Miscarriage

PostingParallel universe

I broke down in the doctor's office at my first ante-natal appointment. It was a few days after the positive pregnancy test result. A young female doctor asked me, without looking at me or my notes, "Are you planning on continuing with this pregnancy?" Her jumper failed to cover her stomach and she had a can of Diet Coke on her desk. She might have been hung-over, I can't be sure. Ten years younger than me? Fifteen? I knew without being told that she was childless herself. "Have you even bothered to read my notes?" I accused her. "If you had, you'd know how much I want this baby. Of course I want to continue with the pregnancy. It's a question of whether I'll be able to." I burst into tears and waved my hands around my head. Turned to my husband. "See! She doesn't even care enough to read the notes to find out I've had a miscarriage." My husband held my hands, reasoned with me and produced a hanky to mop up my tears. "It's no good," I told him. "They can't help anyway. All they do is tell you the baby's dead, then act like they're morally superior and have a right to tell us what to do. What's the point of this?" The doctor's skin turned a blotchy red colour and I could smell her sweat. "They have to ask questions like this," said my husband. The doctor nodded earnestly. "Whose side are you on here?" I asked my husband.

Since this debacle a senior midwife, a woman whom I like and trust, a bit older than myself, with several children of her own, has handled all my ante-natal care. I'm now seven months pregnant and, with luck, she'll look after me during the birth. She's arranged her annual leave to be here for me around my due date. But, sometimes, when I go to the surgery to see Lorna, the midwife, I spot the doctor chatting with receptionists, tugging at the same bobbly, ill-fitting jumper, smoothing back her hair, laughing too loudly, hanging on what the older doctors are saying, trying to copy their behaviour. Knowing she hasn't got it quite right. And I remember being the same at her age. Yes, even down to bad taste in jumpers. I've apologised to her for my behaviour - and she was alright about it. Said she realised I needed 'more support'. That she'd spent more time reading through my notes. She was sorry too.

I was reminded last week about the difficulty of  younger people's well-meant but sometimes insensitive attempts to offer care, when I met a twenty-something woman who was training to be a 'childbirth educator'. As with the doctor, I knew, the way you do, that she was childless. "You don't have any children of your own, do you?" I asked. No, she didn't. "Do you, errr, not see that as a problem in helping women through childbirth and becoming parents?" No, she didn't. Could she feel my bump, please? No, she could not.

Posted 24 May 2008 11:33 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Older mother Miscarriage Health workers Angst

PostingStitch in time

s273_Small.jpgI have started knitting again. I say 'again' deliberately. Maybe I should explain: when I was pregnant last year I started knitting a baby blanket and jacket. Then I miscarried at 11 weeks. And my knitting stopped. All I have to show for that pregnancy are some blanket squares. When I hold them to my face they smell of lavender after months at the back of a drawer. I still cry at the sight of them. An unfinished beginning that I haven't the heart to throw away. For years I never understood how devastating miscarriage can be. Until it happened to me.

In this pregnancy I have - up until now - refused to do any knitting. In case I jinx things with my optimism. This is irrational. I am now 24 weeks pregnant. Every scan has given good news. I should be confident by now about this baby: even as I write I can feel her swimming across my stomach, kicking me as she goes. We have a name for her, scan photos, even a 15-minute DVD. She is a reality. But I remain nervous. Too nervous to think about buying baby equipment. I've managed to start knitting again, though. A sleep bag (like the one pictured above). That's something.

Posted 18 March 2008 15:44 | Number of comments: 14 | Comments

Miscarriage New baby Pregnancy

PostingCaffeine linked to miscarriage

coffee_Small.jpgArticle in The Times saying just two cups of coffee per day could cause miscarriage. "The main message for pregnant women is that they probably should consider stopping caffeine consumption during pregnancy," says the scientist who led the US study.

Pat O’Brien, a consultant obstetrician at University College Hospital, London, and spokesman for the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, is quoted saying: “This is the best evidence we now have on the subject and I will advise patients to avoid caffeine completely, at least for the first 12 weeks of pregnancy. Good studies have shown it may be safer to drink caffeine after that, but no more than 200 mg a day is still to be recommended.”

