I'm instructed to lie down on a clinical hospital stretcher bed in a belly up position; it’s Friday, 25th August 2017 and we've been eagerly waiting this day since the appointment was booked three weeks earlier. I raise my shirt to reveal my tummy and pull my skirt down to the pubic bone. I'm handed some course thin white paper towel, which I place around my clothing, so as to protect them from the ultrasound gel. The gel is a conductive agent used in assisting the ultrasonic waves to penetrate the skin, allowing for an image to be displayed onto a television like screen. The gel is clear, tacky and feels cold against my exposed skin. The Sonographer introduces himself as Steve and positions the probe, a hand-held device firmly against my belly, smearing it into the gel. I've put on weight since last time, hormones are a selfish mistress, and Steve has to press down with what feels like a great deal of force, placing further pressure onto my water bloated bladder, to reveal an image of our precious little nine-week old ‘seed.’ As I watch flickering images dance upon the screen and concentrate on not peeing myself, I’m jolted back into the present when Steve asks, “Have you been pregnant before,” without hesitation I reply, “Yes, last year, but I miscarried.” Steve looks calmly at the screen and matter-of-factly says, “It appears this one is going the same way.”
“Miscarriages are common, more common than you think,” a public hospital midwife informed my partner and I a few weeks after our first miscarriage in June 2016. Who went on to say, “one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage.” I found these figures of no comfort and in fact found it and still do find it alarming that so many women experience miscarriage, yet little understanding is afforded or in my experience at the time little support offered. Sensing my unease with these statics, the midwife with the eclectic and cheerful disposition of someone that spends the most part of her day looking at and discussing female genitalia, continues “But most pregnancies after a miscarriage are successful, going on to produce healthy babies.” I guess the key word there was ‘most.’
My mind drifts back, I’m in the ultrasound room with Steve the Sonographer, still lying on a clinical hospital stretcher bed in a belly up position. A magnitude of woeful emotions floods my insides, numbness, disbelief, guilt, I say to myself, ‘not again’ and my eyes begin to swell with tears. I sit bolt up right, ignoring the clear gel on my belly sticking against the thin white paper towel and my clothes, and ignoring Steve with his hand-held probe. I reach for my partner Ryland who in this claustrophobically, strangely shaped room has been oddly placed at the foot of the bed. He has been gently stroking my leg and I reach for his hand feeling a familiar sense of calm that pacifies the tears allowing Steve to continue with his work, taking measurements, reiterating there is no heartbeat. Our baby, or more scientifically ‘cluster of cells’ appears to have died a week before the scan.
*****
Ryland and I met in Cairns in Far North Queensland, and it was love as soon as we met, the feeling was intense, now in our thirties, after years of ‘singledom,’ which we both thoroughly enjoyed, we’ve found our ‘one’ and things couldn’t be more wonderful. I fondly refer to Ryland as ‘Shovel’ metaphorically as he digs me out of the debilitating depths of anxiety and physically for the size of his hands. Shortly after meeting we went swimming at Stoney Creek, an idyllic natural water hole not far from the northern beaches of Cairns. It was late in the afternoon and the sun had receded behind the thick rainforest canopy. The water was clear, fresh and cool, very cool. As we slowly wadded into the crisp, invigorating water I playfully splashed Ryland who retaliated dipping his large hands into the water and as I squealed, “Put down the shovel hands!” I was flooded with a torrent of tremendously cold, yet refreshing river water. From that day on he has been ‘My Shovel.’ Not too long after that I recall casually informing him, “I think I want to have your baby,” plagiarizing Salt-N-Pepa the hip-hop trio’s classic ‘Whatta Man’ featuring En Vogue. Within a month we discovered I was pregnant for the first time.
