Happy Father’s Day 

Sunday morning. Father’s Day. I have managed to piece myself together enough to take my daughter downstairs to let my husband sleep in a little. The morning is almost normal, except I need to call the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU) as soon as they open at 7am so I can arrange to bring in the pregnancy remains. They are in a small white container  wrapped in a white plastic bag at the top of my fridge, near the back with the pickles, the mustards.  

It’s macabre and disturbing. Tragic and ridiculous.  

I am poised and dial at 7am precisely. The call is answered immediately and I am asked to come in after 12 because they are busy. I hesitate, then plead. I won’t take any time, I need to do this now. Let me come in now.  

Broken glass

My husband gets up and I head straight out to deliver my package of lost hope to the hospital. When I arrive I am shown into the room with the lady who I spoke to on the phone. I sit on a chair in front of her feeling like broken glass. Once fragile and now all sharp edges, not to be handled.  She asks me how I am and a small voice that resembles my own says ‘great’; shades of sarcasm. She gently asks me a few more questions and I say little, ending only with ‘I just want to go home’. She’s being kind but I don’t want her kindness; I want my baby. 

Parking barrier 

Once relieved of her attention I tear out as quickly as I can. It’s very early on a Sunday so the place is quiet. There’s a badly handwritten note on the car park payment meter saying ‘barrier is up, drive out’. Good, a quicker exit.  

I drive to the barrier, which is down and it’s all I need to collapse into rage. My chance to tear the barrier apart has arrived. I consider putting my foot down and driving through it, but I’m a good person and that’s for dramatic film scenes. I slam the car into reverse, go to the nearest parking meter and slam on the ‘call’ button. I scream at the person that answers that there’s a sign saying the barrier is up and it’s not. They ask me to repeat myself and I tell them again.  

‘Ok the barrier’s up now’ I’m told, ‘You can drive out.’ 

‘Yes well you need to take that sign down. I thought you should know. Thank you.’ I keep my voice terse.  

The impotent rage pulses through me as I drive away. I am full of cruelty. I am unkind.  

Shortly afterwards, on the way to my daughter’s music and movement class, the rage bursts out once more due to road closures and diversions. I yell obscenities and my 3 year old asks me what’s wrong. I tell her I’m sorry and I’m ok, I’m just cross with the roads.  

But it’s not the roads or the parking barrier or the poor person working for the parking company I’m so angry with.  

I act through the rest of the day wearing a mask to cover the deep gnawing sadness that grips to my core.  

A normal day 

The next day I am looking after my daughter on my own. Just like a normal week. We need to get out of the house for my sanity so we go to a petting farm and play area a few miles away. On the backroads I hit a pothole and nearly lose control of the car. ‘How much worse can this get?’ I think to myself.

At some point on this normal day we go to the toilet and I pass yet more pregnancy remains. Shocked I find a way to wrap and preserve what I find. I feel utterly separate from the world around me; my daughter is the portal between my plane of non-existence and the real world. I am walking around with my 3 year old child talking to her about what we see. I am walking around with the remains of a foetus tucked away in the darkness of my bag. It feels dishonourable and dirty and I feel frightened and ashamed. What if someone finds out?  

When we return to the car I realise the pothole has burst my front tyre. It’s flat and I’ll need to change it, something I have never done before. It’s a hot day. I feel like my chest might burst open. Who can you call to come and change that?

Proceed with caution 

The nuts holding the tyre in place are rigid and I have to kick and stamp on the lug wrench to loosen them. A welcome outlet for more rage. As my daughter sleeps in her car seat, I whimper and sweat and silently watch clips on YouTube to get me through each stage.  

Somehow I change the tyre and cautiously make my way home.

Since the miscarriage my catastrophising mind has been working overtime. I consider myself world class at torturing myself with the horrors that could play out in every scenario. I have lived with this long enough to know they are just thoughts. I have never mastered how to stop the thoughts from happening, but I know well enough not to give them voice. On the day we had the bad news at the scan we came home and my daughter fell and hit her back on the corner of a bedside table. My mind played several reels of her dying in some completely unexpected way while I bled out my pregnancy. On the way home from the petting farm, driving on a spare tyre fitted by someone weakened by grief I imagined the wheel flying off and causing a fatal car accident. 

Fleeing the scene 

The next day I return to the EPU with more pregnancy remains. I arrive and am shown into the clinic. I stand outside the door where just days ago I had a scan to confirm my baby’s heart had stop beating. I stare into the room and see myself lying there, my head enclosed within my arms, my body lightly heaving with muffled sobs. I hand over the remains and leave. 

I drive to the car park exit, insert my stamped ticket at the barrier, and the bar lifts.