WARNING: CALL THE MIDWIFE SEASON 6 SPOILERS AHEAD!
Like many viewers in the U.K. And across the world, I'm a big fan of Call The Midwife . I had read Jennifer Worth's memoirs and was thrilled when the BBC announced they were embarking on a drama series based on them. I've followed the seasons faithfully, first of all watching with interest and longing, but no real understanding. By season 5, I was finally expecting my own bundle of joy and my emotions swung widely as I journeyed through the stories each week, but none of the stories resonated as much as last night. Season six, episode four.
We had been left hanging last week with Sheila in a hospital bed, the future of her pregnancy uncertain. That alone had hit me hard, as I have found myself identifying with her character a lot already (no, I've never been a nun, though I may have felt like one at times), but this week saw Sheila, and her ward mate Gloria Venables dealing with antenatal bleeding and late term miscarriage.
This one hit so very close to home. People don't talk about infertility or miscarriage much in our society, despite how common it is. So many women are left feeling like the only person in the world who has ever felt that way, hugging their fragile and complex emotions to them like a comfort blanket. Yes, many women are putting off attempting to conceive later and later, but not all women are conceiving late out of choice. Society tells us we should wait. We are expected to have a career, contribute to the world before starting a family, yet infertility can make you feel as though you are being punished for doing the right thing.
In my case, despite my childhood dreams of an early dazzling career, picture perfect wedding at age 24 and cherubic babies by 25, I didn't actually meet my husband until I was 36. However, from my very first period at 17, I'd had problems. I was the poster child for PMS. Backache, cramps, nausea, mood swings, acne...if there was a period symptom, I had it. I was literally floored for a week each month, curled double in agonising pain. It took 3 years, numerous GP appointments and finally a private laparoscopy before I was diagnosed with endometriosis. Over the years I tried every contraceptive on the market, desperately trying to keep my many symptoms at bay.
At 35, whilst on a teaching exchange to Birmingham, Alabama, I started my period as usual in November...and it was still going by February. Non-stop bleeding for over three straight months. Hell On Earth. But you don't talk about it. Women are expected to just put up with painful and problematic periods as their lot in life. Not Me. 4 days after caving and seeing my GPu, I was talking to a gynaecologist. He did an ultrasound then and there, telling me that I needed surgery to remove a degenerating fibroid. He didn't pull any punches. An ultrasound isn't set in stone, and can't tell exactly what is going on in there. There was a chance that it wasn't a fibroid and that he may have had to remove more than just that.
The surgery took longer than anticipated, and my mum (who had flown in to be with me), my US mama (my exchange partner's parents had taken me under their wings and treated me like their own, god bless them) and my good pal Ashley, who had driven down with her son to be with me, were all waiting patiently for my return. Mum is a nurse, and god bless her, she may be wee, but she is fierce. She peppered the doc with questions, the most pertinent being "can she still have kids?". I was incredibly lucky. When I returned I was told that had I been in the UK, they'd have just done a hysterectomy and made no attempt to remove the fibroid. According to my gynaecologist while I may find it difficult to conceive, I should be able to carry a child but, due to my many surgeries over the years, I'd have to deliver via Caesarean section. I was thrilled with that. I may have been single, but at least I was still hopeful that I may have a chance for a family in the future.
It took time, and a prescription for Clomid, but I did finally conceive. I can remember leaping on the bed with the positive test, waking my husband from sleep. No special card or gift and a videoed reveal of his reaction, I couldn't wait for that. After so many negatives I was ecstatic and couldnt wait to take the next step. I saw the midwife at 8 weeks, was given my maternity pack and a timeline of appointments and I was thrilled. Finally! Finally my body was doing what it was supposed to do! Finally I would get my chance to be a parent! No more staring at pregnant women and wondering why them and not me. No more buying baby gifts for friends, stroking little vests and wondering if I'd ever get to buy them for myself.
