A trip to London 

We are on the rapid slide into Christmas when I go to London for my appointment. My first thought upon receiving the letter inviting me to attend the genetics clinic at Guys Hospital was that it was a mistake. It was addressed to my maiden name, so I assumed it was a clerical error. I called them to confirm that the appointment was in relation to the miscarriage I had in the Summer; to confirm it was me they were expecting to see. To confirm they actually had something to tell me about the loss of another longed-for pregnancy. Even when they confirmed this on the phone, I still expected it to be a journey that would prove fruitless. I would leave the hospital no better informed. Empty arms, empty hands again. I would stumble my way through Christmas burying the thought that’s been haunting me the closer we get to the end of the year; had things been different I would be pregnant this Christmas. Heavily pregnant and awaiting the imminent arrival of a squalling newborn.  

I arrive early, before the clinic has opened. For twenty minutes I watch people arrive, the last of whom is the receptionist. He takes a chaotic approach to checking people in, so it’s a relief when a woman puts her head through double doors and says my name. She leads me to her office along the corridor. It turns out she is the genetic counsellor. She is young and smart. I feel in awe of her – a woman in science in medicine – and because of her tone and approach I immediately trust her. I drop my usually icy guard.   

The results 

‘We have some information for you, some results’ she tells me after confirming my details and confirming my reason for being there. She goes on to tell me, with the most perfect balance of respect and empathy, that the baby I lost in June of 2023 had two chromosomal abnormalities, both of which are not compatible with life. As someone who is hungry for knowledge and answers, I lavish and devour all the facts. She has printed various images of chromosome pairs to help explain what they have found. Grey worm-like images adorn the page and she describes how these chromosomes may have come to be so badly impaired, so flawed as to be unable to support a healthy growing person. So flawed as to be unfit to progress beyond a silent heart-beat on the earliest scan. I ask her if age is the main factor and without denying that it plays a role, she gently explains that they see women of all ages lose babies due to these abnormalities.  

The power of knowledge 

I step out under the crisp, cold, ice-blue sky of London. The Thames is not far and I can take myself through the culinary whirl of Borough market on the way. It’s an area of London I know – or knew – well. Growth, development, change happens apace in the vast and lively city of London and I soon find I’ve lost my way a little. The once familiar routes no longer so easy to find. And yet I feel a sense of peace and calm I barely recognise. The facts of the past hour converge and one thought emerges with laser sharp edges: this baby, this fleeting little life, would never have made it to my arms. In no version of this story would I ever have still been pregnant at this stage. The sense of relief is almost instantaneous.  I realise then that all through the months and months I have waited for this appointment my greatest fear has been simply this: that they would have no answers and there would still be no reason for another lost pregnancy. So this is what it feels like to have answers. 

Nativity 

As luck or fate would have it, my daughter’s first nativity play is the day after my appointment with genetics. We arrive at her pre-school and I find myself surrounded by the accoutrements of early parenthood; pregnant bumps, mewling babies, small toddlers craning to catch a glimpse of their big brother or sister. The peace I felt yesterday has been replaced by a weariness. It’s as if I’ve been carrying something heavy and have finally put it down. I’m relieved, but tired. The chance to see my daughter in her first nativity play feels like a balm on a deep ache that’s just beginning to heal.  

The children start filing in; shepherds in miniature, white vests and white capes, little crowns of sparkling silver tinsel. Their eyes search out their parents in the audience. Our eyes search out our precious little ones. And then there she is.  

A star.  

Of course she is. Burning brighter to me than I ever could have imagined. How wondrous, how luminescent she is. How impossibly perfect. How did she do it? How did we do it? How did all the stars align that needed to for her to be here? How did every cell divide and every chromosome develop to what it needed to be? It is a moment of exquisite wonder. I’m overcome by all that’s come to pass and everything that’s brought me to this moment. My eyes feel like they could burst open with tears but I fight the urge to cry. Today is for celebrating, for laughing and for gratitude.  

The lifecycle of a star

Over Christmas I think a lot about the stars and what it takes for each one of those billions of pin pricks of light we see in the night sky to come into being. I am not a spiritual or religious person, but to read the most basic summaries of what goes on out there in the vast, infinite universe around us is humbling. From dust, gases, pressure, all the right elements in all the right places and *boom* a star is created. It burns so fiercely bright that its light reaches across time and space. It’s miraculous. And it happens again and again and again; the dust and detritus from the messy destruction of an expiring star becomes the beginnings of another.  

Playing numbers

As well as waiting for answers for months, for years in fact, I acknowledge that I have been waiting for another baby. Soon after my most recent miscarriage I read (oh how we read and read and hope and read!) that people who fall pregnant within 6 months of a miscarriage have a higher chance of a successful pregnancy*. Well Christmas marked the 6 month milestone; no pregnancy. My daughter was the result of my 3^rd pregnancy after 2 miscarriages. Maybe that’s my ratio? I’ve had 2 miscarriages since she was born, so by that logic my next pregnancy must end in a healthy sibling. Surely?  

What rises from chaos?  

I’m bargaining still. I know I am and I struggle to stop myself, so instead I think again about the stars and how their end sparks the creation of something else. After 2 miscarriages I had my daughter. A new life. A new star shining her dazzling light every day, born from the messy distress of loss and longing.  

I think about what might rise from the celestial chaos of the 2 subsequent miscarriages. It’s taking a while, but the dust is starting to clear and I can see someone else emerge; me. With my daughter months away from starting school the opportunity to re-discover myself is real and holds endless possibilities. Without the pressures and stress that would no doubt come with another baby, what else can I create?  

“We are all of us stars, and we deserve to twinkle.” 

Marilyn Monroe

Afterall, who knows what’s written in the stars for me.