Chloe’s Story

I want to begin by saying that I hope my being open and transparent can help even one couple feel like they’re not alone and that it may bring some comfort to them that there can be a rainbow after a storm, cliche I know.

I suffered a miscarriage in June 2023 and it felt like I’d just joined the worst club in the world, one that I never envisioned myself being in.  Although it was traumatic being a part of it, I found comfort from other people knowing exactly what I’d been through and that they could relate to my thoughts and emotions.

Our story starts with me being pregnant with our first child. We’d been together for six years and felt the time was right to start a family, we felt grateful to fall pregnant on our first try.  Some don’t get that lucky, so we already felt we’d won the lottery.  We went for a scan when I was about seven weeks pregnant, we were so excited. We saw their heart beating away and it all looked perfectly normal. We began to wonder about who they’d be and what family traditions we could begin to make, and we experienced the joy they were already bringing to our families.

Then, on Friday 30th June I rang my GP to check about my having brown discharge, I wasn’t concerned, I knew this was common during pregnancy.  A referral to the maternity assessment unit was made and my appointment was due for the following Tuesday. From the moment I saw those two lines I was already attached so I couldn’t bear the idea of waiting that long. I tried my utmost not to panic but then you begin to wonder, “Is there something I should be worrying about?” My husband and I managed to get a private scan the next day.

I was in the waiting room with my husband. We could hear the people in the room before us, listening to the heartbeat of their baby, only for me to go in after and be told my baby’s heart had stopped. I’d been carrying them for nearly two weeks unknowingly aware they were no longer alive. I’d had something called a missed miscarriage, where the baby had passed but my body didn’t realise. I didn’t even know that was something that could happen.

It felt like a blow to my chest, quite literally like my heart had broken straight in two. I had never known a grief like it. I had told myself at the beginning of the pregnancy that miscarriages are common and if it happens it happens. I was so naive to think I wouldn’t struggle with the grief if it were to happen to me. As soon as the news hit, I was also grieving the life I had already imagined with them.

I was told to go to A&E, but I couldn’t face sitting there for hours on end. I sounded like a wounded animal; I was absolutely howling in grief. Swiftly after I’d gotten home, I got the thoughts of if they’re dead inside will it cause me any harm, is it safe to wait? Thankfully I was fortunate enough to speak to a friend who’s a GP who said I was safe to wait until my NHS appointment at EPAU on the Tuesday. I was relieved I could be at home and cry as much as I needed to. That night I just remember crying and screaming.

On that Tuesday, I had to endure yet two more scans on the NHS to confirm our worst nightmare. I was soon after presented with options for me to part with my baby. Unless you’ve been there it’s so overwhelming. From imagining a life with your baby to then having to arrange to be without them is a pain you can’t imagine; their life had barely begun and just like that they’re gone. I had elected for a dilation and curettage (D&C) which was arranged for two days later.

On the day I was given a leaflet for if I wanted to take the remains home, involve a funeral director or for the baby to be cremated with other poor babies that didn’t make it. I was 28, I had never thought I’d be doing anything like this. I felt guilty letting the hospital handle them, so I felt I had to do them justice and make my own arrangements to say goodbye. Better to do it myself than regret not doing it in years to come.

The support from staff on the day was second to none, from the ward to the operating room I had my hand literally held the whole time. When I was being put to sleep with tears running down my face, I had the surgeon stroking my hand reassuring me and telling me to try and calm down. I had the same friendly, kind-hearted nurses get me from the recovery room. The first thing I asked was “Is it done?” I think I needed to hear it was for me to know they were no longer physically with me and I needed to start to slowly heal.

This whole world was unbeknown to me and all of a sudden I was having my baby taken away from me in a scenario I never anticipated. I saw the two lines and instantly assumed I’d get to greet my baby at the end of nine months showering them with kisses and love. Instead, I held them in a tiny cold wooden box in a funeral home.

I struggled to wrap my head around everything I was dealing with. It felt like my whole world was turned upside down in such a small space of time. I soon began to feel I wasn’t entitled to grieve, other women lose their babies at full term, whereas I was early on. I began to realise if another person had lost her baby that early on I’d be validating their grief and consoling them. A loss is a loss, they mean something as soon as you get a positive pregnancy test. To try and fight with my mind and tell myself it’s okay to grieve was so difficult, I didn’t need to be fighting in my head as well as being heartbroken.

I was pointed in the direction of Petals by my GP and I’m grateful she did. The day I had my first counselling session was the day I found out I was pregnant again. Navigating loss whilst having new life inside me was a rollercoaster but my counsellor was with me every step of the way.

The miscarriage haunted my new pregnancy, suddenly the innocence of an easy/straightforward pregnancy was a distant idea. We paid for five private scans from finding out through to the 20 week scan. My anxiety was through the roof and the scans were the only way to bring my shoulders down. The reassurance would only last about two or three weeks, then I’d have to have another one as I’d be beside myself with worry. But then I’d get anxious even having scans, it was a scan that previously confirmed my worst nightmare so how could I trust it not to bring my whole world crashing down again? I had the routine of asking them if they could keep all screens off until they could tell me everything was okay and if first and foremost they could check for the heartbeat.

It was much easier when I could feel her kick but it felt like there was a little monster on my shoulders always saying “What if the worst were to happen?”

Eventually, I found the more I spoke about the miscarriage, I was processing it and people I knew who had gone through a miscarriage would reach out and empathise with my pain. I needed to find some sort of peace to enable me to get through the challenges of the new pregnancy.  The pain doesn’t go away but I found a way to live with it.  Not only that, my daughter has helped to relieve some of the pain. I do think of her older siblings and remember they were the ones to make me realise I really did want to be a Mother. I wear a necklace with their birth flower of when they were due. So I do feel like they’re in my day to day life. It’s little but it means a lot to me.

To anyone who’s suffering the unfortunate event of a miscarriage, please be kind to yourself. Take as long as you need to grieve, no time limit can be put on the process. There’s a community ready to support you should you want it.