We don’t talk about baby loss. We don’t feel comfortable with the thought of a baby dying, and understandably so. It is uncomfortable, devastating, and distressing. But it is not shameful, it is more common than people realize, and there is much support.
Nobody can prepare for their worst nightmare becoming a reality. When I first heard about family and friends who had gone through the unimaginable pain of losing a baby, I remember feeling horrified that anyone should have to experience such a traumatic event. I went cold at the thought of having to deliver a baby that was no longer living. I felt in my heart and soul that I would not survive the pain should this ever happen to me.
I had my second-to-last scan on a Friday, and everything was as it should be. My perfect little nugget of joy was happily, wriggling around at 12.5 weeks. I could feel her tiny little flutters in my tummy, but more than that, I could feel her. Her soul, pure and beautiful. I can still feel it now.
By 17.5 weeks, something felt different. This was my first pregnancy to progress to this stage, and I did not know what was considered usual or not, but I knew something felt physically different, as though there was suddenly extra weight in my stomach.
I asked around, and many people said that everything was probably fine, and worrying was perfectly normal.
I carried on as usual. I went to work, went shopping, carried out my routine. It was a particularly cold, dark November day when I returned to an empty home. I switched on the hallway light and made my way to the bathroom — the familiar feeling of really needing to pee when you get home and into the warm.
As I sat on the toilet, water fell, but I was not peeing. There was no color, no odor — just water. At the time, it did not occur to me that my waters had just broken.
I called the number for the emergency midwife at my local hospital, and they very calmly told me not to panic and come in as soon as I could. I was not panicked at this stage, as there was no pain and no blood.
I traveled to the hospital on the bus, using a feminine towel to catch the fluid and hoping nobody noticed. The journey time felt a lot longer than it was, and all I can remember now is the darkness and the orange glow of street lights around me.
When I reached the maternity floor, a midwife took me into an assessment room and did her utmost to reassure me. She told me to try not to presume anything and that they will investigate straight away. The midwife took swabs of the liquid, and I was left alone. I was trying to keep as calm and relaxed as possible.
Confirmation soon came that the liquid was, in fact, amniotic fluid, and after what seemed like an eternity, it was time to see the consultant obstetrician.
Source: Medical News Today
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