Condemned before Trial

All pregnancy loss is unspeakably tragic. Whatever the circumstances it is always going to be an event that changes your life. Whether you have lost one pregnancy or suffered recurrent pregnancy loss (RPL) you can never quite get over it, even when it doesn't consume your every waking thought any more. It is still there, bubbling under.

I have tried to start this entry several times but I've found it hard to try to express what I want to say in words.

When you have been through the loss of a pregnancy then the next BFP you see if a bittersweet event and for every ounce of joy there is one of fear too. For those who have suffered repeated miscarriages the balance becomes tipped increasingly toward the side of fear each time. Recently I realised the one big difference between suffering one miscarriage and experiencing RPL. When you have had one loss you worry about it happening again. With RPL, you expect it to.

I have had a pretty rotten week to be honest. The flu has taken its toll and I dare say getting a BFP in the middle of it didn't help because if one thing is guaranteed to lower your immune system it's pregnancy. With a combination of needing some assistance fighting off the flu and needing to register my pregnancy I made an appointment with the local surgery on Tuesday.

I saw a doctor I hadn't seen before and she did little to give me any hope or encouragement. Taking a quick pregnancy history and drawing a morbid little diagram in front of me of where my girls fitted into my losses she refused to give me the hospital referal yet, telling me there was little point if she would have to cancel it again and that if I was "still pregnant in a couple of weeks" to come back for the referral.

Right then I lost all hope and confidence I had left of carrying another pregnancy to term. I have been struggling to believe I'm going to bring a Christmas miracle home with me as it is. After everything that has happened I really don't expect a successful pregnancy. But the phrase the doctor used cut me up like a knife. It was the kind of thing you say about some unpleasant ailment, like to come back in two weeks if your cough hasn't gone yet.

In November I had my most traumatic loss. I was 11w6d and I had actually started to believe I was going to bring home a baby at the end of it. The scan confirming the baby had stopped growing a couple of weeks earlier is one I have replayed time and again since, as though I could somehow change the outcome. In the days and weeks that followed both the hospital and my usual doctor had confirmed a need for an early scan the next time around and early care. The one thing that kept me going was knowing that this time the medical professionals would be on my side.

Tuesday just wiped that out. I ended up going over her head and contacting the hospital directly. They have offered me a scan two weeks from tomorrow. I will be 6w 3d which is earlier than they usually offer, which worries me too in case they can't see anything. I have a whole new 2 week wait ahead of me.

In the meanwhile I see everyone mentally preparing for the worst again. I feel paranoid to say this but for every time someone congratulates me I can see a flicker of pity and worry cross their face, as though they've already written it off as another loss.

I look at my beautiful girls as they play rough-and-tumble across the couch and I wish I could ask them what made them so strong. How did they make it? Why were they so hardy? What's their secret?

Whatever it is, I am praying my bean has it too.