The second week in October each year marks Baby Loss Awareness Week, culminating in October 15th’s International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. The team at makchic spent this significant day honouring the memories of many lost little ones, their stories shared with infiniteness tenderness by loving parents, many of whom were still grappling with their grief.
Three brave mothers share their personal musings with us now – stories filled with hurt and heartbreak, but also strength, survival – and a love that knows no end.
[Trigger warning: The following stories contains details of pregnancy and baby loss.]
Early Baby Loss: Do other women still cry, like I do?
By Laych Koh
The fact is: I did not know I would still be crying about something I only carried for six weeks. It has been about eight months and I don’t know if I will feel this way forever – still able to tear up easily thinking about that day I miscarried, still thinking about what could have been.
I tell myself: It must be because I am soppier than most, right? It was just an early miscarriage, no? Is it just me, or does everyone else seem to be healing better than me? Do they still cry, like I do? Is it just me, or do other women seem so much more steady when they tell me ‘It happened to me too?’ Am I just more of a wuss?
Or is everyone out there like me, actually still grappling with that heartache, just nudging it back gently into the shadows so life can continue?
At least, at least, at least
Inevitably when I think about how painful the memory is for me, I think about other women who have experienced late miscarriages or stillbirths. I concoct some imaginary scale of grief and time that concludes it is far more unbearable for them than it was for me.
At least mine was just … a comparative clot. At least I did not hear a heartbeat. At least I did not see a picture. At least I already have two beautiful sons. In my head I still rationalise these things: at least, at least, at least.
But the fact is that it still hurts to even think about that day I miscarried, and I still cry about it.
What I remember
February 27th this year. I started spotting the night before, and while a little alarmed, I quickly consulted Dr Google. I was calmed by the fact that some bleeding or spotting during the first trimester is normal – it could be implantation bleeding. The next morning, to my horror, I realised I was now bleeding an amount that could not be described as mere spotting. I had to put on a sanitary pad. It was a horrible feeling, and I told my husband what was happening. We both prepared ourselves for what may happen, but if I am honest, I was still hoping. I am wondering now why we did not call the doctor at that time.
Perhaps I knew this bleeding could not just be magically stopped. And yes, perhaps somehow, I was still hoping.
A few hours later, even as I was walking around the neighbourhood with my closest friend in London, Becky, I had a lot of hope. I was so desperate to tell her – Becky, I think I am having a miscarriage – but I don’t know why I held back. This is the cruel side of keeping an early pregnancy secret. You get used to keeping big things to yourself.
When I got back and went to the bathroom, my heart sank. The pad was soaked, and I was getting period-like cramps. I knew what this meant. I just sank into bed and tried to sleep it off. The part that I was totally unprepared for was how the pains would feel similar to labour. The part that really killed me was when I rushed to the bathroom after waking up hours later and felt I was pushing something out – in this case, an easily distinguishable sac that looked like a big blood clot. It was bigger than I expected, and I really had not expected to see anything. I broke down and howled in my husband’s arms. I flushed. In shock. And I still think about this scene all the time.
Losing, learning, living
It was a tough time in my life, with several other personal challenges coming together at the same time, and so I think I must have pushed the miscarriage out of my mind. When a close colleague gently asked me how far along I had been, I went completely blank. It was the first indication to me that perhaps something was wrong.
When I suffered a mental health crisis in May and had to take a break from work, I sought therapy. It helped me realise that I had not been processing the grief or trauma of the miscarriage well, among other things. It was during this time I cried a lot – there were many sessions of just never-ending tears.
I am better, but the tears still come, and this time I welcome them. Perhaps I should have never tried to equate an early miscarriage to miscarrying something ‘less’ than a baby. A zygote, an embryo, a fetus – these terms didn’t mean anything to me. Because in my mind, I lost a baby. That dream was fully formed. The hopes and plans were real. We really wanted that baby. And then I lost that baby.
