We had just woken up in the evening and were waiting for Shy to come home after a long day. We really should have let her stay at my mums and taken some time out but we tried to stay normal, to carry on and be OK.
When I woke up that morning, I tried to move really slowly – like my speed or how active I was could make all the difference. Could stop the blood from flowing. Last nights Dr has been wrong – I needed to go to A&E now.
We were seen pretty quickly, obviously a priority. I had my first cannula inserted – soon to be the first in a list of cannulas over the next year. And we were taken to the Samaritan ward – a ward I only knew of because of a family members ectopic pregnancy. A ward that held no possible hope or positivity. There was some talk of a possible overnight stay. And then there was the ultrasound scan.
I was nearly 13 weeks pregnant and had my 12 week ultrasound booked for 2 days time. An ultrasound we wouldn’t need.
I saw my baby on a screen for the second and last time – too small and too still. At 6 weeks I had seen the tiny flickering of a heartbeat; at 13 weeks there was no movement at all.
An 8 week old embryo.
The sonographer tried. I remember. He looked and looked and tried really hard to find our last piece of hope. But I had already looked at the screen once, seen the size and I knew already.
We didn’t cry. We didn’t even discuss it. We waited for my cannula to be removed and we made jokes and small talk. We went home. And we went to bed and slept. I guess we tried to sleep off the last 24 hours. Find an escape. But we still had to wake up. Had to carry on.
I had an appointment for the next day, to decide what to do.
That was Day Two.