The Times helpfully gives caffeine doses:

(caffeine in a 150ml drink):

100mg in coffee

39mg in tea

15mg in a caffeinated soft drink such as cola

2mg in hot chocolate

2mg in decaffeinated coffee

I didn't have a problem with coffee during the pregnancy I lost. But I couldn't bear the taste or smell of coffee in the first trimester with this baby - maybe nature's way of keeping the pregnancy safe. Nowadays I manage the odd cup. And I couldn't imagine life without a morning cup of tea. Nectar.

What do you think of the new caffeine limits? Could you/did you stick to them in pregnancy?

Posted 21 January 2008 11:29 | Number of comments: 14 | Comments

Health Pregnancy Safety Miscarriage

PostingA funny old year

Some highlights - and some not-so-good bits - from 2007:

January - back to work for first time since having Beanie. It's like returning from exile in a foreign country. Painful to be parted from her. In more ways than one. Am still breastfeeding so by mid-morning my boobs are so hard I have to squirt out milk by hand in the loo to relieve the pain. My co-workers all seem young, slim and trendy. They're a nice crowd, but I bet none of them have ever even seen the structural monstrosity that is a nursing bra. It's hard to be hip when you're lactating. Am struggling to lose post-pregnancy weight.

February - builders rip our flat apart to investigate for dry rot.  Fitted carpets (laid only a year earlier) are taken up, architraves ripped off the window recesses.There isn't any rot, as it turns out, but in darker moments I sometimes think there might as well have been, with all the mess, upheaval and expense.

March - pregnant again, after only the first month of trying. It happens so easily, the pregnancy feels unreal from the outset. Va-vay and I - both exhausted from last year's onslaught - are ambivalent. An air of unbelievability hangs over the pregnancy's entire (short) duration. I'm not sick, tired or dizzy. At the time, this seems a good thing.

Start this blog, following a chance encounter with a writer at an Edinburgh City of Literature evening. Unsure where it will take me.

April -  Beanie's first birthday and our second wedding anniversary. Beanie walking.  Reluctantly, I wind down breastfeeding, thinking I should concentrate resources on the new baby.

May - start bleeding, losing bright red blood. When we go for a scan the next day, the monitor shows the baby has no heartbeat and probably died several weeks previously. People quote statistics at me, telling me 'how common' it is. Despite my earlier ambivalence about the pregnancy, am wretched at losing it. Feel a fool as well.

June - Va-vay goes on reproductive strike. He wants a break over the summer from trying for a child. I am now desperate for another baby. Everywhere I look I see prams, babies and smiling mothers. Despite the statistics, I can't imagine any of them ever having a miscarriage. I interrogate friends on whether they're pregnant, dreading them saying yes. It isn't healthy, but I can't help it.

July - Counselling helps me start to come to terms with the loss - and I manage to agree to wait before trying again.

August - Edinburgh International Book Festival. Hear Ian McEwan, Benedict Allen, Colin Thubron, Janice Galloway, Kate Mosse, Simon Armitage, Antonia Swinson, Esther Freud and Kitty Aldridge speak. This is fun. Realise I haven't enjoyed going out and about like this since before I was pregnant with Beanie.

September -  Scott Pack of The Friday Project signs me up to write a handbook for women who become mums 'fashionably late'. Looks like this blogging business is going somewhere after all.

October - holiday in France. Happy days.



November - turn forty. The event I've been dreading all year. Worse in the anticipation than the deed. A slap-up lunch with Va-vay eases the pain. I felt like this when I turned thirty - now I can't understand what the fuss was about.

December - difficult start to the month, with what would have been my due date. But good news follows. Can't say too much at the moment, but will keep you posted in 2008.