*****
Two weeks on from our ultrasound with Steve the Sonographer, I’m yet to bleed and have been requested to attend the public hospital maternity ward and speak with a Gynecologist. During the past two weeks, Ryland and I have consoled and taken time away from our jobs to come to terms with the death of our baby. Technically still an embryo at eight weeks the ‘cluster of cells’ does not graduate to fetus until week nine then becomes a baby, whereby it can survive outside of the womb at around 20-24 weeks. Despite these scientific labels it was not just an embryo to us, but also our previous little baby, our ‘seed.’ The maternity ward staff were incredibly gracious, offering us a supportive ear and many comforting words. Having now experienced two miscarriages within 18 months it was an emotional relief to have this opportunity to discuss our feelings. It’s a loss no matter how far along the pregnancy, and being able to speak face-to-face with a compassionate pregnancy specialist is incredibly healing.
*****
Vaginal bleeding, with our first pregnancy was the confounding sign something was wrong. An ultrasound scan a few days later on the Monday confirmed our little ‘apple seed’ had died in week seven of the pregnancy, ten days earlier, although the Sonographer on this occasion did not want to relate this directly. The scan results were analysed then sent to the bulk-billing clinic, where we solemnly headed that afternoon to learn that “Yes” our baby had stopped growing, that “There was no detectable heartbeat” and that “It is most likely the pregnancy will miscarry.” Ryland and I sat opposite the ‘turnstile’ doctor not knowing what to do next. The doctor shifted awkwardly in his oversized comfortable-looking leather chair and said, “Well okay then, that’s it. See you later.” We rose holding onto each other for stability, leaving the clinic to return to our breezy, louvre-windowed, contemporary styled, studio apartment in a seaside suburb of Cairns and into the unknown.
*****
This year we relocated from the east coast of Far North Queensland to Mount Isa in outback North West Queensland to begin a working, travelling experience with a gorgeous European caravan we call, Florence. We chose to see a private doctor with the second pregnancy and were thankful after we learnt of the death of our ‘seed’ to be referred to a Gynecologist who discussed various options and encouraged a surgical treatment (curette) or its full name Dilatation and Curettage (D&C). Both our Mothers had a miscarriage, and were promptly administered curettes, incidental conceiving again within months of having the procedure, although I’m presently trying with much difficulty not to entertain thoughts of conceiving again, at this stage. A curette I’m told is a surgical instrument used to scrape the lining of the uterus to ensure a clean removal of the ‘pregnancy product’ resulting in low level cramping and minimal bleeding.
*****
I wake to a stabbing pain in the side of my belly, naked, I gingerly shuffle to our studio apartment bathroom in a seaside suburb of Cairns, hunch down onto the toilet seat and wipe, revealing a staggering amount of red gloopy liquid. Blood was literally cascading out of my vagina. This isn’t any ordinary menstrual period. It’s now the early hours of Friday morning, four days since the ill-fated scan and awkward, non-informative doctor appointment. Ryland has stirred and come into the bathroom, I’m in a tremendous amount of pain, naked, he stands in front of me holds my head against his abdomen, and strokes my disheveled hair. Over the next five hours he preforms this sacred ritual of pacifying hair stroking, as I cramp in excruciating pain, bleed profusely and macabrely sing as though in a dark, black humoured comedy, ‘Pure Massacre’ by the iconic 90s outfit, Silverchair. It is outright the worse thing either of us has ever experienced and we are there in our apartment alone.
*****
The following day, by request of the Gynecologist, I’m admitted to the Mount Isa Base Hospital for a D&C procedure. The surgical hospital staff are honestly amazing, making both Ryland and I feel welcome, supported and relaxed. I’m nervous, yet have no reason to be as empathic professionals surround me, constantly discussing the process and enquiring as to my physical and emotional state. Two tablets of Misoprostol, a medication typically administrated to treat stomach ulcers, with the additional aid of inducing labour or causing an abortion are dissolved under my tongue. Prior to the procedure we wait a few hours for the pills to take effect; expanding the uterus and encouraging vaginal bleeding.