It was just a week later when I bled for the first time.
Nothing can describe the feelings you get when you see that terrifying flash of red in your pants. The plummeting stomach. The surge of fear. The deep gasping intake of breath that seems to take hours but in reality probably happens instantly. What's worse is that all too often the early pregnancy unit can't (or won't) see you straight away and you have to wait for a day or two, or even longer, not knowing whether you are still pregnant or not. Scared to go the bathroom in case you see more blood, scared to move or turn too fast in case you accidentally make things worse. Scared that you may have done, or not done something that you should have. As a woman, as the person who carries the child, there is such an intense sense of responsibility, that if something goes wrong it is your fault. Something you ate, or didn't eat. Was there wine in that sauce you had with your meal? Did you run up the stairs too fast? You question every little move you make.
All in all I had six small bleeds over the course of my pregnancy. Six times I saw that crimson smear when I sat down. Six times I rushed to the hospital terrified each time that I would be told that I had lost my baby. Six times my husband held me while we waited and I sobbed my heart out, so fearful that I had failed in my task to safely carry and nurture our child. In the first trimester ultrasounds showed a small pool of blood near the placenta, but they couldn't find a reason for it, or give me any idea of what I could do to stop it. Finally it vanished....but still I bled. That was even worse as there was nothing to blame it on. No visible reason for the constant small bleeds I was becoming used to. I had so many scans. Sooooo many. I know many people wish they could have more, but at 15 altogether in the end, I could have handled a few less. 9 weeks, 10, 12, 15, 18, as the gaps between bleeds stretched, I tried not to get too excited, as the fear and disappointment each time I saw the Red Peril was horrendous.
The last bleed was at 23 weeks. It had been five weeks and I'd begun hoping. I could feel him moving clearly now, and so could the husbeast. We were attached. The Tiny Dictator, as we had come to call him, held our hearts tight in his grip and I could not imagine what I would do without him. It was a pretty memorable occasion. It was World Book Day, when all teachers (and their pupils) are expected to dress as a book character. I'd originally intended to dress as Truly Scrumptious from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, but my not-so-burgeoning bump was never going to fit into that costume, so I'd ordered a character onesie from Amazon. As had become my routine since getting pregnant, as soon as the bell for break rang I legged it to the bathroom. Several people along the way reminded me that I needed to be on the playground for the group photo of us in all our costumed glory, but this mama had to pee! I was so happy that morning. The kids loved my costume, they were learning well, despite all the pressure from the government to teach a ridiculous amount of grammar, and I was full of the joys of life even though I was still puking my guts up often. I had honestly stopped expecting to see blood, so when it was staring back at me, my heart just sank.
Luckily at that later stage of pregnancy, things are taken a little more seriously and triage saw me that same day. I couldn't think straight, and barely remember the 30 minute drive to the hospital. It's a wonder I didn't crash the damn car, I was so out of it. I didn't notice the strange looks from people as I hurried through the doors of the women's unit. The midwife didn't bat an eyelid as she did her checks, it wasn't until I was getting undressed to let the docs examine me that I realised I was still in my Winnie The Pooh onesie. I've never worn that suit since and don't think I will ever wear it again.
I was exceedingly fortunate. The Tiny Dictator was burrowed in deep, and he managed to hold on for another 13 weeks, before being delivered safely 4 weeks early. I didn't have to say goodbye. I didn't have to face the worst news imaginable. We have been so fortunate, but each bleed left a small crack in my heart. Each dash to triage broke me a little, made me a little harder, a little colder and I am irrevocably changed going forward.
Not every pregnancy ends well. When you see that woman, stroking her bump and looking wistful, it may not be dreams of the future. She may be praying and wishing and hoping that her child clings to her, clings to life. So spare a thought for the ones who could not cling. For the babes who just weren't able to last the full forty weeks. Spare a thought for those who have to say goodbye once, or over and over and over again.
I know I do.
