"My D&C story: together waiting in a circle, a weeping woman, a warrior and a mother"

I had a missed-miscarriage and a D&C at 12 weeks.

It was a long sad month, not being certain until very late that the pregnancy was not viable. A long sad month of hanging about, with a dead baby in the belly - a deeply wished baby - and finally long sad days, grieving the hopes and the dreams for a life that would not come.

I am a positive and practical person. I tried to be “prepared” as much as I could for the D&C. I read a lot beforehand because I needed to know the details of what would happen. I looked for read real stories of real women who shared the details of their experiences on the internet because unfortunately, it seemed no one at the hospital or at the Day Surgery Unit was able to answer any of my practical questions.

I thought I was prepared, but as my husband and I waited to be admitted in for the surgery, in pain from the Misoprostol, struggling to run to the toilet three times with unexpected violent diarrhea, being thirsty and not being able to drink, I was shaken up by the total unexpected fact that we were sharing the waiting room with two couples: I believe two mothers-to-be booked in for a C-section. As I was in pain, they were there, next to me, smiling, rubbing their belly, and about to meet their baby. It slapped me in the face when one of the women was admitted in, and the nurse came to pick up her husband saying cheerfully “come I’ll prepare you for the theatre, and you can meet your baby”. It hurt.

While I understand it is a public hospital with one Day Surgery Unit and one reception hall, I simply had never imagined that women grieving a miscarried baby would be sitting next to heavily pregnant women. While of course life goes on, I was not expecting to be faced with this just there and then, as I was in this transition of becoming a mother to not becoming a mother. Tears just poured down my face, unexpectedly.

And it was then that I was admitted, and asked to go through. There and then at the door, in front of the happy future parents, I had to say goodbye to my husband. No one had said he wouldn’t be allowed to come in and wait with me. COVID times I guess, but on the wall, it said one person could come in. I was thrown back. There we had to part, knowing I’d see him in an hour or two or more, who knew, with an empty belly, and no more baby.

The staff was wonderful, understanding, caring, gentle. They understood why I was particularly upset. They agreed it was upsetting. But then again, once ready for surgery, in my blue gown, shivering from cold and cramps, paper shoes, disposable underwear, hair net, I had to go and sit there, in a circle with all these women. Obviously, we were all there for different reasons. It felt so cruel and unfair for each and single one of us, each with our own story, to have to face the emotions of the others while trying to manage our own.

I was sobbing, another woman was sobbing too, another was dosing off, obviously just coming back from the surgery and ready to go home, one happy pregnant woman was calmly sitting there between us, avoiding our teary faces. I also believe that another woman was there for a termination. A nurse told me that indeed sometimes terminations happened here too. I cannot be 100% sure it was the case but I felt her demeanour was different, I felt she was a warrior, she was loud, strong, I believe trying to be confident with her choice. It appeared she talked freely and loudly to the doctor who interviewed her just there in the corridor behind my back. It seemed her answers were very different from mine. It doesn’t really matter if she was or not. What matters is that it appeared all of us were in such a different state of mind and that I believe for each of us, it was awkward and distressing to have to face the other. We exchanged tears and smiles, but it appeared none of us really wanted to engage or to deal with the pain or the happiness of the other. Not there, not just yet, not just now. Yes soon, in the supermarket, in the street, yes in a few days or weeks, life goes on, but not just there and then.

Do I need to explain further the pain and hurt and discomfort I believe this provoked in the heart and mind of any of these women?

If this cannot be avoided, in my opinion, the minimum would be to let us know beforehand. As I called the night before to confirm the surgery, I was repeated three times I could bring my own slippers. As I asked details about how things would happen, about a rough sequence of events, the receptionist could only reply that all my questions would be answered when I’d see the nurse the following day. Yes, I could bring my own slippers but was not told I’d share the room with pregnant women, that my husband could not come in, that I’d have to wait hours on end in that shared waiting room, that if there was an emergency, we would have to wait even longer.

Based on my experience, I think the minimum would be to train this reception person to answer some of these questions better, to ease our minds. Isn’t this ordeal distressing enough as it is? Could our emotional state be looked after just a little bit more? 

I expected so much more at KEHM, knowing the length of experience and praise this hospital has for women’s health. 

I hope this story will lead to some new considerations, some ways to prepare all of these women a little better, or at least, that it will warn them.