Empty

Trigger Warning - the following writing discusses pregnancy loss.

The day I found out I was pregnant coincided with the first rain. A glorious day marking a new chapter and the arrival of autumn and the end of the long, hot, oppressive summer. It started as a few drops, then the heavens opened and the rain hammered down. We went to the balcony and shrieked and whooped with glee. Two blue lines appeared on a test that day, starting what could have been the start of another new chapter, but this story doesn’t end like that.

I had what is called a geriatric pregnancy the first time around, and now years later I haven’t grown any younger. I was apprehensive this time. I already decided I wouldn’t get too excited until we saw a heartbeat, and even then I thought to wait until the end of the first trimester before thinking about names and how the future would look.

Two weeks later the bleeding started. At first a few brown spots. I read about implantation bleeding and felt less anxious. It continued and we went to an emergency women’s health clinic. I was examined and they did a scan and saw a yolk sack. The doctor handed me a picture of it, and told us to come back if anything changed and if it didn’t, to return the following week to look for a heartbeat. By this time I had gentle cramps and a sore back, nothing too bad.

The next day the bleeding intensified and we returned to the clinic. I was scanned again and shown on the screen the yolk sack. The doctor informed us that I was experiencing a “threatened abortion”, known elsewhere as a threatened miscarriage, but here, in English the word abortion is interchangeable here. To my English ears abortion, sounds more brutal and implies a choice. She sent us home again, telling us if things got worse or if I got a severe headache to head to the hospital, and if not to return the following week.

I spent the weekend googling this term and learned 70% of threatened miscarriages result in healthy pregnancies. That seemed like a favourable statistic. I spoke with friends who assured me they too had had bleeding early on and went on to birth healthy babies. The bleeding and the pain continued. I rested, curled up in the corner of the bed with a pillow pressed against my back and one against my stomach, the light pressure eased the pain. One visit to the toilet I noticed the blood had an unusual odor. I had read about this online as a sign of a miscarriage, and with it my hope plummeted.

The days passed much the same, steadily bleeding and mild pain. We returned to the clinic to be scanned again. There was no heartbeat to pin future dreams on. The doctor kept repeating the word empty, empty. At the time it felt brutal and insensitive, now I understand it’s important that everything from the pregnancy has left the body. Empty, in this circumstance, was a positive. We left the clinic, eyes welled with tears. A chapter ended before it began. Empty. Empty.

I got home and returned to bed. I realised I didn’t actually know what a miscarriage is, apart from a pregnancy that ended. I lay curled in bed, learning. I learned the wonder of the human body and while still sad I was suddenly filled with absolute awe. 50% of miscarriages before 20 weeks are thought to be due to chromosomal abnormalities. An embryo that is incompatible with life.

Amongst my tears I thanked my body for making a decision for me, and saving me the heartbreak of making it later down the line. It had all happened so gently, and steadily. I felt grateful for that and grateful to myself for approaching the pregnancy with caution. I wish I had known what was happening, and treated the blood with more care, it seems disrespectful for it to be flushed in the toilet and not returned to the earth in some way.

The morning after the final clinic visit we awoke at sunrise and went to the balcony. The sky was filled with huge billowing clouds, illuminated in red by the rising sun. The sea was drenched crimson reflecting the glory of the skies. I had never seen the sea look like this from ours. I got out some thread, and sewed a picture of the scene. A memory of this moment, a memorial of a life that wasn’t to be. An ode to the marvellous and intelligent body I call my home. Not all stories have a happy ending, some just end.