Content warning: This post contains details of miscarriage some readers may find triggering.
On Wednesday I snapped at my husband. Really snapped. Completely unleashed over something absolutely insignificant. In hindsight, perhaps this was the first sign that my hormones were going haywire. Two days later, at just over 9 weeks pregnant, I started to lose the baby.
I say ‘started to lose’ because, although I’ve always thought a miscarriage was an event, it turns out that, for me and this baby, it was a fairly moderate bleed that lasted over a week without any other sign that something was wrong.
So, while I feel relieved that I didn’t go through any pain, it almost makes it harder to understand because I don’t know what happened or when it happened or why it happened. And I guess I’ve always thought that if you lost a baby you would know it.
There was one clear sign – on Friday morning I was trying to disguise a growing, bloated belly and by Saturday morning I practically had a six-pack. A flat tummy that would have been a source of pride at any other point in my life but that I now can’t bear to look at.
This baby’s conception was terribly timed. We found out I was pregnant a few days before I started a new job and a week before we moved house. I was already stressed about the amount of change occurring and a pregnancy seemed like an absolute inconvenience. But, over the next month, I became excited about it.
Every thought I had about the year ahead was consumed by whether I would be pregnant or have a newborn. What would I wear to my friends’ wedding? I’d be 16 weeks pregnant. Could I go to my work Christmas party? I’d be 34 weeks pregnant. Could we have a New Year’s Eve party in our new house? I’d be 38 weeks pregnant. Could I travel overseas at the end of the year? Would I have to beg my new employer for paid parental leave?
LISTEN: Libby Trickett on miscarrying. Post continues…