From Darkness to Light

This is the story of my miscarriage. I finally decide to publish it, despite this being a long, long-winded piece (and I have edited, and re-edited it many times to shorten it). I feel that, perhaps, someone of you would want to know more about it. Things I could not narrate in emails or video conference because those are meant for short and quick exchanges - most of the time anyway. Sometimes I wonder if I should keep such an unwelcome experience in sharp focus. It may be better to just let it fade. But maybe one can never truly forget it anyway. I am not sure how sad this can be - I didn't find it so when I was writing it. Still, if you are pregnant or intending to, better not continue reading as there is always that danger of getting a little too depressed.

In the beginning. In the End.
wk 1: They begin to date from the first day of the last menstrual period, even though I am not even formed yet!
wk 3: I think my very short life begins some time here. Mummy's not sure, because her period only came back 2 months ago, so it may still be quite irregular.
wk 4: Mummy's beginning to suspect, but she doesn't want to confirm yet, since she's not sure how regular her period is.
wk 6: I think my presence is beginning to be felt by her. She's feeling a little nauseated (but that may be due to her cold and cough) and very tired (but that can be due to my two brothers).
wk 7: She's tested it and gone to the GP. She wants to get a dating scan because she's not sure how big I am. She's not even sure of the date her last period started. She knows she will only get the scan at about wk 12 or 13.
I am the third child. My two brothers have been here before. Mummy is not always happy that I am here. She worries alot. She worries that I am not going to be normal (what's 'normal'?) She worries about this obstetrics cholestasis thingy that she had when she was pregnant with my second brother. It may happen earlier for my case. And there may be other new complications now that she's older and feels less fit. She's not sure she likes the idea of having three boys - if I am a boy (that's not my concern).
Then she worries about the breastfeeding, about having insufficient milk supply again, about partial breastfeeding and all that that entails: lactation aids, formula milk, messy feeding, soreness and pumping. Feeling perpetually tired and picky on food do not make things easier. She's lost interest in trips.
wk 8: I think something's gone wrong, maybe right from the start. Anyway, this must be where it will all end, for me at least. In this dark and silent world. But wait... is that light? And are those the merry sounds of my brothers? Oh, they are playing under the table. I might have joined them. It looked fun. But I couldn't, obviously.

The weeks rolled by, I didn't know. My morning sickness continued. Soon, it was time for my booking appointment with the midwife.

Knowledge and Acknowledge
Usually the dating scan is before the booking appointment. This is for the midwife to get the EDD from the ultrasound scan. But this time, the booking appointment was before the ultrasound scan and I remember thinking that so far, they only had my word that I was pregnant.
The system seemed to have just got computerised and the midwife and a trainee midwife were grappling over the forms to be filled in on screen. They had no records of my previous pregnancy and I had to provide the information from memory. We spent a rather drawn-out one hour on this. They also took 4 tubes of my blood for various blood tests in the meantime. It actually felt painful and the area was sore for a couple of days.
The midwife told me to call back on Monday after my dating scan to inform them of the EDD. They booked me for an appointment in 4 weeks' time, because of the Spina Bifida and Down's Syndrome screening test. I had told them I didn't want one, not after my previous experience. But she booked the date anyway, "just in case you change your mind, though I don't think you will."
Monday came and it was like any other day, except Ethan was recovering from a cold and we didn't bring him to the nursery. But he seemed ok in the afternoon and Jianming decided the whole family should go to the Royal Infirmary to see the baby for the first time. So we all went, a rather bulky baggage it must have appeared, with a backpack of the kids' things, Jethro and Ethan all wrapped up for the cold weather and Jethro asleep in the sling Jianming was carrying.