Posted 31 December 2007 11:25 | Number of comments: 13 | Comments

Books Fashionably Late - the book Miscarriage Work

PostingSaving face

"It is indeed not easy for any man to write upon literature or common life so as not to make himself known to those with whom he familiarly converses, and who are acquainted with his track of study, his favourite topicks, his peculiar notions, and his habitual phrases." Johnson: Addison (Lives of the Poets)

When I started this site back in March I wanted to be anonymous. I used made-up names for my husband and daughter and told nobody except close family I was writing a blog. The blogosphere (not that I even knew the term then) was unknown. And therefore scary.  A few people had warned about something called 'cyber-stalkers'. Even though I suspected any self-respecting cyber-stalker would have more interesting targets than me, I didn't fancy the thought of one pitching up as Beanie drank her babycinos.

200pxSamuelJohnsonbyJoshuaReynolds_Small.jpgIn the months since March, I've started to make friends with some of the lovely people I've met through the blog. The blogosphere's no longer such a frightening place. I'm so much more confident about blogging, I've even put my photo up on the site and now use my real name when replying to comments. My entire family and a wide circle of friends know about the blog. Anyway, if Dr Johnson (pictured) is right in what he says, these things get known about regardless of whether a writer wishes to remain anonymous. Or not.

But as anonymity's fallen by the wayside, I'm finding it harder to write about some of the things that the blog has helped me with in the past - notably, miscarriage and pregnancy - and am beginning to self-censor. Petite Anglaise has an interesting posting on the same subject in which she writes about having less room for manoeuvre now her identity's widely known.

I'd love to write more about my attempts to get pregnant again following my miscarriage in May. Suffice to say, 'being on stand-by' has taken on a whole new meaning for Va-vay, while an element of spontaneity has gone from proceedings. You have to laugh. Or at least exchange wry glances. Procreation - as opposed to recreation. It can be business-like. Ovulation test sticks have featured in my dreams.

I should say at this point that I have never been especially secretive. And after I had Beanie I lost most of my few remaining inhibitions and started discussing with near-strangers issues like stress incontinence, depth of vaginal tears, their impact on 'marital relations', and periods. Childbirth seems to have that effect on women. Or maybe it's looking after a newborn. It's liberating.

But I still feel a residual embarrassment at sharing on the web what are, after all, fairly personal and intimate details of my life. Sometimes I think I'm writing here only for my blog friends. But as I see visitor numbers creep up, I think, "Jeepers! I could be sharing details of my menstrual cycle with anybody who stumbles on this site!"

And I come over all reserved and uptight. I don't know the answer on this one. When I had the miscarriage in May, it was cathartic to write about it here on the site and wonderful to get support from other women. Somehow I was able to share about what had happened in a way I couldn't in 'real' life, except with a couple of people. It's easier to write about these things, than talk about them, because it feels slightly unreal.

But as the site attracts a bigger readership, and I focus more on my book, I'm starting to feel inhibited. It's not that there's anything particularly saucy or scandalous in what I want to write, but I'd like to write more about this time of wondering if I can have another baby. The worst bit is the uncertainty and not knowing.

Then I think how unfair it would be on Va-vay to write about that. Or what it might be like to go to a dinner party where a new acquaintance is already only too well acquainted with my intimate gynaecological detail, thanks to reading this blog. Hmmm. Tricky one.

Posted 22 October 2007 13:12 | Number of comments: 18 | Comments

Blogging Dilemmas Miscarriage Pregnancy Fashionably Late - the book

PostingCount-down

The wedding in Ireland takes place just over two weeks away. Two weeks in which I must primp, pluck and preen away two years of self-neglect. Two weeks in which to pray that the summer's long diet to rid myself of post-pregnancy weight has worked well enough for me to fit into a fashionable outfit. An outfit sans even the merest hint of smocks, peasantry or burgeoning bellies. An outfit I can wear with no-one, but no-one, not even the kindliest and most well-meaning, pointedly asking me about due dates or plans to have more children.

Two weeks in which I must:

1. Brave the Lewis' hat department to choose something called a 'fascinator' for my hair. Preserve it from Beanie's merciless ministrations. Wonder which Potter book it appeared in. Convince self I do not look ridiculous in it.

