This is my sixth attempt at writing this. The day we lost our baby will never be easy. It will never be joyful. But more than anything – it will never be forgotten. Almost a year later, I want to share my story, both as part of my grieving journey and in the hope it might inspire others to share theirs.
The 12-week scan is meant to be a milestone, a moment of excitement. We thought that in just a few hours we’d be announcing our pregnancy to friends who didn’t yet know, sticking an ultrasound to the fridge, and celebrating with a meal out. But that morning, something in me didn’t feel right. I remember waking up, turning to my husband Jack, and whispering, “I’m terrified. Something feels off.”
I’m naturally anxious, so we rationalised my fears. I convinced myself everything would be fine.
The appointment was delayed, and despite the cold plastic chairs, the harsh fluorescent lights, and the endless leaflets warning of what could go wrong in any pregnancy, I found comfort in being surrounded by other expectant parents. Their quiet excitement made me feel safe, even as my nerves grew.
Then we were called in. The sonographer made small talk, spread that shockingly cold gel across my belly, and began the scan. From that moment on, everything became both slow motion and a blur. She was silent. The only sound I could hear was my own heart beating. That silence was the longest, loudest, most deafening heart beat I’ve ever heard.
Eventually, she said she couldn’t get a clear view and asked me to empty my bladder so we could try an internal scan. I don’t remember walking down the hall. I only remember swallowing back tears and repeating to myself, “It might still be okay. It might still be okay.”
When I returned, Jack was chatting with her, asking where he knew her from. She turned out to be part of our local cycling club that I used to go to. I still haven’t been back since. I’m too scared she would be there and I wouldn’t be able to stop my completely irrational anger and frustration at her and what she represented.
During the internal scan, the silence felt unbearable. I watched her face, I watched the screen, I watched my husband—and then she placed her hand on mine and said the words I still hear in my sleep:
“I’m sorry. It looks like your little one stopped growing about two weeks ago.”
I don’t remember anything she said after that. What I do remember, vividly, is the sudden humiliation of realising I was naked from the waist down. I can’t explain why that detail mattered in that moment.
Walking back through the waiting room, I felt hyper-aware of every single parent there. The ones holding their babies filled me with a jealousy so fierce it frightened me. The ones without children terrified me. I cried openly, too exhausted to stop myself, too ashamed to care.
Jack and I sat crying and hugging in the hospital prayer room for what felt like hours then walked home in silence, squeezing each other’s hands.
When we got home I physically and emotionally collapsed. And I had one, overarching thought that still haunts me to this day. I was disgusted by the fact I had been carrying a baby that had not been living for weeks. I had been excited, I had been planning a future, I even thought I was getting a bump. For some reason, this sickened me, embarrassed me and tore my heart into so many pieces I don’t think it can ever be put back to how it was.
Then came the regret. We had told so many people. I’d told work, because the morning sickness was so relentless. I’d told close friends, because “I’m fine” never felt honest when I was really nauseous, terrified, and bursting with excitement. I’d told my parents, my in-laws, my three sisters, their families, my friends who I happened to go to dinner with, and the list goes on. If I went back in time, I definitely still would have told them. You never think that you’ll be the one who has to share the devastation and you’re so excited in the moment – you just want to spread that joy.
It was, however, incredibly painful telling everyone that the worst had happened. We decided to get it out the way and sent a copy-paste message to everyone we’d told that evening. I turned my phone on silent and just sat, dreading the words of comfort I knew would follow. The words obviously always come with the best intentions but nothing, really nothing, can take away the pain of losing a child.
What I’m left with is anger, disappointment and deep sadness. I really feel like something needs to be done in society to support those who go through this and to reduce rates of baby loss. But that’s another post for another day.
For today, I just want to honour the memory of the hardest day of my life. And I want to honour Joanna.