October 15th

Today is International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.  The aim of the campaign is to raise awareness of miscarriage and infant loss, but also aims to remove some of the stigma surrounding pregnancy loss. More than 1 in 5 pregnancies end in miscarriage, so you can guarantee that you know someone who has lost a pregnancy. Despite these high numbers, miscarriage is such a taboo subject. It's a cause close to my heart after having had a miscarriage last year and having experienced that stigma first hand. The choice to talk about a loss is a personal one, but people should be feel able to discuss it and should feel able to anticipate support and understanding.

Last year, we made the decision to start trying for a baby. We knew that due to health complications, I was at a high risk of a fertilised egg not implanting, so we held our breath and crossed our fingers when we got a positive test after only trying for a month. Things were going so well, then I had a little bleeding. I was referred over to the Early Pregnancy Unit and had an early scan at 7 weeks, but everything was perfect, lovely strong heartbeat, etc. We were told that the risk of miscarriage had dropped to 1 in 100. Who wouldn't love those odds? I've never been a gambling woman, but I felt like STATISTICS were on our side. Good ol' MATHEMATICS! You can't not trust MATHS, it's FACT!

I totally began to cash baby cheques my uterus couldn't deliver at that point, telling people left, right and centre, planning, naming, buying, etc. All my symptoms were really strong, my bump popped out so secrecy was out of the window, I was undeniably with child. We nicknamed the bump 'Ponyo' due to the resemblance on the scan to the tiny fish from the film. Towards 11 weeks, my nausea and bleeding gums tailed off, but my midwife said that was totally normal, nothing to worry about. My mum got married when I was 12w 6d, and everyone spent the afternoon rubbing my belly (which I didn't appreciate on my silk Monsoon dress, just after they'd visited the buffet). My new step-dad referred to becoming a step-grandad in his speech, etc. It was baby-tastic. We were so excited about this new phase in all of our lives.

Then the morning after the wedding, we'd stayed at my in-laws. I had a tiny, tiny amount of spotting. I wasn't concerned at all, but my partner made me ring NHS Direct just in case. My MIL said it was probably because I'd been dancing around the night before, which I thought was unlikely. NHS Direct told me to go to A and E (It was a Sunday) just in case, better to get the reassurance etc. So off we toddled, and the triage nurse in A and E treated me like some kind of neurotic head case trying to get an early scan, but took some bloods regardless. In fact, I was treating it as a chance to get an early peek, ahead of our dating scan on the Tuesday. After a few hours, they took me into a room, and started being NICE to me, so naturally, I started to panic a little. They didn't say anything much, just asked OH if he could drive me over to the local gynae specialist hospital, and said to him that if I started bleeding heavily or was in too much pain, to pull over and ring an ambulance. That was the point I started to panic a lot, but didn't want to worry OH so kept my qualms to myself.

We drove over and got taken into a little side room on the gynae ward and a lovely gentle doctor explained that my hormone levels were very low for a baby that many weeks along (she called it a baby as well, that meant a lot). When I asked how low, she said similar to what we'd expect at 6 weeks, and that she was so sorry. I knew what this meant, and started to cry, but OH didn't realise. She patiently explained that the baby had stopped growing at 8 weeks, but my body hadn't realised. She explained our choices, gave me a letter for my doctor, and sent us on our way. Having to tell my mum on the first day of her honeymoon that she wasn't going to be a grandma was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I felt so guilty, like my body had let her down, and that the anniversary of her wedding would always be the day before I lost the baby.

The next day, I went along again to the Early Pregnancy Unit for another scan. They confirmed the lack of heartbeat, and explained that I wasn't able to have the surgical procedure to remove 'the products of conception' due to a malformed uterus, so I had to have a 'medically managed abortion' using drugs to cause my body to expel the tissues. I had no idea what to expect. I'd never known anyone to miscarry. I was devastated at the loss of our baby, and terrified of the procedure but the overriding feeling was one of shame. That I'd have to tell people in work. What would they say? They'd think I was such an idiot for going public with our pregnancy. I was embarrassed by my own naivety. Instead of starting to grieve for my loss, I felt ashamed and isolated.

I don't remember much about the actual day of the procedure, other than moments of dark, bleak humour. The lady in the coffee shop seemed indignant that I'd spent so much on a puzzle magazine, which amused us no end for no particular reason. The hospital room had a TV with some innocuous cookery program on. I'd spent the week avoiding anything too emotional or baby related. It was showing some Hugh Fearnley-Whittwhatshisname program, so I thought I was safe. Until the bit with a miscarrying goat on it. I found it somewhat amusing, 'FML' has never been a more appropriate phrase. The actual procedure was painful and undignified. I'd had a sleepless night of excruciating cramps to no avail, but after another dose of drugs, my body finally let go of Ponyo. I couldn't bear to look too closely at her (turned out Ponyo was a girl), but couldn't believe how perfectly formed she was.

The worst part of losing the baby was trying to return to normal life afterwards. My family and friends were fantastic and allowed me to speak openly and honestly about what had happened. Going back to work was more difficult. People found it hard to look me in the eye, and mostly ignored what had happened. A few colleagues implied that I'd cursed myself by going public with my pregnancy, which just made me angry. It was treated as if I'd had a medical procedure that I was physically recovering from. There was little understanding of the grieving process that I was going through. My shame and guilt at losing the pregnancy was compounded by these attitudes, and if it hadn't have been for my wonderful family and close friends, I don't know how I would have coped.

This is why days like today are important. A miscarriage is far more than a biological process. It's the loss of dreams, hopes, an imagined child and future that no longer will come true. You don't grieve for the physical loss, you grieve for the child that will never be.  Miscarriage happens to so many of us. It shouldn't be taboo or secret - it's hard enough as it is without having to cope with other people's embarrassment. Also, it's not just parents who experience that loss. Grandparents, aunts, uncles - a miscarriage effects many people. Thankfully, the NHS has excellent teams who are supportive and understand the significance of a loss but there are also some amazing independent organisations who offer support and advice to families who have suffered a loss, and part of today is to raise awareness of these services for families.

Baby Loss Awareness Day

ARC (Antenatal Results and Choices)

The Ectopic Pregnancy Trust

The Miscarriage Association

Sands Stillbirth & neonatal death charity 

Saying Goodbye 

I'm so fortunate that I've since gone on to have my own rainbow baby, but I'll never forget Ponyo. Tonight, at 7pm, I'm going to be lighting a candle for her to join the wave of light.

Join the international Wave of Light (Taken from www.babyloss-awareness.org)

October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day across the world. We would like to invite you to take part in the global 'Wave of Light'. Simply light a candle at 7pm and leave it burning for at least 1 hour to join us in remembering all babies that have died during pregnancy, at, during or after birth.

This can be done individually or in a group, at home or in a communal space. Wherever you do this, you will be joining a global wave of light in memory of all the babies who lit up our lives for such a short time.