Written by: Guest Writer
“Wake up Pascalle! Wake up!” That is all I remember in that moment – those seconds which felt like hours. I felt like I was in a movie – you know the part when the actress gets world crushing news and the camera zooms in on her face and the background blurs, as if the life around her is collapsing? That is how I felt as I sat on the toilet, staring down at the blood soaked toilet paper I was clutching in my hand. Just staring at it – and mentally yelling at myself to wake up.
I was 7 weeks pregnant.
In that moment, I knew. This is the beginning of the end.
Getting myself to my gynae is a blur, but I remember scrutinising my gynae’s face as she did the scan whilst I bled on her bed. I remember jumping from her face to the screen – trying to figure out what was happening, even though I knew in my gut. “We need to do blood tests to check your HcG levels – you may be too early to show a heartbeat.” I knew that too was a cover – I was over 7 weeks. Heart beats can be seen as early as 5, and there was nothing on the screen. I was laying in the hospital bed when she came to see me. “I am afraid it isn’t good news”, she said. My levels had dropped by over 10 000 in less than 2 weeks and a DNC was necessary given that I had started to miscarry.
1 in 4. That’s what all the articles say. Well – I am the 1 in 4. The 1. Why couldn’t I be the other 3? What have I done that is so bad in my life to be the 1? Why would God give me this child for 7 weeks – and then snatch it away? Had I done something wrong, eaten something? Drunk something? Maybe I shouldn’t have cleaned the kitchen cupboard the night before. What does this mean for me now – what would people think? Was it a boy or a girl? Would I now need to endure the torment of sympathy from others who had no idea what was happening to me? Would my husband look at me and see me as a broken woman who couldn’t carry a child?
People would say “Everything happens for a reason.” “Rather it happen now than later on.” “God does these things to test us.” “Don’t worry – you will have another one.” “Don’t let this define you.” “You need to carry on – life has to go on.”
It was and still is relentless. All I wanted to do was punch them in the face and tell them to piss off and leave me alone. Because the thing is, those who have never lost a child don’t know. No matter how old. No matter born or unborn. No matter 7 weeks or stillborn. It was my child. My baby. And I was its mother – and I couldn’t protect it from what was happening. It was out of my control.
I tried to seek solace in blogs by other moms – but there was something “off”. The hidden raw truth. The things that no one wants to say. The reality of it all. So here goes my version. This is what I know.
Cry, by God just cry. Who do you need to hold it together for? You have just lost your child. A child you never knew and never got see grow up. A child that held a future and was taken too soon. Cry. Cry when people are looking and when they are not. Just cry. I read a quote that resonated with me. It goes: “Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give by cannot. All of that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”
People said journal. So I did and it helped a bit. But what helped more was writing to my baby. I wrote letters within days filled with tears and apologies and love. Letters telling my Peanut to ask God to tell him/her all about me and Daddy. And to ask Papa to show him/her how to make his coconut ice. When I told people this they looked at me like it was unhealthy – and this brings me to my next point.
3. Screw other people
This is your process. Your time. Your loss. People will try to get you to grieve and move on at a pace that makes them feel comfortable – but it will not work. Do things your way. Grieve your way. And stop trying to be strong for other people so that they don’t feel uncomfortable around you. This is happening and it is a real thing, and if people can’t handle witnessing it – then they need to buzz off until they can.
4. Remember your husband
This was shocking to me. As a mother, people hug you. Ask you if you are okay. Buy you flowers. Sit at your bedside. Wipe your tears. And all the while, there he stands quietly in the corner. Looking at you and you see it in his eyes. He is broken too. His world is shattered too. He has also lost his child. Remember your husband. You need to allow him his turn to grieve – you need to make sure everyone knows that he too is devastated. He deserves just as much attention and sympathy as you do. And this will no doubt be one of the bad times you spoke to in your vows. This will test your marriage. Just make sure you remember him too – two is better than one when facing a life-altering trauma.
5. Make peace with God
I was mad. And when I say mad – I was swearing at God. Telling Him that this was IT. I was done with Him and His way and His Truth. “Put your faith in God.” That was the most important thing I learnt growing up as a Catholic. And I did and NOW look! I hated Him and in those dark days after – I swore to never pray or go to church again. And then, a few days later I was writing to the Peanut and was so worried about where he/she was and I had this overwhelming sense of peace. Like as if He was saying: “The Peanut is with me.” And that’s the thing – faith. It’s a wonderful and treacherous thing at the same time. You just have to have faith that God has a bigger plan – and He gave you this because He knows your soul, and He knows that you can and will endure. Then being the 1 in 4 seemed like an opportunity. As if He had given me this path for a reason and He knew I could handle being the 1. I have made peace with God – and whatever it takes, you need to do this too – in your own way. And sometimes it is hard – I still question Him on bad days, but life is hard enough without having to hate the one Supreme Being.
Maybe I will have a baby one day. Maybe I will be blessed enough to hold my child and look into bright healthy eyes. Count the ten fingers and ten toes. Peer over a cot with worry to make sure my baby is still drawing breath. Panic when they bump their head or when their temperature sky rockets.
I guess that’s the message. Life. We take it for granted. We assume it won’t happen to us. We assume our baby will be fine. We assume we have one more chance. We assume we will see our loved ones again. We assume all the time.
To the other moms who have never experienced this (and I pray you never will) do the rest of us a favour? Kiss your child one extra time tonight. Hold them a little longer when you give them that hug. Appreciate the tantrums and screaming and cheekiness that boils your blood. Count the ten fingers and toes. Breathe and remember you are lucky to be the 3 in 4. Do this for the rest of us, until we can do it ourselves.