My turn came, we went in, and there was no premonition of what was to happen. But when the scan showed my womb, that something might be wrong began to dawn on me. The sac looked empty. Where was the baby? With Jethro, it had been so obvious. The sonographer did not say anything though, and went on to measure the dimensions of the gestational sac. Then she moved the probe to show the baby, it was rather small compared to the size of the sac and I was wondering if I should breathe a sigh of relief when she said, "This is not good news." Then, "I am sorry, but the baby is not developing well. Though we don't just look at that... there is no heart beat." She said she had to ask for a second opinion according to standard procedures. So she went out to get another sonographer who basically came in, looked at the screen, and confirmed her observation.
I was quite calm then although I could feel Jianming's stunned silence. Maybe because it hadn't come as a instantaneous shock to me. I am a natural worrier anyway. I am always worrying if I would be lucky this time round. Why did I risk it and get pregnant again, I had asked myself before. I would look at Jethro and Ethan, two rather different boys who already gave me different pregnancy experiences, different birth experiences and different characters, despite both being boys. Sometimes I wondered too, how I could cope with another one, when my temper is like this, when I am so flustered with the obsession of having to do my chores first. No doubt I would be back home then and back to work, things might be different. It might be worse. Also, unfairly for being the third child, I was not that excited and had suppressed the exhilaration of nurturing a new life because of all my worries.
The sonographer brought us to the Pregnancy Support Centre. We were waiting in the counselling room and the big, bulky 'Book of Remembrance' was held on a stand opposite me. I was still pretty calm. But then the nurse came in and the first thing she said was, "I am so sorry." And I couldn't control a few tears from falling then. It began to hit me that this was a sad event, because someone else, a stranger, was showing sympathy. But somehow, I managed to get through the meeting without breaking down. She gave me a leaflet on the options open to me and said I need not decide then and there and to call them once I had made my decision.

Decisions! Decisions!
The leaflet talked about three options: natural miscarriage, surgical evacuation and medical management. Surgical evacuation rather appealed to me more at that time because I really wanted to just let someone else take care of this and I felt I just couldn't go through the actual miscarriage process. And it's the quickest. For natural miscarriage, you won't know when the process will start, and for me, it's been three weeks since the fetus died apparently. For medical management, it would be closest to natural miscarriage but probably more intense, like induction of labour versus natural birth.
Jianming and I talked about this on the bus journey back and he preferred medical management. He was worried the perforation of the womb due to the surgical intervention would reduce the chance of getting pregnant again. I was still affected by this miscarriage and could not be so 'forward-looking' like Jianming.
I had blocked out from my mind any other thoughts of the fetus itself. I would need more support for the other two methods from Jianming who is at his busiest period trying to finish up his thesis. I had the impression that for surgical evacuation I could be up and about on the same day. I decided to go ahead with my decision. Jianming later said that the nurse did mention in the conversation that it was to be suction method but I hadn't caught it and it was not mentioned in the leaflet. I naively thought it was some clean-cut removal, albeit with insertion from the vagina, maybe with an ultrasound scan to help them (hence the risk of perforation?). Anyway, I called the nurse about 10 minutes before the centre closing time (4.30pm) that same day to tell her my decision. She said the earliest slot for surgery would be this Friday. She would call me again later to provide more details. And she did call back, about an hour later, to tell me to come to the Pregnancy Support Centre on Thursday 2.30pm (to take some blood samples and sign the consent form). The operation would be at 8am (for me to start waiting of course, think government hospitals) on Friday.

To know grief once again...
So I had about 3 more days till Friday. In the days leading up to the appointment on Thursday, there was time for the meaning of it all to start sinking in. On Monday evening itself, Jianming had started surfing the net and he wanted me to ask the nurse about providing a dignified incineration, instead of the usual heat treatment together with other medical wastes. Thus began the process of 'humanizing' the fetus - not that I never regarded it as a live being (when it was alive), just that I never got round to thinking much about it having a chance to become a neonate if things had been different. I hadn't wanted to have anything to do with the miscarried products. I thought I couldn't bear to see it. Then this request from Jianming.
Next he mentioned about giving the fetus a name so he could put the name up in church on Sunday, it being All Souls' Day. So the fetus now had a soul too. It's starting to get unbearable.
