Six Consulting Hours Left

I fell pregnant the year after I fellowed, excited for the “next” stage of life. I did everything right. I prepped my body, my mind. And finally, I fell pregnant.

I worked through the first-trimester nausea and fatigue, until one fateful day at 10am, a patient asked if I needed help cleaning up the blood.

What blood? I asked, perplexed. She pointed carefully to the floor, where there was a small puddle. I told her I had it, and sent her on her way. I blinked at it several times, details blurring in my vision.

Blood. On my floor? At my feet?
Oh. There’s also blood on my leg. How did that get there?
Oh.
Oh no.
No.
No!

I rushed to the bathroom, and yes, it had come from me.
My baby.

I froze on the toilet. I had six consulting hours left. Fifteen patients. If I went home, I’d have to try to get in with my GP. Get a blood test, or an ultrasound. People had threatened miscarriages all the time. Surely. Surely I’d be ok?

I washed my face. I washed my hands. I took a deep breath.

And I went to my consulting room again.

I bled for the next six hours with increasing intensity. I couldn’t face telling anyone, explaining what was going on, cancelling patients, and risking cancelling again if it didn’t go well.

I just couldn’t. I told myself I’d worked in the hospital on ward call with influenza A. I could handle this.
Women bled all the time.
Pregnancies ended all the time.

I wish I had been kinder to myself, now.

The universe is cruel. I saw MTOPs and pregnancies that day, children, and heavy bleeding.
I soaked through pads.
I felt the cramps.
I got my bHCG done in a brief lunch window.
I got the results. It was declining.

I told my workmates on my way out. They understood why I was probably not going to be in tomorrow.

I called my GP’s clinic on the way home.
She called me right away. Got me an ultrasound that afternoon, somehow.

“There is no heartbeat,” I heard. “I’m so sorry.”
I knew. But I’d held on to hope. So it crushed me all over again.

I had a week off. And when I came back, patients asked me how my “holiday” was.

I didn’t tell them I could still smell my blood in the room.
I didn’t tell them I could still see my blood, remnants of my child, on my floor.
I didn’t tell them I felt broken. Failed. Betrayed by my body.

Only one person I snapped at, which truly is a testament to a strength I didn’t know I had.
“It must be nice to just decide to take a week off. I booked that appointment weeks ago!” he spluttered.
“I’m sorry my miscarriage came at an inconvenient time for you,” I seethed.

He apologised. I was numb.

You never know what’s going on in anyone’s life. Women are incredible. And we need more compassion for ourselves.