Baby Loss Awareness Week - Finding the words to talk about my rainbow baby

The English language is a great thing. For those of us who enjoy writing, we can mould and shape words into beautiful landscapes, capture memories, and share details of personal moments. Words bring us closer together. But what happens when there are no words? I started Learning Early four years ago when I first found out I was pregnant, and naively threw myself into baby-world, immediately deciding to blog my way through pregnancy.  Hubby and I were ecstatic, the situation wasn’t ideal, but we knew we’d make it work.  I remember it clearly – it was a Sunday morning, I’d suspected for a few days, but needed to wait until I took the test.  I sat in the bathroom, trying not to peek before the required 2 minutes had passed… but right on queue little blue line appeared.  I woke hubby up with the news, he swore a bit, grinned, and then scooped me up in his arms and laughed. We lay in bed for a while in a bubble of happy contentment, chatting about our new future as a threesome  – his hand occasionally stroking my belly.  

We excitedly told our families.

We could have only been five weeks gone when I found myself gazing through a shop window at all the baby toys and trinkets, when hubby squeezed my hand and asked if I wanted to buy something…

Miscarriage never crossed my mind.  

A couple of weeks later we lost our baby.  And with that moment the words started to dry up.

Child loss plunges you into darkness.  You grieve for the life you’ve lost, but also for the future.  There’s a moment in the scan room when the world that you’d so carefully started to build and cultivate in your mind just evaporates.

And you’re alone.

We spent days crying - I told colleagues I had back ache.

I was prescribed codine for the pain - I told the pharmacist I had whiplash.

I stuck to the taboos.  Kept the real source of my pain hidden.  Slowly, I started to paste a smile on my face that I didn’t feel and head back to the real world.  I hated every second.  I was lonely.  I wanted others to understand the pain I was feeling.  I wanted comfort.  I wanted to talk about my child. But I didn’t.

I never thought that it would take 4 years to fall pregnant again.  I started Learning Early anonymously because I was worried that potential employers would find it and become aware of my family plans, but slowly when no pregnancy appeared, my blog slowly dried up... 

Then I had a missed miscarriage in February 2016. We’d learnt from our first pregnancy and had decided not to share our pregnancy news with our families (why risk causing them the pain of a lost future too?), but told them and a few close friends about the miscarriage. We needed support.  I’d decided not to blog about the pregnancy either – I felt I’d been naïve previously, but now that the little one was gone, I didn’t know how to bring up that loss on a blog that I was already struggling to maintain…

I wasn’t ashamed.  But it was really really tough on me physically.  I got an infection, I needed constant check ups and scans at the hospital – and I fell back into old habits.  Twisting the truth to not make others uncomfortable about our situation, our loss, our grief,– I was seeing the doctor for “a surgery follow up” or I “needed a blood test” or whatever I could come up with on the spot.  I felt guilty.  I was reducing the loss of our son to a check up.

I've inadvertently gone by all the stereotypes that I've learnt to hate.  I despise the miscarriage taboos. We should talk.  We should support.  We should share our stories.  Miscarriage is horrible.  Miscarriage is painful.  But miscarriage is awfully common. There’s no reason it should be isolating.  

For those of us who have experienced this loss, we need stories of hope – we need to know that after all the suffering and grey skies there is the potential for happier times.  We keep on chasing those rainbows.  

Little Miss P's 12 Week Scan

It’s been a long road, but I’m currently nursing my little rainbow.  It took a while to find the words, to tell people we were expecting for a third time, and for then those words to take shape into physical action. Eventually Hubby and Father in Law started working on turning our third bedroom the nursery.  We bought a buggy. For my birthday Hubby got me a nursing chair.  

Then in May this year the little bubble of happiness that I had been growing in my belly swelled to new heights when our much waited for, and much loved daughter arrived by cesarean section.  Her warm little body curled up again mine, I have never felt such peace and joy as in that moment.  It felt like we’d crossed a finish line, and  won the biggest prize.

This week is Baby Loss Awareness Week, and it will also mark five months since Little Miss P’s arrival.

Hubby and I have lost two children – and we will never know why,  What I do know though is that no one should go through that alone, or think that loss will be the end of their story.   We hold our little girl close every day and love her fiercely and are grateful to have her in our lives.

I shouldn't have kept quiet about our earlier losses. I think I was trying to protect myself in someway, but I am ready to come out of the shadows.  To openly come clean online, shake off my anonymity and to not just tell my story, but to really share my experience.  

I firmly believe that we should all talk. Loss is nothing to be ashamed of. 

I will never forget the children that I have not been able to hold, but we are constantly making plans for  Miss P our rainbow baby, and the family that we have become.  Yes we continue to be anxious, and careful, and jumpy – but what parents aren’t? But we also enjoying bonding over our little one, from her first kicks to her first smile, wondering what her taste in music will be, and whether she will also love words as much as her Mum and Dad…

We know we’ll have lots to teach our little one, and lots to learn.

 

  

My name is Claire Dunford.  

I am Learning Early.

A bit of an update: Two become three

So, here's the thing.

