Trigger warning: Contains graphic descriptions of baby loss.
Yesterday, when I saw the news that all women who miscarried are entitled to an infant loss certificate, I was reminded of the raw sadness I felt when I miscarried my second child in my 30s. My baby was 11 weeks old when the ultrasound technician delivered the shocking verdict. She shook her head sadly, and I could tell by the stricken look on her face that something was very wrong.
I was working at Glamor magazine when I had my first mild symptoms. I was surprised to discover a strange, pale pink discharge in my office bathroom, but dismissed it as some kind of minor infection. To put my mind at ease, I decided to go to St. Thomas Hospital after work to get tested.
I was so excited and excited to get the scan and see my baby on the screen for the first time. It was 7:30pm when I texted my partner Stuart and I couldn’t hide my excitement. “They’re doing it now…”
But as I lay there, watching the scanning machine move over my stomach, the sonographer’s face fell. I’ll never forget the sight of her gently concentrating on the screen, saying, “Be patient…”
“That’s pretty low for 11 weeks. You may be less pregnant than you think,” she said finally. “Can I do an internal scan?”
I was a little disappointed that I had to wait a little longer than March 3rd, the due date that was etched into my heart.
After a few minutes, the internal scan was finished and she gently placed the scan wand down. She turned to me, distraught, and said, “Emma, I’m sorry, but I can’t find a heartbeat…”
I stared at her in horror. I couldn’t accept her words. Then the feeling of loss hit me like a tsunami. Still half undressed, I sat up and started crying, “My baby is gone…where is my baby?”
Before I could stop, I was sobbing with sadness. I was still having severe morning sickness. I still felt pregnant. I was very confused.
“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief, tearing up as I searched her face for any sign that she had made a mistake.
She nodded and replied softly, “I’m sorry…”
