Losing a baby….

Life will always throw that curveball at the most unexpected times….

So there we were sat on the floor, Loren with a positive pregnancy test in her hand.

Mixed emotions of fear and excitement and love flowed through my veins.

How could this happen so soon? Where we ready? Could we really afford to have another child so soon after having our first son?

All of these questions filled up my brain as the survival instinct kicked in.

Then, as if by magic, they disappeared. Only to be replaced by an overwhelming sense of love and adoration.

We were going to experience the climatic joy of holding your child for the first time, again!

Life felt good, it felt like a true blessing.

Let the planning commence! What double buggy should we buy? How will we re-arrange Mason’s room to fit another cot in? How are we going to tell our family?

So the weeks went on, the weeks where we couldn’t tell anyone yet as we had not had the first scan, it was so exciting! I could not wait to to let our family and friends know that we were blessed with another child on the way!

Then came the dreaded day….

Before I begin, this day did not start off as a ‘dreaded day’ at all. This day started off with an anxious excitement in the air. We were finally going to see our little boy or girl for the first time!

So we get to the hospital and wait. Nervous smiles being thrown back and forth between us. Fingers frantically tapping on legs. Jolting up like a meerkat on sentry every time a nurse came out to call in the next impatient patient.

Then came our time….

I took a breath. This was it. The time we had so patiently waited for all these weeks.

As Loren lay on the bed, lifting her clothing away from her abdominal area, I sat in the chair next to her. She looked at me. I could see the worry in her eyes. ‘Everything will be ok’ I thought, as if she could read my mind.

But everything was not ok….

Peeping round at the radiographer’s screen, trying to catch a glimpse of anything that resembled a baby at 12 weeks, a shape, a heartbeat, any movement.

But there was nothing.

The radiographer, looking as confused as I was, tried a different approach.

Still, I could see nothing.

We were told to go back to the waiting area as she needed to consult with another doctor.

So there we waited, in silence, not knowing what to think or say. Utterly paralysed by what we just saw. What was happening? Is there something wrong? How could she not find our baby?

The time went on……and on…….and on. It felt like forever.

Finally we were took into a room and sat down.

Now what happened next I would not wish onto my worst enemy.

We were told that there was a complication. It was a molar pregnancy.

I felt an invisible hand grip onto my heart and hold it tight.

What in the world was that???

The medical term for it was was a pre cancerous form of GTD (Gestational Trophoblastic Disease). It happens when an egg with no genetic material is fertilised by a sperm (complete molar), or when two sperm fertilise one egg (partial molar).

It is very rare, about one in 750 pregnancies end up like this.

It results in a mass of abnormal cells that can grow as cysts and appear to look like a bunch of white grapes.

The consultant left us for a minute to absorb that information.

As soon as he left, Loren broke out into tears. I put my arms around her and told her everything was going to be ok, but the truth was I did not know whether it would be ok. I had to be strong for her. Holding back the tears I stared around me, in a daze, hoping this was all just a dream.

But it was not….

The consultant came back in and we were told that Loren had to go into surgery as soon as possible to remove our baby as it was a danger to her health. This was all happening too fast. We should be on our way home now, excited to tell our family and friends the good news!

Luckily, the surgery went without any complications. That would have been the last thing we needed. At last, there was a glimmer of hope.

The days that followed where similar to the days after the death of a loved one. Numb. Empty. Weak. Every morning I would get into my car to go to work and cry. It was the only time I could. It was the only time I was alone, I mean I simply could not let anyone else know that I was broken. I had to be strong for my family, for Loren.

And don’t forget we still had our baby boy to take care of, he didn’t know what was going on, he didn’t know how hurt mummy and daddy was. And I am so grateful for that, he was the light in the darkness. His smiling face like a beacon of hope on the shores of despair.

Fast forward to now….

It still hurts. I think we are getting used to it but its still hurts. The fact that Loren has to have regular tests to make sure her hCG hormone drops, or else she will need to have chemotherapy, is a constant worry. She doesn’t need to go through that, she has been through enough.

This will never end and it will be with us for the rest of our lives.

The reason I am writing this is to get the awareness out there, but just as much, I think I needed to do this for my own health. Anyone that knows me will know that I struggle to say how I feel, to show my emotions. But this helps. And if there is anyone out there that is struggling with anything I urge you to write it down. Maybe it will help you the way it has helped me.

James Murphy.

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