One in four pregnancies ends in a miscarriage. But you don't think it will be yours, writes Sasha Turner.
I was third in the queue at Dunedin Hospital Emergency Department recently when I experienced life start to fall away from me.
I would soon join another statistic club, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Two weeks earlier, I was sitting with my doctor as she presented my positive pregnancy test.
I stared at the little blue line, and was in happy disbelief.
My husband and I were planning for another baby, but we weren't expecting ''success'' so quickly.
As the due date and follow-up appointments were discussed, my doctor also mentioned that ''one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage''.
''The statistics are high, so just keep it to yourselves for now, don't go telling friends or family until the 12-week mark,'' she said.
Of course, we didn't keep it to ourselves.
We couldn't.
My husband and I were so happy.
And besides, after the experience of a healthy pregnancy with our first child, we were, perhaps, a little too confident.
Phone calls were made to family, and one or two beans were spilt to friends when my husband occasionally let slip with clichés - ''well you are eating for two now'' - as I wolfed down another helping.
To tell this story, to share of the loss of our Little One, comes with a risk, as does any disclosure of vulnerability.
Miscarriages are not openly talked about, but they affect so many people.
Google it, and you will find an abundance of support groups, and 10 times more forums lending platforms for women and men to share their grief.
It's not about the length of the pregnancy, it's about the bond, the growth of love, as this little person develops.
It wasn't until my husband and I experienced a miscarriage, and began to share our journey, that we discovered just how many friends and acquaintances had walked a similar road, quietly nursing that loss.
Our Little One was just under 8 weeks in his or her development.
Medically speaking, I was carrying an embryo the size of a baked bean.
Minuscule, yes, but Little One's heart had four chambers, and muscles and bones were forming, with the limbs beginning to take shape.
He or she even had an appendix, lips and a tongue!
I know this, because my pregnancy guidebook took precedence on my bedside table, and I pored over its contents as though I was expecting for the first time.
My stomach, of course, showed no signs of this little being, but I often lay in bed, staring at the miracle within.
I say ''miracle'' because I was soon to learn just how fragile life can be, even cushioned in a mother's womb.
Experiencing a miscarriage is hideous.
Fantasies of cradling a swaddled baby come to a grinding halt and time won't allow any exit from the shock of reality.
And, of course, all miscarriages are different, and the responses to them cannot be harnessed together, being described as emotionally and physically the same.
In our situation, my miscarriage was classified as an ''incomplete miscarriage'' and I required a short stay in hospital.
For others, the loss can occur quickly and no medical intervention is necessary.
Dunedin Hospital's medical staff were incredible and very attentive under a busy workload.
However, the clinical terminology did throw me, and as one nurse explained to me, to speak emotively of a little developing person could add to the trauma.
''The Product'', as ''it'' was referred to, would need to be ''aborted''.
I bit my trembling lip, but it was no use.
The language was too much.
I never wanted an abortion, but I was about to take a drug called misoprostol, which would make my womb contract.
I needed much reassurance from medical staff that we had actually lost our baby-to-be, and that there was no hope.
As heavy bleeding continued, together with the passing of blood clots, it became evident that this Little One had not detached from the womb.
We continued with the treatment to no avail.
The next step was a small surgical procedure called dilation and curettage, commonly referred to as a D and C.
And then it was over, just like that.
Where there was once a someone, there was now a no-one.
All I carried was a raw and confused mix of emotions, jolted suddenly back into life as it was.
I was told that there was nothing I could have done differently to avoid this loss.
No amount of rest could have prevented this, but still my mind sifted through the moments when I rushed after my toddler or pushed myself laboriously through the to-do lists.
What if?
To the credit of the hospital, there was exceptional follow-up, and there was the availability of counselling through the pregnancy clinic should I want it.
In many ways, I am thankful that family and friends already knew.
Those who had once shared our anticipation, now shared our loss and recovery.
We entered into a season of quiet.
Where there were social engagements, we discreetly opted out and hibernated, taking joy in our toddler and peace from our faith and each other.
The thought of crowds felt claustrophobic.
A miscarriage is a loss, a heartbreak, a void - and very much a reality.
The experience ushers in grief but also that of grounding.
It is a time for coming together and communicating emotions.
I found relief in accepting that there is nothing wrong with being still - mind, body and spirit - and paddling in a less chaotic sea, allowing others to hold you in the stormier waters.
Where there was life, there always remains a story.
• Sasha Turner is a Dunedin-based writer and mother who like many women has suffered a miscarriage. She shares her recent experience, hoping to help others talk about the hidden pain.
Support
There are support services for people who have suffered a miscarriage.
• www.miscarriagesupport.org.nz
• Dunedin-based Bereavement Support Service (455-8659)