*****
In Cairns, at some stage within those early hours of Friday, 27th May 2016, the cramping intensified, it was astonishingly agonizing, dark red blood containing malevolent looking clots had been consistently flowing for hours prior. I felt the walls of the vaginal canal expand and a bloody pliable looking blob, of no more than say eight centimeters long, literally plopped out of my vagina, sticking to the inside of the white porcelain toilet bowl. I stood up holding toilet paper between my thighs so as not to spill blood onto the tiles and said, “It’s our apple seed.” Ryland and I comforted each other as we cried. Deciding what to do next, we gently placed two fingers each onto the full flush button of the toilet cistern and in unison pressed down.
Looking back it troubles me to know we flushed our baby down the toilet, letting it swirl through the underground sewage system of Cairns, yet at the time with no other guidance, information or previous experience to go by, it felt like the right thing to do. I’m grateful we were together and in the security of our apartment when the miscarriage occurred. The experience cemented our relationship and brought us inseparably closer together and for that we give our thanks always to our little ‘apple seed.’
*****
Miscarriage by definition of Sands: Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Newborn Death Support, a not-for-profit, volunteer supported organisation, is the “Spontaneous loss of a pregnancy before 20 weeks of pregnancy.” In most cases the baby has died in the uterus before this occurs. Miscarriage is classified as either ‘early’ prior to 12 weeks or ‘late’ after 12 weeks, but prior to 20 weeks.
Last year I was told one in four pregnancies miscarry, this year I was told it’s more like one in three, with approximately 80 percent of these being ‘early’ miscarriages. Although astonishingly common, without embarking upon extensive testing, little is known as to the reasons why a particular pregnancy has miscarried. Generally we are assured it’s nothing the Mother has or has not done, as chromosomal abnormalities are regularly scapegoated as the cause.
Prior to suffering our first miscarriage I was admittedly complacent about miscarriage, never stopping to think, upon hearing of a work colleague’s loss too much about it. This I have come to postulate is a standard response, because without experience, understanding is limited.
*****
At approximately 11am on Saturday, 9th September 2017 a beautifully pleasant hospital attendant wheels me on a stretcher bed to the surgical theatre to have our ‘seed’ removed. Ryland gently touches my hand as I’m wheeled away, mouthing the words, “I love you.” The Misoprostol has done its job, I’ve now started to bleed lightly; it looks like the start of an ordinary menstrual period. The Anesthetist and his fellow surgical theatre colleagues ooze a calming, yet restraint resolve, and given the circumstances I couldn’t be more reassured. Although one of the theatre nurses jokes telling me to “Stop worrying!” when I apologise to her in advance “for farting or wetting myself during the procedure.” The Gynecologist arrives in his clumsily placed white paper shower cap looking hat and green scrubs his eclectic nature is appealing. I’m wheeled into the surgical theatre where the Anesthetist injects the general anesthetic and am told I’ll be transferring from the hospital bed to the thin metal operating table. I say, in an attempt to be helpful, “No problem, I’ll just jump off this bed and onto the other one.” Almost in unison the theatre staff say “NO!” instead encouraging me to shuffle across the two beds. I think I was half way through this shuffle when I passed out, waking up next in the recovery room, asking when the procedure was going to start.
*****
Miscarriage is a tragedy at any stage within the pregnancy, no matter what the circumstances. It is not something dismissible and emotions are not soothed by simply being told, “It will be okay, you’re healthy, you’ll make another one.” As Ryland and I discovered it’s not easy to just make another one and as I experienced when another ‘seed’ was conceived I felt distressed comparing it to the previous ill-fated pregnancy. The professional support we received with the second miscarriage was invaluable. Having the opportunity to discuss feelings of guilt, remorse and loss with a pregnancy specialist has assisted us to heal wounds of the first pregnancy and subsequent lonely miscarriage and come to terms with the second miscarriage.