Finally there was the request if I could go for another ultrasound scan again, just to make sure the first diagnosis was not a mistake. I acknowledged the caution of this measure but it was rather hard to take. To have to go through that again, and alone this time (Jianming had to stay at home to take care of the children). The first time I had tried not to look too hard at the scan and that was probably how I got through. How was I to do it again? He had actually read in the net that if the fetus did not have heart beat at 8 weeks, it would be prudent to try again in 7-10 days' time. Also, my period might not have been regular yet. Maybe the fetus was indeed 8 weeks old instead of 11-12 weeks? But I didn't know this thing he had read about or I would have pointed out then that it's no point having the scan in 2.5 days' time.
The next day was a day of intermittent grief. Jethro, in particular, triggered it at times, seeing him toddling towards me, smiling in his mischievous way. Jethro, who might have been miscarried too, if I had gone ahead with the amniocentesis then and that 1 in 200 risk of miscarriage had happened to me. Jethro, who survived the womb and came out healthy, only to be tortured by my lack of milk into a dehydrated, hypothermic baby, having to be admitted to the neonatal unit at 7 days old. I remember getting out of the room because I couldn't bear to look while the doctor was trying to get some blood out of his tiny, dehydrated hands (to test if he was dehydrated!). The little needle points and the veins were to stay visible for months.
Another day, and I started to feel I could live with this fetus not growing inside me and hoped that a natural miscarriage would occur before Friday, so that it would efface all doubts of it being really dead, and also relieve me of having to make a decision to actively remove it.
But Thursday came and I still had no signs. So I went for the appointment (called a 'pre-clerking appointment'). The nurse who saw me was sympathetic and understanding, readily acceding to my request to have another scan and helping me find out about separating the extracted pregnancy tissue from the rest, though she was quick to point out that it would be in bits and pieces, I wouldn't see any fetus in it. She went through some medical history with me in preparation for the operation (mainly the anaesthesia part) the next day. Then she took two tubes of blood from me, to check my blood group (again!) and to make sure I am not anaemic. I have grown resigned to the fate that my meeting with NHS must always end in blood loss. What happened to my last 4 tubes? Couldn't they have taken from there?
I also realised that the procedure involved suction, and that reminded me of abortion. I am no religious person, but I am pro-life. How can one not be in this age of information and you can easily see pictures of the developing fetus on the net? I began to feel bad about the baby - my choice of extraction would tear it into pieces! How could I?
On top of that, I had a closer look at the ultrasound scan this time. The sonographer explained in more details to me. Snatches of the conversation: "At 6mm, we can already see the fetal heart beat. Yours is much bigger than that and as you can see, there is no heart beat." "The sac is jagged at the edges. It is actually starting to collapse. I am sorry." "Can you tell me how long is it now?" "My measurement is about 1mm different from the previous scan, but it means nothing. It may be that this time the image is clearer, and also human inaccuracies." (It was probably clearer, I was made to gulp down one jug of water prior to this scan.) So after this, I was quite convinced already, and it couldn't have been machine problem. Staring at the screen, I began to feel pity for this poor baby, and to wonder, oh how promising that image looked! It could have grown into a baby like any other.
I also found out that having general anaesthesia would render me rather functionless for a day and more. I would need an escort to see me home from the hospital - I had thought I wouldn't have to trouble Jianming and could go home on my own. Following that, for 24 hours after the anaesthesia, there were certain things like driving car and signing legal documents that I could not do. I began to fear that I would be incapacitated for longer than I had expected.
Along with all these new considerations were the risks of infection and womb damage, I started to feel more inclined towards medical management. But I was a stubborn, inflexible person so in the end, after getting the reassurance that less support was indeed needed for the surgical method, I signed the consent form. And apparently now that I had a miscarriage, I am 'eligible' for an early ultrasound scan for subsequent pregnancies, say, at 9 weeks. I just need to call the Pregnancy Support Centre.
