Breaking the Cycle: How Speaking About the Loss of My Baby Brought Generations of Women Closer
By: Rhea Abraham
Tags: Pregnancy, Pregnancy Loss, Abortion, Pregnancy Termination, Child Loss

It’s the eve of my first year wedding anniversary and the emotions coursing through my veins are bittersweet in the extreme.

On the one hand, I’m celebrating an entire year married to the man of my dreams: a loving, doting partner who has treasured me since the day we met.

On the other hand, it’s been barely a week since my husband Brendan and I ended our pregnancy, early in our second trimester.

We had a baby girl.

She was the size of a brilliant beet, my Ovia app informs me. Only three-and-a-half inches long. Tiny. But already able to squint, frown, and suck her thumb.

At 14 weeks, a fur-like lanugo should have covered her body to keep her warm before her baby fat set in. But it broke our hearts to learn, early in week 10, that a cystic hygroma and abnormal nuchal translucency had developed instead.

A cystic hygroma is a cyst or a group of cysts found predominantly in the neck. In a fetus, cystic hygroma’s are caused by an error in the development of lymph sacks and lymph vessels as the baby develops. A nuchal translucency scan detects chromosomal abnormalities. While the scan doesn’t tell you definitively if your baby has or doesn’t have an abnormality, the results will tell if your baby is at high or low risk of chromosomal abnormality.

By week 10 there was already enough going wrong to warrant dire warnings from specialists. The next step, invasive genetic testing, could only be performed in week twelve. Two weeks away. But it was likely that I would miscarry well before then.

The emotional turmoil that followed as we waited, doing everything in our power to stay positive, is something we will never forget.

A Chorionic villus sampling (CVS) is a test carried out during pregnancy to detect specific abnormalities in an unborn child.

By week 12, our baby had defied the odds and was still growing, though not as we had hoped. The nuchal translucency was significantly thicker – measuring a rare 9.90 millimetres. And it had spread from her head to her tailbone.

There were also problems detected in her little heart and kidneys.

A sample of cells was taken from my placenta, with the help of a large needle that was inserted into my abdomen, guided by a sympathetic physician using an ultrasound. It was uncomfortable but not painful. And the least of my worries.

My husband held my hand tightly as I lay on the examination bed and cried, watching a monitor that showed an active baby.

We had asked to see her.

When we first learned we were pregnant in September, we had been trying to conceive for seven months.

We discussed when we would tell our family and friends and decided that we would tell them early. Our decision, however, wasn’t simply because we were excited to share our happy news. We felt that if our pregnancy weren’t to continue – a pregnancy that was deeply desired – we would need our closest to lean on for support.

In week 11, emotions on both sides of our family ran high. The grandparents-to-be were as distraught by our news as we were and expressed regret in telling our family and friends. They told us that if we chose to terminate our pregnancy for medical reasons, they would just tell everyone I miscarried. It was easier that way only because it was painful to talk about.

But sitting around our dining table, we told them we wanted to be open about our experience and tell our loved ones the truth.

We told them we wanted to be a couple our community could lean on if they too found themselves weighing their hopes against their deepest fears.

I drafted a text to our family and asked both Mums to help me share it.

There was no longer any hope for a healthy outcome for baby. We had consulted the very best in Brisbane – an entire team of obstetricians, physicians and a genetic counsellor – but baby’s health had worsened and we were losing her.

So, we made the heartbreaking decision to say goodbye to our baby girl.

“After a lot of thought and consideration, Brendan and I have chosen to end our pregnancy,” the message read.

“We’re heartbroken but confident in our decision and remain hopeful.

“Just wanted to reach out because we know you’re all thinking about us and sending us your love and strength, even though you may be unsure whether to reach out to us or not.

“It’s hard to know what to do under the circumstances. We know. So we just wanted you to know we love you and feel your strength with us every day.”

The messages of love and support that poured in were instant. They gave us strength and courage for the days ahead. They cocooned us in care and we knew we were not alone.

But, most of all, what overwhelmed us were the stories of loss that women in our family began to share.

Stories no one, not even some of their closest family, had heard; grandmothers, aunties, cousins, all began sharing their experiences of loss to medical termination or miscarriage. None having shared their stories with each other before.

And just like that, courage began to spread.

More and more stories were told. More voices heard. Tears shed. Tight hugs were given and taken with sighs of relief.

Strong shoulders belonging to mighty women softened as they shared tales of a mother’s love and loss; some stories more than thirty years old.

I may have Indian and Middle Eastern heritage but I do not believe the stigma and shame associated with losing a child early in pregnancy is more prevalent in my culture.

Around ten or twenty percent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage. It’s estimated 1 in 4 pregnancies will be affected by early pregnancy loss.

Have you heard the stories? I hadn’t.

In a time when even the smallest accomplishments are shared widely with ever-expanding social networks, what is it that compels us to suffer in silence?

If it’s not stigma or shame, is it perhaps grief or fear?

Seven women from my immediate and extended family have now shared their experiences of miscarriage or termination.

Their stories gave me strength. Their resilience became my own.

As a journalist, it goes without saying I believe in the power of storytelling.

Though our hearts are broken, we will take comfort in knowing that we have, in our small way, helped to break the cycle of loneliness during loss for families we adore.