Hayley Fitt

TW my loss story

This year has been one of the hardest of my life. In February, I experienced my first miscarriage.

I was around five weeks pregnant. That morning started like any other. I got my two-year-old ready and walked him to his hair appointment. While we were there, I started experiencing what felt like period pains. Soon after, I noticed light pink bleeding. Although I hoped it was nothing serious, something didn’t feel right.

I called the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit (EPAU), who advised me to attend the Emergency Department immediately because the pain was on my left side, raising concerns about a possible ectopic pregnancy.

As the bleeding became heavier, so did my worry.

When I arrived at the Emergency Department, I waited for what felt like an eternity. I was frightened, in pain, and terrified that I might have an ectopic pregnancy. 

Eventually, I was transferred to the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit. My cervix was examined and found to be closed, although there was obvious bleeding. I was then told I was miscarrying.

No amount of preparation can soften the blow of hearing those words. In a matter of hours, I had gone from excitedly carrying my pregnancy to grieving the loss of my baby.

Looking back, what stays with me is not only the heartbreak of the miscarriage itself, but also how alone I felt throughout the experience.

After my first miscarriage in February, we waited one cycle before trying again. When I saw those two lines appear, I felt overwhelming joy, but it was accompanied by overwhelming fear. Pregnancy after loss is unlike any other. Every cramp, every symptom, every moment of uncertainty is magnified by the memory of what happened before.

This pregnancy began so differently. My HCG levels were rising well, I had strong pregnancy symptoms, and everything initially pointed towards a healthy pregnancy.

At around five weeks, I became unwell with a Group B Streptococcus urinary tract infection. Following advice from both my GP and the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit (EPAU), I attended the Emergency Department. I was scanned, and although it was too early to see a fetal pole, a yolk sac was visible. I was reassured this was completely normal for that stage and booked for another scan at seven weeks.

The infection left me incredibly unwell, but I clung onto the hope that my baby was okay.

At seven weeks, that hope became reality. There was my baby, with a strong heartbeat, measuring ahead of dates. A week later, I had a private reassurance scan, and once again everything looked perfect. My baby had grown even more and continued to look healthy.

For the first time since my first miscarriage, I allowed myself to believe this pregnancy might end differently.

Then, just before twelve weeks, I noticed some spotting.

I called the EPAU immediately. I explained my previous miscarriage and how frightened I was. I rang every day for four consecutive days as the bleeding continued. Each time, I was told I didn’t meet the criteria for another scan and to continue watching and waiting.

The bleeding gradually became heavier, so I attended the Emergency Department once again. Because it was a bank holiday weekend, I waited for hours. By the time I was assessed, the bleeding had eased slightly. My cervix was examined and found to be closed. I was told perhaps it was a haematoma. I asked whether I could have a scan to check my baby.

I was told no.

There weren’t enough staff available, and nobody qualified to perform the scan.

I went home trying to hold onto that small piece of hope.

Within twenty-four hours, everything changed.

The bleeding became much heavier. I called the EPAU again and was told it was likely a threatened miscarriage. Again, I was told a scan wasn’t possible. I was advised to return to the Emergency Department only if the bleeding worsened.

That night, I began haemorrhaging.

Nothing can prepare you for that experience.

It happened at home, in my bathroom. My husband stayed with our toddler to shield him from witnessing something no child should ever see, meaning I endured those terrifying moments alone. I was in complete shock. I couldn’t even bring myself to call an ambulance because I simply couldn’t accept what was happening.

Instead, I called my mum, who lives miles away. She immediately contacted a family friend who came to collect me and drive me to hospital.

By then, I was bleeding so heavily that I was soaking through continence pads within minutes.

My instinct was simply to stay on the toilet because there was nowhere else I could manage the bleeding.

Then I collapsed.

The blood loss caused me to lose consciousness. I struck my head against a bin, then the wall, before hitting the floor. I later required a CT scan of my head because of the injuries from the fall.

In hospital, I was given intravenous fluids and medication to try to slow the bleeding.

Then, despite previously being told a scan wasn’t possible because there was nobody available, a scan was somehow arranged.

My baby was still there.

But there was no heartbeat.

In that moment, everything changed.

The baby I had watched grow, whose heartbeat I had seen only weeks before, suddenly became referred to as “retained pregnancy tissue.”

The doctors discussed my options: medication or surgery. Because of my gestation and the amount of blood I had already lost, surgery was considered the safest option. However, I couldn’t have it immediately because there weren’t enough theatre staff available, and I had eaten earlier that day.

I spent the night in hospital.

By then, my blood pressure had fallen so low that I was considered a falls risk. Every trip to the commode required assistance from nurses while I continued to bleed.

The following day, I underwent a D&C.

Afterwards, the surgeon explained that they had removed my baby along with placental tissue that had been causing the haemorrhage.

My haemoglobin had dropped so significantly that I required an iron infusion. I was so weak that my mum had to help me shower.

Physically, I survived.

Emotionally, I don’t think I had even begun to understand what had happened.

Only now, a few months later, am I beginning to process the trauma alongside the overwhelming grief.

Now we face yet another uncertainty.

My husband and I are undergoing genetic investigations in the hope of finding answers. Our baby was recently released from the pathology lab following testing and we had a burial. 

The waiting for answers prolongs the grief.

Every day I carry the weight of losing two babies in one year while trying to be the mother my toddler deserves. I smile for him even when my heart is breaking.

I also return to work wearing another mask of professionalism.

The place where I cared for others became the place where I experienced some of the worst moments of my own life.

Miscarriage is often spoken about as though it is simply bleeding and loss.

It isn’t.

It is fear. It is hope. It is waiting. It is trauma. It is grief. It is navigating a healthcare system while your world is collapsing around you.

I know that not every miscarriage can be prevented. I don’t expect medicine to change the outcome every time. But I do believe every family deserves to be listened to, believed, kept informed, treated with dignity, and shown compassion. Sometimes the outcome cannot be changed—but the experience of living through it can. By completing this fundraising I am hoping to contribute towards even a small change to supporting others going through this loss and grief.