During the wait for the doctor who would go through the consent form with me, I finally found the courage to open the Book of Remembrance. In it were all the beautiful and poignant wordings by the mothers who had miscarriages. They were really touching, though quite the usual stuff like dates when they found out the fetus was dead, dates when they had it removed, 'we will see you again in heaven', 'your mummy and daddy and brother and sister miss you'... And I still couldn't put any feelings into words.
This appointment had been a rather emotional one for me. Reaching home, I started to doubt all my decisions. Especially when Jianming showed me the sentence about reviewing in 7-10 days. Especially when we read a blog about how the first scanning for one particular mother was an 'egregious error' and luckily they found out in time on the day of the operation and the author went on to have a healthy daughter. And is there any ethical issue about surgical method like so many debates between the pro-choice and the pro-life? It doesn't seem to be the same as this is a miscarriage. But as a mother, shouldn't I have the courage to go through the pain of a natural or induced miscarriage rather than let other people do the dirty job for me? Just like how most women would prefer to give birth naturally instead of caesarean section if they could help it. But the thought of the whole process possibly lasting a few days, making it difficult for a two-adult family with two kids and no other external support to sustain the day-to-day activities, did not give me any impetus to change.

A New NHS Experience
So with the question of doing another scan (even though I was really quite convinced of the non viability of the fetus already, it's just that if there were even a slim chance that the fetus was alive, how could I just brush it off?), and of opting for the medical management instead, I left for the Day Surgery Unit at the Royal Infirmary the next morning. I had gotten up early in the morning to prepare Jethro's lunch. Jianming's and Ethan's lunch was an easy tortellini with tomato sauce and I had cut up some beans and carrots to go in it. For dinner, we had a slight argument the night before: Jianming wanted to buy some fish to cook but I just wanted to get some ready-made meals since I might not be able to help around the flat much. In the end, I prevailed and I went out to get some Italian pasta and fish pie that would last us two meals.
The waiting room at the Day Surgery Unit had big windows looking out to the bus stops, driveways and car parks. I could see, as the sky brightened, the hustle and bustle of people walking by, of buses moving past, of life carrying on as usual, oblivious to the little tragedies happening amongst it.
The first person I met was the anaesthetist. He looked quite young and junior. When he knew I was having cough, he had some concern about giving me general anaesthesia (GA) and asked if I was all right with a spinal anaesthetic instead. Now, I had been quite wary of being given a GA and actually did ask the doctor on Thursday why a local one was not usually administered. The doctor could not give me an answer then, and here was the anaesthetist volunteering it today. I should have jumped at it and said ok I suppose. But the way he posed the question made me hesitate. Maybe it would not be a nice feeling to be conscious during the operation? He then explained that as this was a short (10 minutes, he kept saying) operation, they usually administered GA since the effect could be quickly reversed after the operation. Whereas for a spinal one, it would take about 3 hours for the numbness to go away and I would have to stay in the hospital for a longer time. So I was not quite sure and could not give him an answer too. In the end, he said he would discuss with his colleague. He went out and I could hear him explain the situation to someone. Then I heard a stern voice asking him back what he thought he should do! The doctor mumbled some reply and then came back a long reply from the voice full of authority but I couldn't catch what they were saying. When he came back, he suggested GA. He said as it was a short operation (yes, 10 minutes), he didn't think there would be a problem and they would also clear my mucus up for this. At that point, I just didn't want to be 'too clever' and think that doctors could make mistakes too. I just wanted to let the experts make the decisions for me, even though it's my own life at stake. So I agreed.
After further waiting, I next met the nurse. She went through the pre-operation checklist with me and was about to give me the tablets to put inside my vagina (to soften the cervix) when I raised the question about the ultrasound scan. Sensing an indecision on my part, she did not go ahead with the tablets and told me to wait and speak to the doctor first.