The two miscarriages could not have been more polar-opposite, from tremendous pain, to cascading vaginal bleeding, the unknown and isolation, to low-level discomfort, very minimal vaginal bleeding, an informed procedure and comforting support. I would encourage anyone experiencing pregnancy miscarriage to consult with medical professionals trained as pregnancy specialists who are there to guide you through the process, answer questions and most importantly listen with a non-judgmental ear.
Ryland and I will spent time now focusing on us, restoring our mental and physical health, enjoying life, continuing to be curious, learn and adventure around this beautiful country of ours, Australia. I am comforted in knowing that through it all, through all our future ups and downs ‘My Shovel’ will be there with a pacifying hand.
“Miscarriages are common, more common than you think,” a public hospital midwife informed my partner and I a few weeks after our first miscarriage in June 2016. Who went on to say, “one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage.” I found these figures of no comfort and in fact found it and still do find it alarming that so many women experience miscarriage, yet little understanding is afforded or in my experience at the time little support offered. Sensing my unease with these statics, the midwife with the eclectic and cheerful disposition of someone that spends the most part of her day looking at and discussing female genitalia, continues “But most pregnancies after a miscarriage are successful, going on to produce healthy babies.” I guess the key word there was ‘most.’
My mind drifts back, I’m in the ultrasound room with Steve the Sonographer, still lying on a clinical hospital stretcher bed in a belly up position. A magnitude of woeful emotions floods my insides, numbness, disbelief, guilt, I say to myself, ‘not again’ and my eyes begin to swell with tears. I sit bolt up right, ignoring the clear gel on my belly sticking against the thin white paper towel and my clothes, and ignoring Steve with his hand-held probe. I reach for my partner Ryland who in this claustrophobically, strangely shaped room has been oddly placed at the foot of the bed. He has been gently stroking my leg and I reach for his hand feeling a familiar sense of calm that pacifies the tears allowing Steve to continue with his work, taking measurements, reiterating there is no heartbeat. Our baby, or more scientifically ‘cluster of cells’ appears to have died a week before the scan.
*****
Ryland and I met in Cairns in Far North Queensland, and it was love as soon as we met, the feeling was intense, now in our thirties, after years of ‘singledom,’ which we both thoroughly enjoyed, we’ve found our ‘one’ and things couldn’t be more wonderful. I fondly refer to Ryland as ‘Shovel’ metaphorically as he digs me out of the debilitating depths of anxiety and physically for the size of his hands. Shortly after meeting we went swimming at Stoney Creek, an idyllic natural water hole not far from the northern beaches of Cairns. It was late in the afternoon and the sun had receded behind the thick rainforest canopy. The water was clear, fresh and cool, very cool. As we slowly wadded into the crisp, invigorating water I playfully splashed Ryland who retaliated dipping his large hands into the water and as I squealed, “Put down the shovel hands!” I was flooded with a torrent of tremendously cold, yet refreshing river water. From that day on he has been ‘My Shovel.’ Not too long after that I recall casually informing him, “I think I want to have your baby,” plagiarizing Salt-N-Pepa the hip-hop trio’s classic ‘Whatta Man’ featuring En Vogue. Within a month we discovered I was pregnant for the first time.
*****
Two weeks on from our ultrasound with Steve the Sonographer, I’m yet to bleed and have been requested to attend the public hospital maternity ward and speak with a Gynecologist. During the past two weeks, Ryland and I have consoled and taken time away from our jobs to come to terms with the death of our baby. Technically still an embryo at eight weeks the ‘cluster of cells’ does not graduate to fetus until week nine then becomes a baby, whereby it can survive outside of the womb at around 20-24 weeks. Despite these scientific labels it was not just an embryo to us, but also our previous little baby, our ‘seed.’ The maternity ward staff were incredibly gracious, offering us a supportive ear and many comforting words. Having now experienced two miscarriages within 18 months it was an emotional relief to have this opportunity to discuss our feelings. It’s a loss no matter how far along the pregnancy, and being able to speak face-to-face with a compassionate pregnancy specialist is incredibly healing.
