Do I need to write this now?
About one in five pregnancies end in miscarriage. Or at least that is the estimate: the likelihood is that the number is far greater.
This demanded to be written at 3.30 in the morning, hence the title, even if it wins no prizes for communicating what this piece may be about.
In the west of Ireland, there is, or was, an old, white-washed, dishevelled but functional, toilet block on the quayside where the boats leave for the islands of Skellig.
Twenty years have passed since the time of this story, new life has grown, my son has transformed from tiny baby to a young man, strong and tall, who fills me with a physical maternal pride each time I look upwards at him. I feel a love for him that is unlike anything else I have ever experienced, and I feel grateful, so grateful for this.
I was late coming to motherhood, a gift of later life, meeting someone in my early forties who also hoped to have a family.
When this came to pass, we were beside ourselves, delighted and panic-stricken. We went to Ireland for a holiday and argued for the first three days. Then we started listening to each other, using the structure of co-counselling, round after round, finally getting past our anger and irritation, finally reaching our shared fears about our capacity to become parents.
At peace together, the next day dawned sunny and bright, perfect for our long-planned trip to the Skellig Islands. The Star Wars prequels were still to be filmed, so whilst it was a popular trip for people wanting to see the puffins and the ancient beehive houses of the early Christian monks, it was still possible to book a trip, given calm enough seas and the right tide. It was to be the highlight of our trip to Ireland, something I had been looking forward to for weeks.
But the day brought something else. A sudden pain, a small amount of bleeding. Enough to for me to get on the phone to find a doctor, somewhere near the boat route, someone we could see in the morning before the trip in the afternoon. What was happening? Was this normal or…? Could I do anything to stop it? Would I be in danger going out in a small boat? We needed answers. It was a Sunday, so this took a while, but we tracked down an emergency doctor and booked ourselves in.
We were early, so it seemed like a good idea to drive to a nearby lake, and go for a walk to pass the time. But a few steps in, I couldn’t do this. It wasn’t just the increasing pain washing through me, but my energy seemed to have drained away. I was staggering rather than walking.
“Lets go back to the car”
My partner took my arm and we stumbled back to our hire car.
He produced some ginger nuts. Just the right thing, sweet, spicy, restorative. How did he know?
“What do we do now? It’s an hour until our appointment”. Time and pain seemed to be extending infinitely ahead of me.
“We can play games. We can play Funny Bunny. I say a phrase, a clue, like, say, weird rabbit then you have to guess two words that mean it that rhyme, …”
Or something like that. Then more, each distracting, funny, none of which I can remember, just feeling amazed at this man having such a wonderful store of games to keep me from thinking or feeling. We sat there together, holding hands, getting sillier and sillier, as drizzle pattered on the windscreen, and the misted windows closed in around us. After all our arguments and fears about becoming parents, finally, it seemed we were together, supporting each other. I loved him.
The doctor was a locum, ill at ease in the surgery, with nicotine-stained fingers and bleary eyes. Did it matter that we weren’t married? It didn't occur to me then. All I wanted was for someone to tell me that it was ok, things would be fine, and that it was ok to go to Skellig.
After prodding my stomach unenthusiastically he delivered his verdict.
“Well, It’s impossible to tell either way. It doesn’t make any difference what you do. You have probably lost it by now anyway”
He suggested paracetamol and sent us on our way. I felt shocked, wordless, desolate. But also infuriated. Maybe it was that, together with the painkillers that kept me going.
It takes quite a long time to get to the Skelligs, and the boat seemed incredibly small as it bounced across to the islands, jagged triangular slabs of rock rising out of the Atlantic Ocean, white with bird droppings, waves crashing into every crevice and chasm, even in the calm weather of that afternoon. A seal raised its head to look at us as we neared the tiny harbour, from which stone steps led steeply up, passing neat rows of nesting guillemots, lined noisily along the cliff.
The path opened into a grassy shoulder, pockmarked with holes, each a burrow for a family of puffins. We stopped to sit amongst them, revelling in their busy-ness and beauty. After a rest, we followed the steps up leading high up into pinnacles of rock, eventually reaching the beehive houses that Skellig is famous for (and where Luke Skywalker is eventually found). Somehow I kept going. I wasn’t in pain, I had the energy to take it all in, to know I was in one of the remarkable places of the world, a place of prayer and seclusion, of life lived at the very edge of humanity, where survival is a daily achievement
.
The trip back was harder, longer, pain returning. I hurried to the toilet once we got back to the jetty. The doctor had been wrong. I hadn’t lost it when I saw him. It seemed wrong to end a life amongst rusty pipes, peeling paint and damp concrete. Even with a sea view.
That night was our last in Ireland and we had booked accommodation close to the airport. Early in the morning I was woken by the most excruciating pain, shooting through me. Terrified I woke up Peter, we packed our bags, (fortunately we had paid the night before) crept out and headed to the nearest hospital.
They were sceptical. I thought maybe if I was in so much pain, maybe I was still pregnant, just had bled a lot. But no.
“There’s nothing there” it was almost as if I had never been pregnant at all.
But why does it hurt so much? Was I making the whole thing up? Had I really been pregnant? Had I really lost it? Lost her, as I felt?
I never realised that a miscarriage was so physically painful. And it didn't stop there. Once home, with hormones shocked into reverse, I was exhausted, in pain, and then ill with an infection, more bleeding. It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life before. And then I discovered the silence that prevails. We don't talk about miscarriage. And we need to.
Thank you, Kate. That was a very tender and moving account of something which as women find incredibly difficult and painful.
Thank you for writing about it.
It brought back thoughts of my own miscarriages and the first was something I couldn’t even cope with at the time. The second was something that was so very difficult. The GP offered to dispose of Simon’s body But I insisted that I would bury him myself and I did a little ritual underneath an oak tree and created a journal with photographs of the event.
It was so early in the pregnancy that he wasn’t even considered big enough to be properly buried by other people
But he was my son
Thank you Kate. So tender and visceral all at once, just reading as a witness to this. I’m glad you’re writing, and that your writing as a response to questions and needs you experience in the world.
I plan to share this with a loved one and offer to talk about a miscarriage that I don’t remember as viscerally— perhaps because it wasn’t my body, but also likely that a fearful part of me that had no control overwhelmed my system with silence or distractions. Your art is helping me face that part with courage and compassion, and perhaps reintegrate parts of the human experience that a person in a male body can easily bypass.
Your presence, showing through in this writing, is a gift💕