The surgeon looked forbidding (and thus experienced). He went through the consent form that I signed. Then he said, "So I heard from the nurse you have some questions?" I did not know how to put across our doubts succinctly but I really tried. He shook his head, "Normally we can see the heart beat at 6mm. Yours is 16mm! We can definitely see the heart beat at this time." Every time I raised a query, he shook his head, "No, not possible." In the end, he said, "You can either do the operation today or another day." Basically he meant there would be no need for further ultrasound scan to confirm. I call him the brutal surgeon (silently, of course!). So I said okay. Then I asked him about taking away the pregnancy tissue. He had this what-a-ridiculous-request look on his face and said nobody had ever asked this before. (That turned out not to be true, people have asked in the past, I guess, just not to him. So I asked the wrong person. I am losing it, that experience of working in a big and bulky organisation.) He emphasized that I would not see anything, just blood. I insisted. Jianming had agreed to deal with this part of the business and the least I could do was to secure the pregnancy tissue. He said he could ask. Then, I asked (oh dear, too many questions) about medical management, would I get a complete tissue with that method? He shook his head (but that didn't mean no, it just meant he's not supportive of what I was getting at). "It would just be a blood clot. You have to search (he demonstrated with his hand searching) for it." By then, he was standing as he thought I had asked the last question with the taking away of the pregnancy tissue. Now, he sat back down, stared up at me and said, "You can have medical management if you want." I thought about all the arrangements made for today - the food, Jianming staying at home. Too tired to struggle any more, I stuck to the original intention.
When I went back to the nurse again, she asked me if I could put the tablets in myself or if I needed someone else to do it. At first, I indicated I needed help. Later, I thought why not make myself useful for once? Obviously people would rather not have to do this for someone else if they could help it. So I said I would try. She gave me the two tablets and some gel. I put on the glove and this was the part where I broke down. Here goes, from here on, the baby had to come out. Goodbye, baby. Even though you had been dead for sometime, this was the part where I finally had to say goodbye. I now knew why I couldn't write anything before this. I just didn't feel the baby gone yet as long as it remained within me. The nurse gave me a room to stay by myself for awhile. I wrote my Goodbye to the baby and said I was sorry to have chosen this easy way out for myself.
Soon, I was conducted to the changing room to change into the theatre gown. There was a TV in the room and I remember the TV hosts screaming out "It's Friday the 13th!" Oh please, I just needed more of this. Another nurse went through the pre-operation checklist once more and took me to the anaesthetic room. There we waited for the big guys.
The surgeon came in and gave me a slight smile. I was fine with that so long as he's professional. Then the anaesthetist came in and he wasn't young. He's a rather old white man with a cool yet charming smile. I wondered if he could be the stern voice I heard talking to the first anaesthetist earlier - he indeed spoke rather sternly to the medical student who was with us. But he had a kind smile and kind words for me. As the anaesthetic fluid was injected into me, the doctor looked at me, smiled and said, "Time to sleep." That must be his catch phrase twenty times a day. He started pushing it in, but I wasn't asleep yet. No, I wasn't! Then they put an oxygen mask over me and as I breathed in, I had the illusion that it was the breathing that made me drowsy. I closed my eyes, it felt peaceful, not at all scary like I thought and saw Ethan go through.
"Swee, wake up." The nurse was calling me. I opened my eyes and recalled everything before my GA immediately. I knew the operation must be over. I knew now my womb must be empty. I should feel sad but I had such a good sleep I actually felt calm and refreshed. They asked if I was ok and I said I felt a bit sore, so they gave me a painkiller. They took the sensors off me and pushed me to the ward.
It was a narrow space we had there, not like the maternity wards. The surgeon came to talk to me. He started with the operation being successful, then said I had lost 'a bit' more blood than they expected and I would have to stay till 5pm for observation (normally one could go home between 1-3pm). I wasn't really much concerned by it as I felt fine, almost painless. I was left much to myself after that with the nurses coming at intervals to take my blood pressure and pulse rate and change my pads. Then they took another tube of blood off me to check my iron levels since I had lost 'a bit' more blood. They gave me my refreshments and I had a sandwich and some tea before they rushed over to take them, including the jug of water, away from me. "Doctor's instruction. You are not to have anything to eat. Sorry." In case I had to go back to the operating theatre again.