*****
Vaginal bleeding, with our first pregnancy was the confounding sign something was wrong. An ultrasound scan a few days later on the Monday confirmed our little ‘apple seed’ had died in week seven of the pregnancy, ten days earlier, although the Sonographer on this occasion did not want to relate this directly. The scan results were analysed then sent to the bulk-billing clinic, where we solemnly headed that afternoon to learn that “Yes” our baby had stopped growing, that “There was no detectable heartbeat” and that “It is most likely the pregnancy will miscarry.” Ryland and I sat opposite the ‘turnstile’ doctor not knowing what to do next. The doctor shifted awkwardly in his oversized comfortable-looking leather chair and said, “Well okay then, that’s it. See you later.” We rose holding onto each other for stability, leaving the clinic to return to our breezy, louvre-windowed, contemporary styled, studio apartment in a seaside suburb of Cairns and into the unknown.
*****
This year we relocated from the east coast of Far North Queensland to Mount Isa in outback North West Queensland to begin a working, travelling experience with a gorgeous European caravan we call, Florence. We chose to see a private doctor with the second pregnancy and were thankful after we learnt of the death of our ‘seed’ to be referred to a Gynecologist who discussed various options and encouraged a surgical treatment (curette) or its full name Dilatation and Curettage (D&C). Both our Mothers had a miscarriage, and were promptly administered curettes, incidental conceiving again within months of having the procedure, although I’m presently trying with much difficulty not to entertain thoughts of conceiving again, at this stage. A curette I’m told is a surgical instrument used to scrape the lining of the uterus to ensure a clean removal of the ‘pregnancy product’ resulting in low level cramping and minimal bleeding.
*****
I wake to a stabbing pain in the side of my belly, naked, I gingerly shuffle to our studio apartment bathroom in a seaside suburb of Cairns, hunch down onto the toilet seat and wipe, revealing a staggering amount of red gloopy liquid. Blood was literally cascading out of my vagina. This isn’t any ordinary menstrual period. It’s now the early hours of Friday morning, four days since the ill-fated scan and awkward, non-informative doctor appointment. Ryland has stirred and come into the bathroom, I’m in a tremendous amount of pain, naked, he stands in front of me holds my head against his abdomen, and strokes my disheveled hair. Over the next five hours he preforms this sacred ritual of pacifying hair stroking, as I cramp in excruciating pain, bleed profusely and macabrely sing as though in a dark, black humoured comedy, ‘Pure Massacre’ by the iconic 90s outfit, Silverchair. It is outright the worse thing either of us has ever experienced and we are there in our apartment alone.
*****
The following day, by request of the Gynecologist, I’m admitted to the Mount Isa Base Hospital for a D&C procedure. The surgical hospital staff are honestly amazing, making both Ryland and I feel welcome, supported and relaxed. I’m nervous, yet have no reason to be as empathic professionals surround me, constantly discussing the process and enquiring as to my physical and emotional state. Two tablets of Misoprostol, a medication typically administrated to treat stomach ulcers, with the additional aid of inducing labour or causing an abortion are dissolved under my tongue. Prior to the procedure we wait a few hours for the pills to take effect; expanding the uterus and encouraging vaginal bleeding.
*****
In Cairns, at some stage within those early hours of Friday, 27th May 2016, the cramping intensified, it was astonishingly agonizing, dark red blood containing malevolent looking clots had been consistently flowing for hours prior. I felt the walls of the vaginal canal expand and a bloody pliable looking blob, of no more than say eight centimeters long, literally plopped out of my vagina, sticking to the inside of the white porcelain toilet bowl. I stood up holding toilet paper between my thighs so as not to spill blood onto the tiles and said, “It’s our apple seed.” Ryland and I comforted each other as we cried. Deciding what to do next, we gently placed two fingers each onto the full flush button of the toilet cistern and in unison pressed down.
