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Losing my babies is probably the hardest thing that I have ever had to go through. I was never the same from the moment the sonographer insensitively told me
"Oh yes, looks like they've been gone for quite a while. You'll be getting those out today
for sure" Like I was having my tonsils removed.
It's been a learning curve. I went from a young, ecstatic Mum to be, to a grieving shell of a person in a matter of minutes. I lay there in shock for what felt like hours. The room spun out of control and I could see people talking but I had no idea what they were saying.
"Don't worry. You're so young. You can have as many babies as you like" said one Doctor. Yes, but not those ones.
‘And besides, you already have a child. So go home and concentrate on her”
I went into theatre. Came out. Begged the universe to say it was all a joke, a misunderstanding. I asked for my babies. Nurse from hell says they have been disposed of. What do they mean that they've been disposed of. They're babies. My discharge papers are handed to me by Nurse from hell.
I go home with leaking breasts, bleeding, and in pain. No flowers. No acknowledgement from all of those around me who had three days ago treated me like a queen for carrying not just one baby, but two. It had been such a prestigious title. Mother to be of twins. And now the title had been ripped away. I was just one of the one in three women who miscarry.
I’d felt a bit off for a few days. The first sign that something was wrong a splitting headache. I sat on my stairs with my head in my hands rocking in agony. I put it down to stress. After all, my daughter was only 16 months old, and I was pregnant with twins. I’d been so sick that I had lost 7kg in the first 10 weeks. My doctor told me to go home and sleep.
I slept for around 3 hours. But when I awoke, a pain that I cannot explain was with me. This pain is not easy to put into words, but I still feel it when I remember those nightmarish few days. It’s like a constant ache. Not unbearable. But you just know that something isn’t right. No heat pack, or pain killer can take it away, but you can can deal with it.
But then the bleeding starts. It’s not bright red, but it’s there. I go to the hospital, sure that it’s all fine. With every doctor or nurse comes a different opinion. I am so unsure about what is happening because a multiple pregnancy is different to a single pregnancy. Is it normal to have headaches? To bleed? Last week my breasts were enormous, and now they are back to their normal size. Like someone has stuck a pin in them and they have deflated. Is that normal?
It has been 12 years. In this time I have been counselled, and I have been a counsellor to those who have lost their babies. I have cried every May, November and July. I have lost more babies. I have let go of countless balloons at our local park. I have explained to each child who has joined our family that they started out life as a twin, or that they are a big sister to 5 angels. I have watched my husband sit helplessly next to my hospital bed, covering his own grief, and trying to alleviate mine.
I sit with women who have been through the unthinkable. I hold their hands. I listen to them. I acknowledge that their baby was here. When they call me at midnight on the night before the anniversary of their loss, I tell them its okay. I let them cry. I tell them that I know.
Losing my babies was definitely the hardest task of my life so far. But it has taught me that you can have hopes and dreams, and be disappointed when they are taken away in an instant. That you can love someone smaller than your little finger. That losing them can be the biggest sorrow you could ever have imagined. And that you can cry for the loss someone you have never met, and never will.
If you have lost a multiple pregnancy, please visit the Australian Multiple Birth Association www.amba.org.au for support or go to www.SydneyBubs.com.au for information about pregnancy and birth after loss
(June 2007) (
Teshia