My medical file was lying nearby. I felt I could read it without much feeling. There were just so many goings-on around me and the fluorescent lights really made a difference to the mood of the place. I began to read the file with interest. There were the two reports of my two visits to the Pregnancy Support Centre. I noted down the ultrasound scan measurements:
From the first report:
9 Nov 09 14:20
USS: Location PSC Direction Transabdominally Findings: Single IU gestation sac GSD=76x23x53mm MGSD=50.5=10w 6d. Containing a non viable fetus CRL=16mm=8w 2d. No FH. Small bleed adjacent to sac.
The second report:
12 Nov 09 14:30
USS Findings: Large intrauterine irregular shaped gestation sac. Single fetal pole CRL=8+2 weeks. NO FETAL HEART MOTION SEEN.
There were the consent forms and all the other forms I went through with the doctor and nurses on Thursday and Friday. Then there was the GA monitoring during my operation. I found out that the operation had lasted for 30 minutes in my case and there was a further 20 minutes before I woke up. I had lost 700ml of blood. I am not sure if that was considered a lot for this kind of procedure, and what the norm would be. But perhaps ignorance is bliss here. In the forms they wrote 'non-viable fetus', 'non-viable pregnancy'. I noted that nowhere did they mention the word 'dead'. The operation was called Surgical Evacuation of the Uterus. I learned that the plastic container they put under (or behind) my trolley when I was first wheeled into the ward was the 'Products of Conception'.
Jianming came with the two boys at around 4.30pm. Jethro found the environment, including me in my theatre gown and in bed, strange and clung onto Jianming, refusing to let me carry. Jianming had contacted a funeral director who would collect the pregnancy tissue from the hospital on Monday. Over the weekend, it would be stored at the maternity ward, in a place called the 'Cocoon'.
The doctor on duty came slightly after 5pm. He made sure my bleeding had not been a lot and was settling down. He checked for areas of pain and prescribed me some antibiotics. He listed the various symptoms that would require me to call the ward over the weekends should I experience them. I asked about the possibility of perforation of the womb as I saw it in the letter they wanted me to pass to the GP. He said if my bleeding were normal, that would be the best indication that everything was all right. He elaborated that during the operation, my womb relaxed a little and that was when there was quite a fair bit or blood loss. But my womb has since contracted and it should be ok.
There was a funny incident here, if anything that happened could be called funny. I had said that I did not feel like passing urine (one of the criteria for discharge). He said I'd better do that before I was to leave. He said he's sure I had a full bladder because - "listen" - he then tapped at my upper abdomen: "sounds hollow?" and the lower abdomen: "hear the difference?". Okay, okay, Doctor, I get your point.
While waiting for my medicine, the nurse gave me my long-overdue refreshments of tea and some biscuits. I shared the biscuits with Ethan. I also had a bowl of soup and some sandwiches. I shared with Ethan the sandwiches. Jethro also had a bit of baby biscuits from our backpack and he seemed to cheer up after that. Especially after I changed back my clothes, he was willing to let me carry him again. I had been lying on the bed for 5 hours, the operation period not including, and found I had no difficulty getting out and walking about.
I felt so fine that I told Jianming we need not take a taxi (I was not to take public transport after GA). But Jianming insisted and that was probably a good decision as I felt a little sick on the taxi. Reaching home, it was already past 6pm and my decision to buy ready-made meals was probably a good one.

Blowing in the Wind
Because there was to be a funeral, I had to think of a name like, last minute. We finally named the baby 'Ninn'. I thought, it rhymed with 'wind' and also 'nymph'. I like the poem 'Do not stand at my grave and weep... I am the thousand winds that blow...'