2. Repair to the local Floatarium for revitalising hour in a water tank. Resist temptation to draw unflattering parallels between self and Bertie's mum, the fictional Irene from Alexander McCall Smith's Scotland Street. A lady who also frequents the Floatarium - in her case, with controversial results.

3. Brush up on non-baby-related small talk. Perhaps find out if a World Cup beckons later this year. So that when people talk about 'the match' I'll know which one.

4. Psyche self up to be in roomful of mostly new people. On my own, without Va-vay (who's babysitting).

5. Remove, by scrubbing if necessary, any rejected fish pie or other gloop engrained on my person, hair or clothes.

6. Resist temptation to tell everyone I meet at the wedding that they should have a blog.

7. Unearth the nice underwear I last wore on honeymoon, before I got pregnant and outlawed underwireds to the back of the chest of drawers. As a friend said: "They did their job well, those bras." Probably repress dismay that I'll never again be a 36C. Try to be happy that at least Va-vay is pleased by my increased chest size.

8. Get hair do. Rejoice in freedom to have highlights done - as not pregnant.

9. Find wedding present

10. Remember to apply expensive face creams Va-vay brought back as gift from his weekend away. Dismiss negative thoughts that he might be trying to tell me something with this choice of present.

11. Train myself not to coo, trill, babble or sing at adult wedding guests.

12. Savour thought of returning from travels with handbag mysteriously devoid of crumbled infant rice cakes.

13. Look forward to being on plane where it will not be my job to soothe, feed or hush my poor, traumatised daughter as her ear drums get sore, and she wails in despair that she doesn't understand where she is or what's happening to her.

14. Try to convince myself I won't miss her like mad, that I won't be thinking of her every minute I'm away from her.

Can it be done? I'll let you all know. The last one, number fourteen, will be the hardest by a long chalk. Wish me luck.

Posted 28 August 2007 21:22 | Number of comments: 22 | Comments

Friends Miscarriage Older mother Out and about Pregnancy

PostingBecoming a Mother

Enjoyed hearing Kate Mosse, the author, that is, not the supermodel, speak at the Edinburgh Book Festival earlier this week. Mosse wrote the excellent Becoming a Mother at the start of her writing career, before becoming an international best-seller with her novel Labyrinth.  Becoming a Mother is a wonderful book, deceptively simple yet powerful, that helped launch Mosse's fiction writing. And it's helped me immensely too, lifting the guilt and grief I've been struggling with since a miscarriage in May.

Reading Becoming a Mother, I'm reminded of that famous line from Alan Bennett in The History Boys, about how we read books to find that hand stretching out through the darkness to take ours. Bennett's referring to the joy and relief of finding a kindred spirit on the written page, meeting someone who's experienced the same feelings as ourselves when we thought we were alone in them.

Unlike most of the many books I've read on pregnancy and childcare this book doesn't judge any of the ordinary women who feature in it. Instead it tells their stories, starting from the decision to try for a baby through to the early days caring for a newborn. Without preaching or pedantry. Not once does she lay claim to being an expert. Not once does she lay down the law.

Mosse manages to get inside women's heads, and gives voice to many of the conflicting emotions we feel. She understands the rollercoaster of ovulation kits and pregnancy tests, the obsessive weeing on sticks, the running to the loo to check for bleeding every twenty minutes.

On the subject of miscarriage, Mosse quotes one woman unlucky enough to suffer this experience saying:

"I know it is better to lose an abnormal baby - but the loss coincides with the ambivalent feelings you have at the start of the pregnancy. Half-feeling it was a bad idea - even if the pregnancy was planned - just makes you feel guilt when you do miscarry."

That's exactly how I felt when I had a miscarriage in May and I blamed myself for having felt daunted by the prospect of looking after two babies, both of them under two. I thought the new baby must have sensed my ambivalence and thought better of joining us, but couldn't admit this to anyone. Somehow reading that other women have felt the same way has helped me see it's ridiculous to torment myself like this.

