Sixteen weeks: Suddenly. That’s how it all happened. One minute I felt strong, fit and well, the next moment everything started falling apart. A few days previous, I mentioned to Alok that I was not feeling the baby and that even his or her presence seemed to be missing. I tried not to make a big deal of it, and brushed off the idea that there was anything wrong. But it was as if the momentum of life that was building daily, suddenly ebbed away.Then, while in London, I began to spot. I still felt well, but of course became frightened. I rang my midwife who, in her straightforward and grounded wisdom, assured me not to worry. She said, ‘If a baby is meant to stay, then they will. And if a baby is not meant to stay, then there is not much you can do to change that. So you might as well just chill out, but continue to enjoy your travels.’ She told me to check in with her if things changed. Surprisingly, I relaxed. I’m really grateful that she was so calm and matter-of-fact. The next day we took a train to Paris. I continued to spot, but not much. We found a tiny hotel near the Isle de Cite (a small island in the centre of the Seine, where Notre Dame is situated).
The next day I felt very tired and stayed in bed while Alok, my mum and the children spent the day seeing this wonderful city. They saw the Eiffel Tower and survived the Louvre, and returned to the hotel full of stories and smiles, though concerned about me. I, too, was increasingly concerned about me, and of course, the baby. And in the evening, I began to cramp, and bleed heavier. It’s strange, never for one minute did I let myself think I was beginning to miscarry. I was so determined to stay calm and stay present with what was happening each minute. So, while I look back and see that indeed that was what was happening, my experience in the moment, up to that point, was just calm.
The next morning, the cramps came stronger, three minutes apart, just like labour. At 10 a.m., with my mother, Alok and the children at my side, in that tiny little hotel room, I lost our baby. She was a girl. The gravity of the loss hit so hard, and for a while the whole room was just tears.
A few hours later, we placed the baby’s body in a small box and took it to Notre Dame...it seemed the only thing appropriate to do. We lit candles and then sent the little box down the river Seine with flowers. The little box floated down the Seine, along with our hopes and our dreams, and disappeared into the distance.
I called my midwife again and she told me not to worry about anything, but if I started to clot, I might need some medical attention. My feeling at the time was that my body had done it’s job, and I was fine.
Two days after the miscarriage, I began to feel faint and lose more blood and clots. I went into shock and was taken by ambulance to the hospital where I was sent into surgery, under a general, to have an evacuation. Apparently not all the placenta had left with the baby.
It’s now been over a week since the miscarriage. There’s so much more to write, but not for now. I have some time to heal, and spend my days quietly listening to what this little being, who visited us so briefly, has to tell me. I have no interest in guilt, as it is toxic, and obscures what gifts and meaning are to be gleaned during this time. For now I am listening, and crying, and listening some more.