Funeral services are provided free for children under 16. We had to pay £90 for the cremation. We had the funeral on Thursday at about 3pm. The afternoon before, we made our way to the funeral parlour at South Clerk Street to see the baby in a nice little coffin. We brought it flowers and letters we had written.
On Thursday at about 2.30pm, we were chauffeured in a limousine to Mortonhall Crematorium. It rained the whole day. Father Joseph from St Patrick's Church presided over a small service. It was hard not to feel sad and drop a few tears then, whatever your religion. We didn't see the coffin being moved into the crematorium. The ashes - being too little, we could not have it - would be scattered over the Remembrance Walkway. As it was a rainy day, we went home straight after the service.
I must add that Ethan actually cried at some point before the funeral. I am not sure how much he understood about death but I think he used to think people could wake up again after dying (and no, nothing of a religious nature here). Since we had to bring him to see the coffin, we have had to 'come clean' and he was a little traumatised by it. Ethan need not be aware, but for the way we chose to close this event.

Goodbye, Ninn
"What is blowing in the wind?"
"My ashes and others, Mummy."
"What is falling with the rain?"
"Our tears, dear baby."
It's been weeks since the operation. I sometimes count the days from the day the baby was no longer with me. But I am not doing that so often now. Things seemed to get back to normal right the next day after the operation. I no longer feel perpetually tired, or nauseated and am even getting back my itchiness to venture a little further out. In fact, physically, I feel a little rejuvenated. But the kids have been sick. It was to be another week before I started bringing Jethro to playgroups again. We began to get our routines back. Initially, I had felt a bit low at intervals, a kind of silent grief that suddenly arose out of no reason, but taking care of two boys and cooking really leave me no room, no time for immense grief, 'no time to stand and stare'.

Random thoughts like the river
Statistically, there is a 20-25% chance of first trimester miscarriages. That's quite a lot. Inevitably, you'd know someone or someone's friend who's had a miscarriage. The lady in the bed opposite me, for example. Before the operation, at the waiting room, I had heard her telling someone on the mobile phone how this was her third or fourth miscarriages. I thought she seemed strong, able to speak in such even tones about this. Having children clearly meant a lot to her for her to have tried so many times. Then in the ward, I heard it clearer, as she told the nurse, how she had had four pregnancies, three of which ended up in miscarriages. She has a son, 13 months old, called Rory.
Many of the people I know who had miscarriages were first-time pregnant. I can now feel how traumatic it must have been for them. Why did the fetus go on developing if it would have to stop soon anyhow? Why couldn't the egg and the sperm, when they first met, decide that this was just not going to work and abort it right then? So we'd never have to know.
But I know many of these mothers, especially since it was their first or second pregnancy, would go on to try to have another child, and many succeeded. They can then seek comfort in that child. But perhaps, at times, they can't help not thinking about the child they might have had. How old he/she would be now. And, looking at the healthy kid messing around in front of them, they imagine a scene that would never happen - that child that died in the womb, growing up and reaching for things like this one, toddling towards them, smiling innocently or mischievously, gabbling and crying for things. Then, perhaps the eyes can't help being a little wet then, or the nose a little red.
I must explain my enthusiasm for narrating such 'gory' details about my encounter with the NHS here. I have never had to deal with the medical community so intensively as I have had in my two years' stay here: Ethan's accident, my pregnancy, Jethro's neonatal stay, vaccinations and now this. And it was all an experience for me. I find that doctors here are generally tired-looking and stern, with just the bare show of geniality. But the nurses, midwives, health visitors here - they are great. Personable, approachable, experienced, comforting. The system may have its flaws, but the people make it perfect.
On the side table in the counselling room of the Pregnancy Support Centre, I saw these two lines:
"Some make it to flight and burst forth like butterflies
Some stay asleep in their cocoon. Both are equally loved."
I like to think my little -32-week-old baby has a spirit. That it is lightly floating about, here in Edinburgh. Its ashes remain in Edinburgh, but maybe its spirit will follow us home.