I know now not to minimise my own loss with the ‘at leasts’ and the application of labels or categorisations that downplay my grief – all absolutely self-inflicted. That baby’s due date would have been October 22nd, not too long from now – and even writing that drives me to tears again. Perhaps the loss will never hurt less, and perhaps I will always be crying when I think of that day.
And that is okay.
Baby Loss: The only way is through
By Zehan Marissa
On the 26th May this year, I lost our third baby at the start of my second trimester. I had experienced my first miscarriage at 8 weeks, prior to my son’s conception in September 2017. This was my second.
The pregnancy had started out well enough. Past the first 4 weeks though, I was hit by severe morning sickness – better known as hyperemesis gravidarum, and I was vomiting five to six times a day. This continued for two months or so, and it was starting to really affect my mood and confidence. I had said to my husband that I was over the morning sickness, and we joked that our baby was already giving me a headache. How I regret those words now.
The first heartbeat…
Our first few scans at 8 weeks and 11 weeks were fine. We heard our son’s heartbeat and found out his gender. We were overjoyed, especially after we got the results of the 10-week screening that showed a low probability of common chromosomal disorders. It was a huge relief. I remember crying when I got those results. It seemed that we had passed another milestone.
On 25th May, we went in for our 14 weeks scan and I remember feeling a little nervous. The sonographer used the ultrasound transducer on my belly, and we could see our little boy moving around. He seemed to be a good size for 14 weeks, and I laughed when I saw him do a little roll.
That was the end of the joy though, because very quickly after, the sonographer gave a little gasp. It turned out the nuchal translucency behind our baby’s neck was 3 times the amount it should normally be, signalling the possibility of a physical or chromosomal problem. I was offered a diagnostic chorionic villus sampling (CVS) test the very next day. We spoke to a genetic counsellor straight away, and she gave us the likely scenarios. My husband and I were devastated, but hopeful. We were in it for the long haul. We were booked in with a specialist the very next day, and that night was one of the longest and most emotional nights I’ve ever been through.
…to the last heartbeat
The next day, after an agonising wait, we went to the specialist. He took us through all the possibilities and answered all our tearful questions. I didn’t know what my options were in terms of terminating the pregnancy – if it came to that. It was extremely reassuring to be told that in Australia, the health of the mother was always the priority. But my heart also sank, because any mother would rather put her life on the line before her child’s. All I had wanted was a healthy baby.
As soon as all our questions were addressed, we were prepped for another ultrasound before the CVS procedure. I was asked several times to hold my breath. This was when we saw the last movements of our baby, and his last movements of blood flow. It was at this time that the sonographer said the words “I’m so sorry, but we cannot find a heartbeat.“
I will never forget the sound that escaped my mouth that day. I could barely recognise myself; the sound was like a hunted animal that had been shot.
Everything felt empty
Nothing can ever prepare you for the loss of a child. Whether it’s at 8 weeks, 14 weeks or 27 weeks. Nothing. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I wanted this baby with every fibre of my being, and now that he was gone, everything felt empty.
Admittedly, everything after this was a bit of a blur. We were added to the public health system waitlist for an emergency procedure. Unfortunately, past the first trimester, it is no longer the passing of embryo cells through what looks like a period. There is an actual fetus, and the only way of removal is via a mini labour or a dilation and curettage (D&C). After discussion of my options, I chose the latter to protect my mental health.
The week between the pregnancy loss and the procedure were some of the hardest days I’ve ever had to endure. When my own body didn’t recognise the miscarriage (what is termed a missed miscarriage), it felt particularly cruel and unfair, as I was still having severe morning sickness.
Support – and sunshine in a bottle
The night before my procedure, I called a bereavement support helpline which is peer-run, and basically cried my heart out to the counsellor on the end of the other line. She didn’t have to speak much – she just listened while my husband held me and cried with me. I felt supported and understood, yet heartbroken.