Posted 24 August 2007 22:18 | Number of comments: 11 | Comments

Books Edinburgh Festival Guilt Miscarriage

PostingNew me

Let's start with the good news. A mere 15 months after the Bean's arrival, I have slimmed down to the point where I no longer need to wear my old maternity clothes. People have, thank God, stopped a) asking when the baby's due (from the more brazen) and b) looking pointedly at my stomach.

And the bad news? The bad news is:

1. Trauma of ridding wardrobe of old and beloved maternity pantaloons

2. I have hardly any normal clothes left, not ones I fit into or could use anyway

3. After 15 months with a mix of statutory maternity pay and part-time freelance work, there's not much money to buy new threads.

4. The worst bit - I'm not doing very well at coming to terms with a symbolic end to The Bean's baby years.

First I piled up all my old maternity trousers, with their funny elasticated rigging that I dimly remember once, long, long ago, striking me as peculiar. They now seem alarmingly normal. The strange tweed maternity skirt from the Formes sale that I had to keep hitching up over my bump even at nine months. Cheap tops from Dorothy Perkins that fell apart in the wash.

Then I set to work on all the breastfeeding gear - breastfeeding nighties, breastfeeding camisoles, breastfeeding winter tops, breastfeeding T-shirts. Looking at the unironed pile of flannel on my bedroom floor, I did wonder if breastfeeding really does work out cheaper than bottles; that lot must have filled the NCT coffers by a few hundred quid. Here, too, it was hard to say goodbye. Flannel is very comfortable against the skin, you know.

Like maternity clothes, breastfeeding tops are another clothing peculiarity. From afar they seem normal, that is until you inspect them more closely and see the strange flaps, slits, panelling and apertures tucked away. The sight of them brought back happy memories: on a trip to the local art shop, the owner had to point out to me I'd neglected to close the flaps up again after feeding The Bean. Oops. Very bohemian.

About a dozen lovely glamorous greying nursing bras, including the badly-fitted one that had me in agony with a blocked duct, followed them into a storage basket. Even after all the early traumas of breastfeeding I was upset to see them all go, but I've steeled myself to draw a line and move on.

Then the following day, in one of those coincidences that are so uncannily in tune with personal circumstances they really shouldn't be a coincidence, a woman in the street stopped me to ask if I knew any good maternity wear shops in Edinburgh. I suppose she must have guessed I'd know, judging from The Bean's age. As I pointed up the hill to one place, tears welled up in my eyes, I cut the conversation short, and pushed The Bean away.

Update later the same day... it seems I spoke too soon. My kind neighbour saw me struggling in with five shopping bags earlier, and insisted on carrying two of them up the stairs to our second floor flat.... because she thought I was expecting. This is just intolerable. I look more pregnant than some of the women who really are. I have had to explain again I am not pregnant, though God knows I wish I were, (I spared her that part) and that I had a miscarriage. She looked mortified at her mistake, and I have just come off the phone to Va-vay in floods of tears.

Posted 30 July 2007 11:33 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

Childcare Edinburgh Kit Pregnancy Breastfeeding Miscarriage Money

PostingThin line

It's a fine line between diligent parenting and utter lunacy, as Dulwich Mum was saying the other day. The trouble is telling when you've crossed the line. What self-respecting lunatic parent is gifted with self-awareness?

A nasty bout of what could be parental paranoia kicked off yesterday morning. Or then again it might be normal maternal instincts to protect my child. Don't ask me.

It started when I staggered up the hill to take The Bean to nursery. She couldn't be happier at nursery these days, sometimes waving and clapping as we approach.

I wasn't so thrilled, though, at our arrival. My heart started pounding and my knees went shaky at the sight that greeted us. Was I being negligent in leaving The Bean here?

The security gate into the front garden was swinging open, beckoning in anyone from the street. This isn't just a garden gate; it has an intercon and buzzer for access to the inner nursery sanctum.

Big boys and girls - by which I mean pre-schoolers - play in this garden, admittedly watched over by nursery staff. It's about the fourth time in a fortnight I've found it wide open.