Looking back it troubles me to know we flushed our baby down the toilet, letting it swirl through the underground sewage system of Cairns, yet at the time with no other guidance, information or previous experience to go by, it felt like the right thing to do. I’m grateful we were together and in the security of our apartment when the miscarriage occurred. The experience cemented our relationship and brought us inseparably closer together and for that we give our thanks always to our little ‘apple seed.’
*****
Miscarriage by definition of Sands: Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Newborn Death Support, a not-for-profit, volunteer supported organisation, is the “Spontaneous loss of a pregnancy before 20 weeks of pregnancy.” In most cases the baby has died in the uterus before this occurs. Miscarriage is classified as either ‘early’ prior to 12 weeks or ‘late’ after 12 weeks, but prior to 20 weeks.
Last year I was told one in four pregnancies miscarry, this year I was told it’s more like one in three, with approximately 80 percent of these being ‘early’ miscarriages. Although astonishingly common, without embarking upon extensive testing, little is known as to the reasons why a particular pregnancy has miscarried. Generally we are assured it’s nothing the Mother has or has not done, as chromosomal abnormalities are regularly scapegoated as the cause.
Prior to suffering our first miscarriage I was admittedly complacent about miscarriage, never stopping to think, upon hearing of a work colleague’s loss too much about it. This I have come to postulate is a standard response, because without experience, understanding is limited.
*****
At approximately 11am on Saturday, 9th September 2017 a beautifully pleasant hospital attendant wheels me on a stretcher bed to the surgical theatre to have our ‘seed’ removed. Ryland gently touches my hand as I’m wheeled away, mouthing the words, “I love you.” The Misoprostol has done its job, I’ve now started to bleed lightly; it looks like the start of an ordinary menstrual period. The Anesthetist and his fellow surgical theatre colleagues ooze a calming, yet restraint resolve, and given the circumstances I couldn’t be more reassured. Although one of the theatre nurses jokes telling me to “Stop worrying!” when I apologise to her in advance “for farting or wetting myself during the procedure.” The Gynecologist arrives in his clumsily placed white paper shower cap looking hat and green scrubs his eclectic nature is appealing. I’m wheeled into the surgical theatre where the Anesthetist injects the general anesthetic and am told I’ll be transferring from the hospital bed to the thin metal operating table. I say, in an attempt to be helpful, “No problem, I’ll just jump off this bed and onto the other one.” Almost in unison the theatre staff say “NO!” instead encouraging me to shuffle across the two beds. I think I was half way through this shuffle when I passed out, waking up next in the recovery room, asking when the procedure was going to start.
*****
Miscarriage is a tragedy at any stage within the pregnancy, no matter what the circumstances. It is not something dismissible and emotions are not soothed by simply being told, “It will be okay, you’re healthy, you’ll make another one.” As Ryland and I discovered it’s not easy to just make another one and as I experienced when another ‘seed’ was conceived I felt distressed comparing it to the previous ill-fated pregnancy. The professional support we received with the second miscarriage was invaluable. Having the opportunity to discuss feelings of guilt, remorse and loss with a pregnancy specialist has assisted us to heal wounds of the first pregnancy and subsequent lonely miscarriage and come to terms with the second miscarriage.
The two miscarriages could not have been more polar-opposite, from tremendous pain, to cascading vaginal bleeding, the unknown and isolation, to low-level discomfort, very minimal vaginal bleeding, an informed procedure and comforting support. I would encourage anyone experiencing pregnancy miscarriage to consult with medical professionals trained as pregnancy specialists who are there to guide you through the process, answer questions and most importantly listen with a non-judgmental ear.
Ryland and I will spent time now focusing on us, restoring our mental and physical health, enjoying life, continuing to be curious, learn and adventure around this beautiful country of ours, Australia. I am comforted in knowing that through it all, through all our future ups and downs ‘My Shovel’ will be there with a pacifying hand.
