I found out I was pregnant on the day of my grandmother's funeral.
In the commercial light of the funeral home, while my family members picked at sandwiches and stared red-eyed past plates of refreshments, I glanced down at my phone and saw a series of missed calls, followed by an AI summary of a message left by my specialist.
"Pregnant", it read, followed by my latest blood test results.
Someone else might have found it macabre to learn such a thing in such a place. But not me.
There was something poetic about it, profound even. I fancied the pregnancy a gift from my grandmother, a salve in what had been a challenging road; the trifecta of endometriosis, adenomyosis and PCOS having complicated my path to potential parenthood.
My joy was immediate, followed closely by a pang of guilt. Grief and delight danced an awkward tango as I fumbled my way outside the chapel — my husband close behind — and drew breath beneath a jacaranda tree.
When we returned inside, I lay a hand on my stomach, cradling our little secret under the table.
Nothing sudden about it
A week later, after a follow-up blood test returned a concerning result, my specialist was preparing me for the worst. My hCG (human chorionic gonadotropin, the hormone that measures the growth of a fetus) was rising but not doubling as it should.
It was likely that my pregnancy was non-viable. That I would soon miscarry.
My understanding of miscarriage was built on a handful of Hollywood representations and snatches of stories I'd read. Outside of this, I had few reference points.
Until then, I had thought of miscarriage as a sudden event, the kind that pulls the rug out swiftly from beneath you. That blindsides in an instant.
Mine, it turned out, was nothing like that.
There was nothing sudden or instantaneous about it. Instead, my perfect little gift disappeared slowly.
I waited several weeks for the loss, clinging to the results of each blood test in search of hope and later, clarity.
Every 48 hours I reported to the clinic in charge of my care, surrendering my arm and watching as the specimen marked as "urgent" disappeared into the onsite laboratory.
Then I waited for a call or an email, every alert notification sending my stomach through the floor.
My doctor prescribed progesterone pessaries to support my hormone levels and encourage my body to hold on. They looked and felt like bullets of soap, and each night I inserted one with a silent prayer.
Our hopes were raised and dashed several times over as my hCG leapfrogged and then sputtered, rising in erratic increments.
A period of limbo
In that period of limbo, I spent hours on the couch, waiting for the anvil to fall. I was terrified. Shadow-boxing with every twinge.
I had three ultrasounds over as many weeks. The first was inconclusive, but the second showed promising development.
My husband and I swam in the ocean that night, buoyed by the sight of something taking shape inside me.
This is the sea, I whispered to my gift.
By the time my blood results showed a drop in hCG — a sure sign of miscarriage — we were a mere fortnight away from Christmas.
In my final scan, Michael Bublé crooned over the speakers about Santa Claus coming to town. I hoped, despite knowing better, for the music of a heartbeat.
The long tail of loss
Soon after, I joined the ranks of the bereaved, of the more than 100,000 Australians estimated to have experienced pregnancy loss each year.
I was given a choice about how to finalise my miscarriage.
I could either continue to wait for my body to expel the remains of my pregnancy, take medication to hasten the process or elect for a surgical procedure — a dilation and curettage (D&C) where the tissue is removed under general anaesthetic.
It had already taken four weeks of uncertainty to get to this juncture, and I ended up requiring a D&C.
In the hospital, fairy lights and tinsel hung above my bed as I changed into a gown and, eventually, was wheeled away from my husband. I woke clutching my stomach, groping around for what had been taken.
I bled for two weeks afterwards, and it took another three for the pregnancy hormones to leave my body.
I felt hollowed out, cavernous. Like some essential part of me had been scraped away.
I knew the statistic: up to one in every four pregnancies ends in miscarriage. This was quite possibly the biggest club I'd ever been part of, and yet I felt desperately alone.
Miscarriage, for me, was the end of a glorious conversation.
I spoke daily to that presence within me. I whispered about the world and how much I wanted them in it.
But what has helped as I grapple with loss — with longing — is the presence of a different conversation. One with my community.
I've learnt of many miscarriages among my circles of friends and loved ones. Their stories are as varied as they are.
The grief I'm left with is different to the kind I felt for my grandmother, with whom I had a repository of memories to reflect on and share.
I'm not sure how to explain the sensation of missing someone you never had the pleasure of meeting. Nor my yearning for that brief window I swam in the ocean, craving orange juice and salt and vinegar chips, cooing softly to a life that could not be.
