And it was gone. The sweet, kindly new-to-us sonographer, who had bothered to read my notes before she came and fetched us, and who said she was so sorry for our loss, looked and looked, from many many angles, some very nearly anatomically impossible, but, there lay Cute Ute, empty, with a thin lining, shut tight, deserted.
Our perfect embryo had folded its tent and stolen away.
I thought back to the enormous clot I had passed in the Riverside Clinic toilets last Thursday, that I hastily poked through and saw nothing gestational in. I thought back to the several smaller clots I passed later that day when we had got home again. I thought how surprised I’d been that none of them had been accompanied by more than a mild cramp and a slight stabbing sensation in my cervix, and how therefore I’d assumed I couldn’t possibly have passed the embryo. I have, in the past, suffered a great deal more for a far smaller… object. I thought about how I simply hadn’t felt pregnant since Thursday. I thought about how badly I wanted a coffee, and later tonight, a large alcoholic drink. I gripped H’s hand very tight.
The sonographer found a nurse to talk to us about next steps. We all agreed it was a complete miscarriage, and while I may well carry on spotting and having light bleeds for another few weeks, there should be no more severe pain or heavy bleeding. I felt, guiltily, huge relief that the ‘worst’ was over, had intact slunk past us without our really noticing. I can stop all medication. We can schedule our What The Fuck appointment with Dr George. I came away with a prescription for smaller and smaller doses of Prednisolone, so I can spend the next fortnight or so weaning myself off it.
Gentle Readers, thank you. Thank you all for being there, for reading, for commenting, for popping out of the woodwork to comment for this special and horrible occasion. You mean a lot to me.
Beloved 6AA, beloved proto-child, what the hell did we do wrong?