I've not been entirely truthful.  It's not so much a lie, but an omission.  I've been using this blog as a diary on and off for the past few years, and those of you who have followed my journey may recall the reason I was "Learning Early."

You see, back in 2012 I discovered I was pregnant.  I made the decision, practically on day one, to blog my journey, and all the lessons I would learn as a first time mum... the disposable/reusable nappy debate, selecting a push chair, whether we'd agree to skip the gender reveal and stay Team Yellow... How naive I was.  I had some other, much harder lessons to learn first.

I miscarried my first pregnancy at 7 weeks.

There was the physical and emotional pain that followed, the snubbing out of a future that had been so clear in our minds.  It evaporated like mist.

It would take us four years and surgery for endometriosis to get pregnant again, but sadly this second little life decided not to stay with us, and I was confirmed to have had a missed miscarriage at my 12 week scan in March 2016 - just days before my 30th birthday.  Part of me thought I was more prepared, I knew what to expect, I'd been there before... I was wrong.  Just as each life I carried was different, so was the process I went through to grieve them.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"Your time will come."

"There must have been something wrong"

Kind words, but they felt like razor blades - these were my children.  They would never be named, never get a nursery, but each one would stay with me.

So when hubby and I discovered last September that we were expecting again, we dared not get excited.  We held hands as we looked at the little plastic stick on the side of the wash basin and took a deep breath, already starting to build up those protective walls should the worst happen again.

Well, here we are, a few months on, and the worst hasn't happened.   I little wriggly thing that I've seen on a sonographer's screen and that has been given top marks by all the doctors so far.  We're 22 weeks along - over half way - and this morning hubby got to join in by feeling our child tap on my tummy.

So it felt that the time was right to come clean - We've braved the Mothercare Sales,  I'm wearing maternity clothes.  There's a box in our spare room that contains a buggy.

We're expecting a baby.

 

Pregnancy and Infant Loss - Wave of Light Remembrance: My Story

Yesterday social media filled up with photographs of candles. Whether they were tealights, pillars, or lanterns, each light shone in solidarity, remembering those little lives that burned so brightly and we're extinguished far too soon.

The pain of infant loss is hard to describe. When I started this blog I thought I was starting on the road to motherhood. As soon as that little blue line appears, your whole mindset changes. You think of a future as a mum, and you think of the baby inside you, and you see you're future in a whole new way - 'pregnant' equals 'mum'.

Who would have thought that 4 years later I'm no further forward. To the external world I am not a mum. I have no baby pictures to show, no anecdotes or funny stories. All we have are 2 scan reports that found no heart beat. That's hardly going to make it onto the Facebook page.

But to me we are parents. But it's a label that we hold close to our heart, quietly. Because loss before life isn't something the world is comfortable with.

You look at social media, and people paint their perfect worlds: smiling families, days out, nights with friends - we all share our best sides. That makes the sad things in life all the more isolating. I see friends happily announce they are expecting, or see their little ones grow, and hubby and I remember the 2 babies we've lost.  I don't look at our friends enviously (okay, maybe a bit) we are genuinely pleased with their news - it's just also a reminder of the little hands we could have held

I don't hide the fact I've had 2 miscarriages. If people ask if we have kids, I explain that things haven't been straightforward.  I've told a number of friends, I'm not ashamed, I think we should all be more vocal about these things. There is no shame or fault, or blame. It just is.

But at the same time I don't publicise it. I don't want to force my sad story on other people. That's why my scan reports stay filed away, and eccentric why I didn't document our second pregnancy, and then loss on this blog.  Maybe with my first pregnancy I was naive. I just didn't think of the possibility that things wouldn't end well.  But I also don't want to bring anyone else down. I don't want to crack that veneer of perfection that we create around ourselves online... and so I too feed the taboo around miscarriage.

So, to all those parents of lost children out there: you're not alone. I send each and everyone of you a hug, a hand on your shoulder. We shouldn't hide away, we should remember.  Life isn't perfect and we should pretend otherwise.

Love to you all.

Starting new chapter with Endometriosis

It's been a while since I posted.

To be honest, a lot of things have changed - so this is the start of a new chapter.  Hubby and I finally sorted out our housing issues and moved into our first home (that's another story), we adopted a couple of cats, we've tried our hand at DIY, I changed jobs.  And I was diagnosed with endometriosis.

When I first started this blog, it was as a way of documenting my way through pregnancy, and eventually parenthood... but sadly that wasn't to be.  And now endo is going to further muddy the waters of my motherhood journey.

So what is Endometriosis?

Believe it or not but Endometriosis is the UK's second most common gynecological condition, but very few people have heard of it.  It's one of those invisible illnesses, and I've tried to 'grin and bare it' for years.  Even in the medical field it is misunderstood. I've been pushing for a gyne referral for years, without luck - thank goodness for the locum I saw who wasn't afraid to admit that he didn't know everything and agreed to my referral after a few minutes on Google.

In a nutshell Endometriosis is when cells from inside the womb end up elsewhere in the body (usually in the abdomen), and causes chronic pain.

