Our favourite 'what if...?'

We thought long and hard about putting this up because making it public would mean the world gets a very private piece of us.

But we hope that anybody reading this who has lost a child, at whatever stage, realises they are not alone.

I write for a living, so it usually comes very naturally to me and I enjoy it. But this has been the hardest post we have had to write. It has been strangely cathartic but also incredibly emotional.

We are of the firm belief, especially now, that miscarriage and its associated feelings should be openly talked about without feeling like there is something to hide because it’s “uncomfortable”.

We understand that not everyone will want to talk about it or share their experience because they want to grieve and heal privately, and that’s ok too. For us, talking (writing) about it has helped us to heal slightly better and acknowledge that this happens – a lot.

Because it is common. It is estimated that one in four pregnancies in the UK end in miscarriage. And many of those are missed miscarriages – where the baby has stopped growing or died but there are no miscarriage symptoms such as bleeding or pain. Which is what happened to us.

Common as it is, we have heard shockingly few people talk about it. Like I said before, it’s ok if healing and grieving privately is what helps people to come to terms with it, but if it truly does affect so many people, maybe we need to encourage a cultural environment that allows people to be comfortable enough to talk about it openly if they want to, and not feel like it’s taboo and needs to be talked about in hushed tones or avoided completely.

We found out I was expecting in August. I can’t explain the joy I felt when I saw the positive line come up – on three different pregnancy tests! I ran into the bedroom, my hands shaking, where Vinay was getting ready for work. Wordlessly I handed him the tests and his face went from shock to ecstatic! We hugged and jumped around (not too vigorously of course). I didn’t think I would ever feel happier (except for when I would hold our child in my arms).

We downloaded various pregnancy apps and the estimated due date was in May. MAY! It would be the best birthday present for me and May birthdays run in my family so it felt like carrying on a cute little tradition.

I suffered terrible sickness and nausea (I refuse to call it ‘morning sickness’ because it really should be called ‘morning, noon and evening sickness’) and had to take some time off work, and be put on anti-sickness medication. In that time I also developed an infection so had to take a round of antibiotics.

I was a little worried about taking all the medication but I was assured it was completely safe in pregnancy and I was taking the lowest possible dose, just enough to keep me functioning.

We had talked about names, how and when we were going to announce it to extended family and other friends (we thought a Diwali announcement would be perfect), how we would decorate the nursery, what we would need to buy immediately and what could wait, and started working on sorting out our finances so we could be in the best place possible when the baby arrived. Most of all, we couldn’t wait to meet it!

We went for an early scan on September 15, when I was about five weeks along and not only saw the bub but also heard its heartbeat. It was the most beautiful sound we’d ever heard and came away feeling wonderful.

We then went for a private scan around five weeks when I was just over nine weeks pregnant in October because I felt a little different and just wanted to make sure everything was ok. I woke up in the middle of the night one day that week with my heart pounding because I was convinced something was wrong with the baby and checked to make sure I wasn’t bleeding. I wasn’t, so I put it in the back of my mind and tried not to think about it.

At the scan, the sonographer was quiet for a while but we saw the baby and it was much bigger than the last time so we didn’t think anything of it. We then heard the words no parents-to-be want to hear: “I’m afraid I’m not able to find a heartbeat.”

Numb with shock, we booked in another private scan on the same day (at a Mothercare of all places) because we refused to wait until the weekend was over to go to a hospital, but mostly we refused believe this was happening to us and we were praying the first sonographer had got it wrong.

The second sonographer said: “I’m so very sorry but I can’t hear or find a heartbeat. And you’re measuring four days behind so it’s likely that this has just happened.”

It’s very hard to describe how it feels when your whole world comes crashing down on you like that. It was worse than a knife through the heart. Maybe some of you reading this will know how it feels – and I am so deeply sorry that you do.

Everything else she said fell away in a blur. Time froze. I didn’t really hear anything else she said because I was looking hard at the screen willing our baby to move or do something.

It didn’t.

I can’t remember much after that. I know I kept asking if she was sure and how could it be possible when the dates matched up, and she gently kept telling me it was the case. I then vaguely remember getting up and remember them putting the pictures and report in an envelope and walking us out of Mothercare and to our car.

We had told close family and friends, and our workplaces, so began the process of “untelling” everyone. We called our parents followed by a few close friends who knew.