And so a week after my miscarriage, a week of carrying my dead baby, I went into the hospital for my D&C procedure. It was a traumatic and harrowing experience, emotionally and physically. I took it as a sign that the name of the ob-gyn in charge was the same as that of my twin sister’s. It felt like a sign that my baby and I would be taken care of. She said she was so sorry that I had to be in there, promising me she would be as respectful as possible. I cried my eyes out, before the anesthesia knocked me out.
When I came to, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness. The nurse who had been observing me said I had to be observed for a few hours before they could send me home, as I was tachycardic. I found out later that this meant my resting heart rate was above 100 beats per minute – and this can be caused by severe emotional stress. I left the hospital a few hours later and came home to my best friend who had been minding our 3-year-old son.
The moment he saw me, he threw his arms around me and said “Mamma, are you sad because of the baby?” When I nodded and started crying, he said “Don’t cry. I’m here.” My son has been the biggest factor in my healing since the procedure.
At rest
It’s been a little over four and a half months since we lost our little Noa Emanuel. The name Noa means “rest” and “comfort” and Emanuel (my husband’s and son’s middle name) means “God is with us”. I’m not particularly religious, but I am spiritual and do believe in a higher power, that Noa is being taken care of and he is resting.
For me, writing about my experience and journaling my feelings has helped to lessen the emotional charge somewhat. Talking to friends about Noa, and writing about him somehow feels like proof that I was actually pregnant, that it did happen.
To acknowledge that our son did, in fact, exist.
As much as I want to hit the fast-forward button on my journey of pain and loss, I know that the only way is through.
It is my sincere hope that by sharing my experience – by normalising the pain and the healing – I can somehow help anyone else who has gone through, or is going through, what I have. Burying the feelings and emotions around a heartbreak doesn’t mean they go away – it just means we haven’t dealt with it yet and someday, it will come to the fore.
In the words of the author James Baldwin, ” Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”
What I wish you knew
By S.L. (who lost her infant due to a rare medical condition)
Losing a child isn’t easy to handle. Especially when you have so much hope for the future you imagined for them. Losing a child doesn’t mean that you wipe out the memory of that child entirely. Sometimes, people choose to remain quiet and not speak about it, thinking that it may trigger more painful memories. On the contrary though; sometimes, we do appreciate talking about our child who is no longer here. It is nice to remember their existence of and all the memories that you have with them. Of course, this depends on each individual and whether they are open to sharing about their loss.
What I’ve learned
The loss is real. Your life has changed entirely. You come home to emptiness. Your child was your abundant joy, and when your child is no longer here, it is as if your joy has been taken away entirely.
I had to learn to adapt to the new normal – to new routine and changes. Not a day goes by when I don’t think or question why this had to happen to us. But there comes a point in time where it seems pointless to ask questions that don’t seem to have any answers.
Growing through grief
I also realised that I needed to get help, and I needed grief support. I used to think that I would get better as the days went by, but that wasn’t the case. Sometimes, I feel as if I have taken one step forward, but two steps back. I never knew that you needed to learn to grieve properly. That it’s ok to talk about your loss, or to feel sad or cry about it. It is part of the healing process.
If we choose to suppress all of these emotions, it will get harder, in fact. Avoiding certain places or songs that hold memories for us, for fear of reliving the pain isn’t healthy. We need to learn to love ourselves better. Be kind to ourselves.
To the parent who needs to hear this…
I understand you, and I feel you. This journey you are in isn’t easy. You are not alone in this. It is ok to cry, it is ok to be vulnerable. Give yourself space and allow yourself time to digest and process this journey. If you ever need help, never be ashamed to speak up. You need to eventually move on in your life, but it doesn’t mean that you will forget your child. Losing a child doesn’t make you any less of a mother. You will always be a mother to your child.
Your child will continue to live on in your memories, and in your heart. Be kind to yourself always.
To the loved one of a person who is grieving…
Be a good support system. Talk to them whenever you can. Reach out. Never be afraid to talk about their loss. But again, it depends on the comfort of each individual. Remind them that there are people who care for them. Sometimes when we grieve, we need some comfort. It’s good to know that they have someone that they can count on.
