Miscarriage is cruel and unfair, and I need to tell you about what happened to me

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As I write this, I am sitting at home waiting for my third miscarriage to start.

The hospital confirmed yesterday that this baby won’t survive. The medical options for getting it out scare me, so instead I’m just sitting at home waiting to bleed.

It’s a horrible place to be.

But I need to talk about this. I need people to understand why I’m in pain, and I need other women who are going through similar experiences to know that it is okay to be heartbroken.

I want to share my story to show other women they’re not alone.

As much as I want to normalise discussions around miscarriage, I know that not everyone wants to share their experience.

Every miscarriage is painful, but not every miscarriage is the same. That’s why when I read pieces urging women to tell their story to end the taboo, I understand why someone wouldn’t want to.

But since it’s pretty much all I’ve thought about for almost a year, I don’t understand how I’m supposed to keep it a secret anymore.

My first two miscarriages happened naturally, the first at six weeks and the second at five.

The day I found out my third baby wouldn’t live I should have been 10 weeks pregnant.

I was so excited to have made it past the six-week stage, but as it turns out, the baby never did. It stopped developing at six weeks and my body just didn’t figure it out.

I might have only known there was a baby inside me for two, one and six weeks respectively, but each one of them I have loved and cherished.

My husband and I have created them, I have lovingly grown them and I have had hopes, dreams and plans for them.

Each of these babies will always have a piece of my heart, however small and short-lived they may have been.

There is so much of this experience that has been difficult for me, and so many different things I want to talk about.

The truth is that miscarriage is common – around 1 in 4 of pregnancies end in loss. So many, many women have gone through the same thing.

Recurrent miscarriage however, (that’s the loss of three babies consecutively) only happens to around 1% of women.

The first time I went through it, it broke my heart, but I knew and understood that this was common – it happened. I thought my next baby would be fine.

It is for this reason I think I handled it well. Physically it was tough on me, but mentally I processed it and moved on.

Miscarriage number two however, well that one hit me like a tonne of bricks.

I went through a real grief process; I went through all the classic stages. I was angry at the world, I was angry the silence surrounding it, and I felt so alone and unable to share how I felt.

It’s ok to get annoyed when people say, ‘I know how you feel’ – because they don’t.

I realised that there was no guarantee that this wouldn’t happen again. It dawned on me that I may never give birth to my own teeny tiny human.

I’ve been pregnant, but it came with all the horrible symptoms of the first trimester – including sickness, pain and fatigue – without the joyful gift of the baby at the end.

Looking back, I knew deep down within me that these pregnancies weren’t going to result in a baby.

They say you should trust a mum’s gut instinct in pregnancy – and in my case I was right.

Pregnancy number three has been different. I believed from the start that this was the one.

We named it Baby Malnutt 3.0, we planned the announcement and we were ready to explain to the world why this was version three.

I knew I would share what happened to us, and babies one and two, regardless of whether the pregnancy was a success, but I decided to trust my gut that this one would be the one.

However, anyone that’s ever had miscarriages knows that any pregnancy will be accompanied by fear of what might happen and grief for the babies that never were.

The joy of pregnancy was sapped away by the very real knowledge that despite my hope and belief, it still might not be the one.

Miscarriage is cruel and unfair, it is heart-breaking, soul destroying, and fills your head with ugly thoughts you would never usually think.

It’s frustrating when you see friends announce their pregnancy, and breaks your heart when you see or hear stories about your peers’ kids.

Rationally, I know that these people may have also struggled with their fertility to get to the point where they are today, but when you so desperately want a baby it’s hard not to let the green monster come out.

It is normal.

And that’s what I want to let other women know by sharing my story.

I want to hide in my bed – and that’s fine.

I want to talk about it, but I understand why others don’t. No one should feel pressured to share their experience unless they want to.

It’s ok to get annoyed when people say, ‘I know how you feel’ – because they don’t.

Miscarriage happens often, but everyone’s story is different.

If you have experienced miscarriage, know that I don’t know how you feel, but I know how I feel and felt.

I know you feel crap, but I can’t understand the intricacies of that.

And you don’t have to tell me.

All I can say is I’m sorry. It isn’t your fault and you will get through this one day, one hour, on minute at a time, because that is all we really can do.

Article written by Anna Malnutt

Source: Metro

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