I wheeled her through the garden, past the climbing frame, discarded tractors and trikes, to a second security door in the actual nursery buildings. That, too, was wide open.

The nursery insists its biggest defence is that staff never leave the children alone. I can't relax  knowing the doors are often left open.

Nursery has been responsive to my concerns. They've put up notices remininding people to shut the doors behind them. And they've promised to get a locksmith to check the latches.

There's not a locksmith in the world can do anything about people who won't shut the door or gate behind them.

So yesterday I explained again to The Bean's key worker why it's maybe not such a good idea to leave the doors open. She said a locksmith was coming out again this week to ensure the doors locked properly.

At times like this, I rejoice in the sheer good fortune of having a husband. This called for reinforcements.

Once on the case, he called the nursery, then rang back with good news. The nursery was planning to remind every parent individually that same evening to shut the security doors.

When I went to pick The Bean up later that day, a nursery sentry stood guard at the garden gate.

The upshot? Relief, but also fear I made a big fuss about nothing. Since the miscarriage I've had heightened fears of all sorts about loss - awake and in dreams. So this might be personal paranoia. Or maybe it's the reaction of any responsible parent.

I'm not alone in these concerns. Caroline Dunford writes amusingly about how she handled similar dilemmas in leaving her little boy, 'The Emperor', at playgroup in her wry and entertaining book How to Survive the Terrible Twos (published by White Ladder Press at £7.99). I've just finished Caroline's book, but fear I may be referring back to it frequently in coming months.

What do you think? Please leave a comment!

Posted 10 July 2007 11:34 | Number of comments: 18 | Comments

Daughter Dilemmas Husband Miscarriage Missing sanity Nursery

PostingWomen of a certain age

The number of women in their 40s going to IVF clinics has doubled, according to a posting on Alpha Mummy, but the likelihood of a successful pregnancy remains as low as ever. The social phenomenon is reportedly caused by more and more women waiting till later in life to have a child, despite the sad truth that fertility falls of a cliff after 35.

No offence to Alpha Mummy, one of my favourite blogs, but I've got to say this story smacks of those "have-it-all" attacks on working mums. You know, the idea that any woman who has the gall to want both career and motherhood will be punished for her audacity - in this instance with infertility. Other variants on the theme include: "Sending your child to nursery will damage him or her". It also doesn't tie with my personal experiences. I had my daughter at 38, comparatively late, yes, but because I only met my husband aged 35, not because of work. You can't legislate for when you fall in love with the right guy.

Nobody writes stories anymore about the success stories of IVF, about the couples blessed with children thanks to these techniques who would otherwise have remained childless, with the woman no doubt labelled "careerist". It's obviously very sad that women are disappointed in their dreams of having children. But to me, this is a scare story that smacks of resentment that women are taking control of their lives and their reproductive fate.

Years ago, as a student, I had a medic friend who insisted to me the medical establishment was run by a bunch of patriarchal old fogeys who wanted women barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen by their mid-20s. She claimed stories of declining female fertility were a ruse to keep women out of the workforce  and said she planned to wait till her mid-30s to have kids - which she did, producing a son and daughter.

Now our group of friends is in their late 30s, and the picture's a little more mixed. Some women I know have successfully conceived and carried healthy babies to term in their early 40s. For others it hasn't happened.

What I didn't know until recently, when personal experience put me on the wrong side of the statistics, is that getting pregnant is only half the battle. The miscarriage rate rises to one in three pregnancies for 40-somethings, compared to one in five for all women of childbearing age.

Not something my medic friend told me, or anyone else for that matter. It's not just getting pregnant, it's staying pregnant, and that too gets harder as you get older. Still, I'm sure there's a group of doctors somewhere who'd be only too happy to pontificate on how women should manage their own bodies by researching the subject further, then generating even greater alarm with their findings.  

Posted 08 June 2007 21:56 | Number of comments: 9 | Comments

Pregnancy Work vs mothering Guilt Miscarriage

PostingHow soon is too soon?

