A young paramedic is sitting opposite me in the back of the ambulance. I hear him ask me questions. I hear myself imparting robotic answers. I feel my friend’s hand gently squeezing mine. All of these sensations register somewhere in my brain’s middle distance. One thought repeats itself over and over:

I’m losing my baby.

Twenty minutes earlier the thing I’ve feared for the past nine weeks became a reality. I said goodnight to three dear friends who’d joined me for a single ladies’ Valentine’s dinner party and went upstairs to bed. As I visited the toilet I looked down to see bright red blood on the tissue. This warning sign, coupled with the sharp abdominal pains I had felt all afternoon flagged a possible miscarriage.

Dizzying blackness started to engulf me. I forced myself back down the stairs, where everyone still sat chatting and laughing. I stood, pale as death, holding on to the door frame to stop myself falling and struggling to get the words out.

“I’ve just started bleeding and I think I might be losing the baby. I need to ring an ambulance and go to A and E now.”

My friends leapt into action, helping me ring 999 and gather the necessary things together. I wanted to cry and scream but the shock numbed me into silence. All control over my body felt lost and all the joy I’d experienced at the progressing pregnancy wiped away in an instant.

I made the mistake of Googling the abdominal pains, discovering that such sharp tweaks can signal the placenta detaching.

*

I am in the A & E waiting room. A drunken man is shouting abuse at the staff, telling them his marriage has ended and he’s just taken three boxes of paracetamol. I feel sorry for the man but his shouting is pouring more stress into the room and the already anxious situation of everyone in it. I breathe deeply, trying to stay calm but my heart has other ideas.

I ring my parents and hear my father’s voice break as I tell him the bad news. It’s an odd sound. He has always had an iron strength, but this time he can’t hide his disappointment. My mother is at the gym but he will let her know when she returns. I tell him not to worry, that I will face whatever happens and try again if it comes to that. Secretly I wonder whether I could put myself through this a second time.

At last I am taken to a room and lie on the bed, waiting for the doctor. Fortunately, a gynaecologist is on duty tonight.

My friends hover at my side. I feel terrible at ruining their evening, especially as we’ve all had such fun escaping from single life. They try to distract me with lighthearted banter but most of their attempts are drowned out by the wretched wheezing of an elderly Indian woman on the other side of the ward.

The doctor arrives. She is young and has not yet developed the cold detachment brought about by years in the profession. Her empathy is a genuine comfort and she has familiarised herself with my case and read through my records. She understands how important this baby is to me and a little of the struggle I’ve been through to get this far.

She tells me that, at this early stage, there is nothing that can be done to prevent a miscarriage, if that’s the course the body is taking. They’re common – one in four pregnancies is unsuccessful.

“But I’m almost nine weeks’ and I’ve seen the heartbeat,” I murmur, though I know that this is no guarantee. Plenty of women on the fertility forums have experienced this joy, only to find at the next scan that the foetus has died with no obvious explanation. These stories of ‘mummies to an angel’ had always made me cry – to have felt that connection with the child and have it so cruelly severed!

The doctor fetches a speculum and examines me. I am openly panicking now, sucking in gulps of air and feeling my heart pound as though desperate to break out of my ribcage.
She releases me from the implement’s grip.

“I’m optimistic,” she says. “I can’t see any more blood and your cervix is closed. With a miscarriage, it often opens to let material pass through. It’s a good sign. Go home now. I’ll get the Early Pregnancy Unit to ring in the morning and get you in for a scan. Then we’ll know if there’s still a heartbeat.”

*

I eventually drift into sleep but wake after an hour and cannot return.

In the morning I have called the Early Pregnancy Unit twice by 9.15am. I’m not seen as particularly high priority, as there’s little they can do for me. I’m booked in for 2pm.

I try to keep busy, clearing the aftermath of the party. I am on autopilot. The sharp pain in my abdomen is growing worse but the bleeding seems to have stopped. My sense of injustice digs into me again. I think of the thousands of women who drink and smoke heavily or take drugs and yet manage to pop out three or four children without any effort. I have fought so hard. I’ve kept healthy and monitored my diet carefully.

I remember the words of a dear friend at the beginning of my pregnancy. Well aware of the hell I’d faced in the last five years, he reassured me: “Nothing will go wrong; the universe OWES you big time!”

*

I managed to pick up a cancellation at the EPU. After a 45 minute endurance test in the waiting room, I am scanned. I shake and sob the moment I’m in the scanning room. I begin to hyperventilate. I haven’t seen this sonographer before – an older lady with a matter-of-fact manner.

“It’s vital that you calm down. Stress can bring on miscarriage.”

“I’ve felt perfectly fine throughout the pregnancy. It was only seeing the blood… I’m so scared something’s wrong.”

“It looks ok. I’m going to show you the baby so you stop worrying.”

She turns the monitor. At the centre of the screen, for the first time, I can make out the unmistakable foetus shape. It is wriggling about, as if on a bumpy bus journey, and the tiny heart is still beating.

A flood of relief. The sonographer finishes her check. My ovaries are still swollen but the placenta and all else seems fine. The baby is now nearly 2cm from crown to rump and I’m labelled as an ‘on-going pregnancy’.

I leave the scanning room, sit with my head in my hands and cry.

The experience has shaken my confidence in my own body. I had begun to feel safe and free from complications, but now I found myself helplessly eye to eye with the fragility of my pregnancy. My future is out of my hands.