Ultrasound
 |
| Hello peanut! |
Fast forward to the next week and
the bleeding had gotten worst. I think in my head I knew we had lost him (I
always felt it was a him) but I was still hoping.
I woke up to my phone ringing at 8 am. It
was the hospital telling me I had an ultrasound booked for 12pm. It was the
last day of term but there was no way I was going to be able to make it to
school and teach.
Before we knew it, we were in Ultrasound Room
1. I remember everything like it was just yesterday. The sign on the door, the blue curtains, the
dim lights and the metal table in the corner.
Our sonographer looked young, perhaps only
a few years older than us. She didn’t say very much. We waited, and waited as
she surveyed my insides. Then we waited somemore and the silence became
uncomfortable. I tried to find a focus point on the ceiling just so I wouldn’t
think the worst. I knew that if I looked
at Sam, I would start crying so I tried my best not to.
This was completely different from the
ultrasound a week ago where it only took our sonographer 10 seconds to turn the
screen towards us and show us the flickering heartbeat. This time, I knew something was wrong. I began
praying with all my heart whilst also knowing that I had to prepare myself for
the worst. Then she stopped. She said she needed to get another sonographer in
and asked if I had any questions.
I only had one but I couldn’t even ask it
properly. “How does it…is… is everything alright?” I mumbled.
She looked at me, tapped my knee (till this
day, I call this the pity pat) and said with a caring look, “We will discuss
this later ok?”
Then it came. The rush of tears that I
couldn’t stop. I looked at Sam and cried even more. By this time he was holding
my hand but still telling me that nothing had been confirmed. I looked at him
and said, “Didn’t you see the pity pat? It’s not good news.”
The second sonographer came in and the
scanning continued for the second time. This time, the tears flowed freely.
Then, with the screen turned towards us and in a very somber voice, he showed
us our baby and how there wasn’t a heartbeat this time. “I’m sorry, there is no
heartbeat. Take all the time you need and we will be back in a while.”
They closed the curtains behind them and
almost immediately, Sam grabbed me, his face was on my chest, his arms wrapped
around me and he sobbed. We sobbed like we had never sobbed before. I felt a
pain in my chest, as if my heart had shattered into a bilion pieces and what
remained was hollowness, a void that kept growing. We remained like that for
what felt like 5 minutes but in reality, was 45. Finally, we stood up. Sam took
my hands in his and prayed. I don’t remember the words, but I knew this was the
beginning of a different chapter. One we would only get through with Christ as
our Anchor.
After meeting with a doctor and deciding on
the natural option for the miscarriage, we went home. On the way, I called my
Mum and told her the news, and Sam hearing it all over again started sobbing.
It would be like this for a while. I
would cry, he would remind me we would get through this, he would cry, and I
would do the same.
Thus began the grieving process.
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