I have a dilemma. Two weeks ago I had a miscarriage, which has had two effects on me: 1) obsession with wanting another baby 2) terror of getting pregnant again.

How to reconcile these two instincts? They've both got an iron grip on me.

Terror of getting pregnant again has led me to:

 Join Weightwatchers

Stop shaving my legs

Take up embroidery. It's not like chess, is it? Not the most alluring activity.

Watch back-to-back episodes of Friends on E4 every evening

Wear funny, bobbly cardigans from the back of the wardrobe

Cry when my husband casts an amorous look my way

Fantasize about my perfect non-pregnant summer holiday (free, by then, of bobbly woollen cardigan)

Wanting another baby has led to:

Purchase of ovulation kit

Purchase of pregnancy kit

Daily intake of folic acid supplements

Nerviness over unwashed salad/soft cheese/alcohol

Shameful jealousy on hearing of other people's pregnancies (especially anyone due the same time I would have been).

Heart-twisting sorrow at the sight of newborn babies

Persistent yet clearly academic interest in two-seater buggies.

Pain at sight of daughter playing on her own

Posted 26 May 2007 14:18 | Number of comments: 7 | Comments

Daughter Dilemmas Husband Miscarriage Pregnancy Angst

PostingWhen do you say you're pregnant

After I had the misfortune to miscarry at 11 weeks, a nurse told me it was a big mistake to tell anyone bar close family of my pregnancy before the magic 12-week mark, after which the miscarriage rate drops to just 1%. I don't agree with this, but would welcome other people's views.

"Well, you'll know for next time, won't you," she said, not meeting my eye as she ticked off boxes and noted my allergy to elastoplast. "It's better not to tell anyone until you reach 12 weeks." Then she moved on to quiz me on recreational drug use. "We have to ask nowadays, you know," she told me, flicking her hair back self-consciously, crossing the "no" box.

Encouraging women to hide their pregnancies seems to be part and parcel of a tendency among the medical profession to be reluctant to acknowledge the reality of pregnancy loss, to pretend that nothing's happened, and so to deny women the much-needed right to grieve and mourn their loss. The Miscarriage Association has done wonderful work towards changing this attitude, but my sense is we've all got a long way to go.

As I posted yesterday, I've known medics show more compassion for an achey knee than for a miscarriage. They're not necesssarily hard-hearted, but so many medics, even the so-called "counsellors", are emotionally illiterate around miscarriage.

They don't seem to have the vocabulary and etiquette at their disposal. There are no well-worn cliches (well, ones that work, anyway) to fall back on for them. No formulae for expressing sympathy. So instead we get the Darwinian eugenics line that it's "all for the best". Women deserve better than this.

Many doctors really seem to believe this deluded notion that repressing feelings and events is going to make them disappear, that if we all pretend miscarriage isn't a "proper" loss then it won't hurt and we can avoid painful feelings. I know this is untrue. Then again, in the hard-pressed NHS, it might be the reason for their stony denial is that there isn't enough time or resources available to help women miscarrying with the emotional side.

I was so excited about being pregnant, I couldn't help telling people. And looking back, I still think I did the right thing, though the memories are bittersweet. At least I had that joy and happiness, even if it didn't last very long; it was real at the time. And if I hadn't told anyone I was pregnant, I'd never have been able to reach out to talk to people when I was in a crisis and needed some support. And how many times do you have such good news in your life? It's natural to want to share it.

Also, holding out till 12 weeks isn't going to keep a pregnancy secret. People often don't need to be told of a pregnancy to know it's happening. They can see an expanding tummy, the careful way a pregnant woman carries herself. They wonder why a friend's suddenly too tired to go out in the evening, or has overnight become a fussy eater obsessed with pasteurization and avoiding soft cheeses who waits for the Green Man every time she crosses the road.

Of course, I'm generalising here, not all medics are stony-hearted Victorians. One person from our local health centre in particular has been extremely kind , came round to see us for an hour, really acknowledged the pain my husband and I were experiencing, spent lots of time listening, didn't try to invalidate our feelings, didn't dismiss our loss with a brusque  "Oh, it's nature's way". We need more like her.

