“NO FH” — these were the words that the sonographer typed on the screen when we went for our first ultrasound, a month after testing positive on a pregnancy test kit on Christmas Day.
My husband and I stared at each other blankly. I inferred what it could mean and I quickly asked, “Is it because it’s too early?”
The sonographer remained stoic, but polite. She did not reveal anything and asked us to head to the doctor’s room, which was in a separate area.
While waiting, my husband and I were in shock. Ever the pessimist, I quickly assumed the worst as a defense mechanism. It was as if I wanted to jump straight to acceptance and bypass all stages of grief, if it were indeed true that my 9-week old baby is now dead. I told my husband, “It’s fine. Even if something is wrong, it’s fine.”
I’m not sure if telling ourselves that cushioned the impact when we walked into the doctor’s room a few minutes later, when she delivered the news that we had miscarried.
The doctor offered us a second scan, saying, “You could treat it now, or wait a week later and scan again for growth to be sure.” But at the same time, she also laid out the options for the medical management of a miscarriage. She said that a second scan would help us come to acceptance.
My husband, ever the optimist, refused to believe what the four-letter “NO FH” obviously stood for — “no fetal heartbeat”. He looked forward to the second scan and hoped to find out that the first scan was all a mistake. “The machine must have been faulty,” he said.
This baby was our Christmas gift from God, or so we thought. We wanted a second child for such a long time. After a year of trying, I tested positive on Christmas Day. We would name it “Samuel” if it were a boy, or “Savanna” if it were a girl. Our three-year-old was the first one to know.
At night, before going to bed, my daughter would tell me that she wanted her sibling to sleep beside her. We explained that the baby would need to be with us for the first few months, and explained that she needed to be understanding. We were hoping to announce her birth to family after the first ultrasound.
News of joy would turn into news of grief, I thought. I took that night off caregiving duties to mourn for my unborn child, feel sorry for myself and bawl my eyes out.
I thought that having a miscarriage was the worst thing that could happen to anyone. In fact, I treated it as a taboo topic. I didn’t like reading articles on miscarriage and “rainbow babies”.
But then we had to go through it, without any warning, without any obvious symptom that alluded to it.
I thought that if I didn’t get a period, I must be healthily pregnant. In medical terms, they label cases like mine ‘missed miscarriages’.
We carried the news of miscarriage with us for about 16 days. I went on with my life, as if I was still pregnant. My belly was still bloated, although the pregnancy symptoms decreased in intensity. Although I felt sad, physically I grew more energetic, less nauseous. At work, I got more productive.
During these 16 days, we went for the second scan, which confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis. We celebrated Chinese New Year as I awaited my next appointment to “treat” it. I dropped my kid at school. I picked my kid from school. I worked through a peak period, writing and writing non-stop since we were taking a long break for the upcoming Chinese New Year.
Taking mifepristone and misoprostol at KKH
In this part of the story, I just want to document my experience of taking pills to medically expel the pregnancy for anyone who is looking for the information. If details of a miscarriage distresses you, I encourage you to click away right now.
And after the CNY festivities had ended, I took the first mifepristone pill at KKH on February 16 (2021), one of the two pills used to “medically manage” a miscarriage. The more common name for this set of pills is the “abortion pill”.
I chose this option instead of dilation and curettage (D&C), a procedure to remove tissue from inside your uterus. We simply wanted the less invasive option.
Before the appointment, I was told to head straight to the room. I took the mifepristone pill in front of a doctor and a nurse, and was asked to wait for half an hour. “If you vomit, you have to come back to take it again.”
I didn’t. So, I was sent home with reminders to ward myself two days later. In Singapore, misoprostol is administered under observation.
I so afraid that I would start bleeding profusely and experience painful cramps that the day before I went down to take the first pill, I bought four big bags of heavy-flow pads. It didn’t happen, fortunately.
Two days later at 6am, I went to KKH to ward myself. After some waiting, it was a flurry of activity when I reached my hospital bed. My husband had to drop my child at school since it was a weekday.
I had misoprostol inserted vaginally and took several painkillers. The nurse warned me that the pill may fall out and she would have to insert it again.
So, I laid there, trying to be as still as a plank. For an hour, nothing happened. I sped read through a noir mystery novel on my e-reader. I went to pee, with not much blood.
Two hours later, I found myself curled up in a fetal position, experiencing cramps in my abdomen. They were dull but nonetheless uncomfortable. I felt like going to the toilet.
Placing the basin that covered the top half of the toilet bowl according to the nurse’s instructions, I sat there for less than five minutes and felt something heavy ooze out of me. I saw everything, included a 2cm-long foetus, what seems like in a gestational sac.
The nurses had already told me to inform them through an emergency buzzer in the toilet when that happened, so they quickly came.
Thank God, I’m not flushing my baby down.
I only had to go back to my bed. They offered the option to retrieve the foetus for burial, but I did not take it.
Although I already knew of the miscarriage for almost 3 weeks by then and thought that I had finished mourning the loss of my second child, I couldn’t help but break down and cry after the procedure was done.
I prayed over him/her and said my final goodbye. “We love you,” I thought in my head, hoping if that little one had a soul, it would reach him some how.
By lunchtime, I was feeling a lot better. I had the food that the hospital gave, and popped in my antibiotics. Later in the afternoon, the nurses came periodically to check my blood pressure.
By 4pm, I was allowed to go home.
It’s a common advice not to announce a pregnancy before the 12-week mark, because miscarriages are common in the first trimester.
As for me, I announced to a couple of close friends as early as Week 6. You could say I was complacent, since I had an uneventful pregnancy the first time round.
But, as my husband and I found out, having to go back and tell loved ones that I miscarried my child wasn’t necessarily a bad or traumatising thing.
It opened up conversations around miscarriage. Many shared of their own experiences, and offered encouragement, Chinese herbs, flowers, ginger tea, and other forms of gifts and moral support.
Well, it just wasn’t meant to be.