A lot of women know what a 'bad' period is, but imagine that pain being completely debilitating - hotwater bottles and heat packs don't touch it, you're constantly popping pain killers but the pain is still enough to make you faint and vomit... Add in the constant tiredness, the struggle to sleep and the sometimes pregnancy-resembling bloat, and it's a really pretty picture.

I'm currently on the waiting list for surgery, but the truth is, there is no cure.

So why am I going under the knife?

Apparently the fact that I have been pregnant before is a good sign, but endo is can have implications for fertility, and the truth is unless a specialist takes a look, there is no way we can say what the chances are.  Both hubby and I are remaining hopeful.  I'm going to do everything I can to make this work.

And for me this will start by me trying to lose a few pounds.  I'm not sure if weight would have a big impact on the endo, but it can only help with the surgery.  So I've cleared the cupboards of junk, and joined Slimming World...  I've always tried to think a few steps ahead - that's why I'm Learning Early.

Coming to terms with miscarriage

Last night was the end of my pregnancy.  As I had a miscarriage three weeks ago I know how strange that must sound...

When my ultrasound showed that I had lost the baby, a nurse explained what to expect next and then quietly passed me a pregnancy test to use in a week or so to confirm my pregnancy-boosted hormones had returned to normal levels.  I should have used that test over a week ago.  The little packet sat on the side, but I couldn't bring myself to take the test - I knew that once I saw a singular line it would really all be over.

I finally got that confirmation last night when I took a deep breath, grabbed the foil packet and headed to the bathroom.

But the thing is, in the last three weeks I've learnt a lot about myself, about my body, and about other people's attitudes towards miscarriage.  I'm in a good place now, I've come to terms with what happened.  I know it wasn't anything that I did, but just a very tragic thing that happens quite commonly.  But I've also realised how much of a taboo it is.

When I miscarried I realised I didn't know anyone else who had been through the same experience.  I have a couple of friends who are pregnant/have had children before, but I didn't know anyone I could turn to to discuss my emotions about how my body had failed the little life Hubby and I had made.  Although I had family around me I felt completely alone.

That's why I've made the decision not to hide my miscarriage.  I'm not shouting it from the roof tops, nor am I walking around with it emblazoned on a tshirt, but now that I have made peace with it, I want to make sure that my young female friends know that should it ever happen to them (I hope it never does), that they can talk to me.   Once I started sharing my story, first with a couple of close friends, an then the situation arose where I found myself telling a couple of colleagues, I've been amazed by how many people have quietly experienced the same grief, and I can't help but think it would have helped me hugely to know that at the time.

I'm sure that this might sound strange to some people - early pregnancy is very much a private affair - but I hope that by sharing my story I might be able to help other ladies.

Remember:  You are not alone. 

Miscarriage: Don't mention the war.

I missed a call yesterday afternoon from an unknown number.  Luckily the caller left a message.

It was a lovely lady named Lynn, calling from "the clinic.". She wanted to make sure "everything" was okay, after "last week.". And if I wanted to "chat" I could call her "office."

Part of me I felt for a moment that I was in a dumbed down version of the Da Vinci Code, with a secret language to crack... The other part just wanted to giggle at the carefully constructed message.

I completely understand that leaving a voicemail you have to be careful you're reaching the right person when discussing medical matters, and that some topics of conversation can be deeply upsetting.  It is important to be discrete and sensitive and I don't doubt for a second that's what was intended.

 
Lynn is the lovely senior nurse at the Early Pregnancy Clinic of my local hospital, and she would have no idea how I was dealing with my loss and so her message was carefully phrased so not to cause any upset.
I really appreciated the call to check out how I was doing.  After weeks of shuttle runs to hospital and the doctors it's nice to know that someone cares after it's all over.

The message really did make me smile, partly because it was nice to hear that someone medical was still interested in me, but also in part because of the length that she went to to avoid any mention of "pregnancy" or "miscarriage" - it seemed straight out of Fawlty Towers!

"For God's sake. Don't mention babies!"

Miscarriage is a very personal thing, and from conversations I've had people deal with it in very different ways. But for me, I'm ready to face the reality.

For everyone who has been in this situation, I'm sending you much love.

Thank you: The road to recovery

It's been a hard few days for Hubby and I. It's not just the physical impact of miscarriage, or even the grief of losing the baby itself, we've had to come to terms with the fact that all the things we'd started to plan just aren't going to happen - certainly not straight away anyway.

I can't put into words just how wonderful people have been. Offering support, space and kind words as Hubby and I have hidden away from the world. Within hours of me breaking my heart-shattering news to my boss, they'd sent my a bunch of flowers. Obviously flowers don't lessen the pain, but just knowing you're in other people's thoughts reminds you that the world is still turning.

We still need to take the time and replan our future, but for now at least it's great to know we have great friends supporting us. 

Thank you.

The End.

When I started this blog my intention was to talk about my early learnings.

Today I learnt the hardest lesson of all - sometimes it's possible to dream too early...

The Hubby and I are clinging to each through the tempest of emotion that swirls around us - we are no longer expecting a baby.

Hubby and I need to take some time together to grieve, and to pick up the pieces of our shattered dream, so this is me signing off for a while.

Much love x