To find out more please visit The Miscarriage Association's site.

Posted 22 May 2007 11:30 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Husband Miscarriage Pregnancy

PostingWhen someone loses a baby...

One of the hardest things about miscarriage is that so many people, however kindly and well-meaning, inadvertently say the wrong thing in an attempt to console, compounding the sense of loss and failure one feels.

I have to say that I've found certain medical staff, whom you'd think would get a few pointers on this sort of thing at med school, among the worst culprits. Some (not all) have a bracing, "Buck up, gel," Darwinian survival-of-the-fittest attitude I thought disappeared with Margaret Thatcher and padded shoulders.

Male medics are generally the worst. They seem to have a eugenics philosophy that miscarriage is nature's way of keeping the population healthy and the burden on the NHS down - not really a great comfort, I'm afraid. If you heard people talking like this about babies that died after, not before, birth, you'd be thinking Third Reich and Adolf Hitler.

At the other end of the scale, other mothers have been amazingly supportive and thoughtful, prepared to listen to me rant, hugging me as I wept, proferring biscuits, books and food and generally astonishing me with their warmth and kindness.

The taboos surrounding miscarriage don't help very much. It's a bit like childbirth - you're only admitted to the magic circle after you've been through the mill. People don't talk about it that much to the uninitiated, perhaps because, again like childbirth, it's excruciatingly painful.

There's no exact formula to follow in expressing sympathy, and it's awful to see people floundering, wanting to help but uncertain what to say.

The best place I've found for advice is the Miscarriage Association, which has some helpful guidelines and offers all kinds of help and support. I'm indebted to the association for some of the following suggestions.

What not to say

"It's nature's way of getting rid of something" Nature, you are a cruel bitch. I don't want to be reminded that life is random and cruel.

"Don't worry, you can have another one" I felt terrible reading this, when I remembered saying this to someone else suffering a miscarriage. In my defence, I meant well, I just didn't know any better at the time. I realise now it comes across as crass and insensitive.

"It's for the best" What? That my husband and I are wracked by pain and loss? That we've lost something so precious to us? That our dreams are in tatters?

"We'll see you at your next ante-natal booking" - my GP. Does he not understand that embarking on another pregnancy is going to require quite a lot of courage? The last thing I feel like doing is risking a repeat of the last few weeks. Also, you can't just replace one baby with another, they are unique and individual, a point that seemed lost on my doctor.

"It's one of those things" - no, it's not, not to me, anyway. It's not routine or banal to me, however much anyone else tries to trivialise it.

"Don't worry about it. Your fertility is proven." Not the message I'm taking away from the past few weeks. I feel my treacherous body's let me down.

"It might be your age." Oh, so I'm bereft and over the hill, with a higher possibility of this happening again to me than a younger woman. Is that meant to make me feel better, or push me back under the duvet?

"It's terribly common." So is death, and nobody tries to minimise that, do they. Nobody says, "Oh, you don't have a right to grieve for your loss, because we all suffer loss, and will all eventually die, so cheer up and stop moping."

"There was probably something wrong with it" Not in my dreams, there wasn't. To me that baby was perfect. And I don't want anybody dissing him or her.

What to say

"I'm so very sorry you've lost your baby"

"This must be dreadful for you both"

"I don't know what to say to you..."

"I can't imagine how you must be feeling"

A hug is good as well.

The Miscarriage Association says: "Flowers can often say what is needed and a card should include both partners' names. Let them know you will be there for them to talk to; don't be embarrassed to share their grief."

It also suggests that as time passes people ask a couple "How is it going now?" or "How are you feeling?"  It counsels that listening is the most important thing people can do to help. "The couple are hurting - some women, especially, may need to talk about their experience and feelings over and over again before they can even begin to heal. Talking will help them both come to terms with what has happened..... The loss never truly goes away - the couple just learn to deal with it in time."

Posted 21 May 2007 13:14 | Number of comments: 4 | Comments

Husband Miscarriage