Loss

At the moment of crisis, after the initial shock and the inevitable “why?” – the capable practical persona takes over to do what is necessary, get through the clinical explanations, the statistics and aftercare instructions. Hospitals are strange places – moments of saintly compassion jar against moments of awkwardness and unease –suffering, anxiety, relief and oblivion all coexisting. If nothing else it is a reminder of the myriad sensations of human experience.

Conservative management – letting nature take it’s course – that’s the current terminology for surrendering to the overwhelming physical effects of the next few days. My capable persona is still concerned with the basic necessities – food, rest, and pain relief. Then to break the news to close family who are so far away. Next, letting a couple of work colleagues know what’s happened, in order to clear my schedule for a few weeks. Practicalities taken care of.

Time passes, the moments of lucidity begin to outweigh the moments of collapse. Short bursts of energy allow one to consolidate, wrapped in my favourite shawl, I finish a delightful book – Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Blue Flower – just the right combination of yearning philosophy, curious history and tragic fate. Then moving on to compiling a new “to be read” priority list – a tentative plan after all plans have been abandoned.

The disappointment and sense of loss seem to hang on those plans made in the last few months – hopeful for the future, the possibility of new life, a new role, a family. But the loss is more than just possibilities – even before the initial pregnancy test confirmed my suspicions in June, I felt a subtle change in energy, a discernible presence below the navel. Then the hormones kicked in with nausea, tiredness and a general lack of concentration – the physical connection, my changing relationship to my own body and the new life within was a totally unexpected experience.
The weeks rushed by – belly, breasts and hopeful plans all growing.
In the week before the scan, a greater sense of calm and capability, no real doubts or apprehension, even a little impatience to move on to the next “safe” stage.
Then the image on the screen – no preamble, just a few questions – “are you sure about the date?” “any bleeding or pain?” – and no heart beat. At the size of 26 millimetres the fledgling life within had stopped developing, unable to make the transition, or even signal distress – no usual signs or symptoms of miscarriage.

As I reach for the next book, taking comfort or suddenly moved, I’m just grateful for the myriad of sensations recorded on so many pages….