I know a lot of people don’t tell anyone until the 12-week mark has passed but we have never been so glad that we told our loved ones. Within minutes my parents were on their way to see us and my friends said they would also come over the following day.

The strength of support we have received has been fantastic and we don’t regret breaking the news to our family, friends and work colleagues early because we honestly don’t know where we would have been and what we would have done without their kindness, understanding and support.

We have to also take a moment and sing the praises of the staff at Stoke Mandeville Hospital who looked after us throughout this ordeal. Everyone from the sonographer to the gynae nurses and consultants were so incredible and treated us with so much kindness.

There was no rushing us out of the scan room once they had, again, established there was no heartbeat, all our options were explained clearly to us and, on the day of my surgery, we were treated with utmost respect and sensitivity. I wouldn’t wish this experience on my worst enemy but if anyone has to go through it, amazing hospital staff, like the ones we had, make an incredibly difficult time more bearable.

And, of course, we became each other’s strength. When I would sob uncontrollably, Vinay would comfort me and look after me, and when he would get upset I would hold and comfort him.

The worst part about the miscarriage was that my body didn’t realise that the baby’s heart had stopped beating so it continued to do what it was doing before and I went on thinking I was pregnant. Had we not gone for the private scan, I would have had no idea anything was wrong because midwives and doctors usually tell pregnant women there isn’t anything to worry about unless there is excessive bleeding or cramping.

I had nothing like that. Even after we found out, my body still held on to our baby, and my symptoms actually got stronger for a few days. It’s almost like it didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to let it go. Vinay and I were even talking to the baby a couple of days before we found out – which would have been a few days after it had passed on.

And while me being me had read up on miscarriage and knew what to expect physically, the loss hit me harder than I thought it would. There are very few times in my life I have cried as hard. I didn’t know it was possible to grieve so much for someone you hadn’t even met yet.

For weeks afterwards I felt sad, angry at God for taking our first baby away from us, grief that we had never got to meet it but, most of all, guilty. 

Guilty for taking the medication, guilty that as a mother I hadn’t been able to protect my child, to look after it and make sure it was happy and healthy, and I thought about everything I could have or shouldn’t have done to make sure this didn’t happen (even though we had been told repeatedly by several medical staff that it was due to a chromosomal abnormality and it was nothing I could have done).

And Vinay felt the saddest he had ever felt - a feeling of loss that would never go away and a frustration that there was nothing he could do to fix it.

Since it has happened, well-meaning people have said things like “you’re lucky it happened early,” “at least you know you can get pregnant,” “there is plenty of time to try again,” “you’re both still young” and “this will only make you stronger.”

While we understand these things have been said with the best intentions, we are most definitely not lucky – regardless of how early, we still lost a child – and we never dreamed we would join the sad one-in-four “club”. And while I know we can get pregnant again, we will never be able to enjoy any subsequent pregnancy with the same innocence we enjoyed carrying our little Peanut. 

The “what if it happens again” terror will always be there, the fear that something could go wrong again will be magnified. We are parents now – regardless of how early we lost our baby or the fact that we never got to hold it – and always will be. Also, what use is being able to get pregnant if you can’t hold on to your baby? These were some of the thoughts going through our minds.

Ironically our angel grew its wings during baby loss awareness week. All our hopes and dreams, all the baby names we had come up with, the nursery ideas, whether it was going to be a boy or girl, whose features we wanted it to inherit, who it would look more like, what its personality was like – were taken away from us in matter of minutes.

All we were left with were a few ultrasound pictures, a whole lot of pain and the reality that we would never get to meet our first baby.

It will always be our first baby though. Regardless of how many children we go on to have (and we hope to give our little Peanut brothers and sisters) this little angel will always be loved and cherished as our first. Our thoughts and prayers are with everyone who has had to go through this. It is the most heartbreaking thing we have ever been through.

Sleep tight Peanut. Mummy and daddy love you so much and we are heartbroken that we never got to meet you. We hope you are happy wherever you are and didn’t feel any pain or suffer. You will forever be in our hearts and carry a piece of our hearts with you. Thank you for giving us the chance to be your parents, even if it was for a short while. We will miss you forever and you will always be our favourite 'what if...?'

Our angel, gliding softly

Over clouds with all  your friends

Watch over us

Your mummy and daddy

Our hearts are opened

And filled  with joy

Though your visit was short

Your love lives on forever

Our little Peanut

We'll always remember.