8 Body + Soul
the other women, I would get to fly home
and be properly cared for.
Then there was Rivah. My tiny little boy.
He was born without a heartbeat.
Born sleeping, as some people prefer to de-
scribe it.
Rivah arrived in a perfect amniotic bub-
ble after a strangely beautiful labour. I’ve
felt so bizarre admitting that I “enjoyed”
the birth. But it was the only thing we were
able to do together. My husband holding
my hand, and my baby being born.
The next few weeks are a blur. I have
snippets of memories: agonising over whe-
ther to have a post-mortem; dressing Rion
up as a bear for World Book Day; sitting in
a funeral home being shown a catalogue of
tiny coffins; meeting my beautiful nephew
for the first time.
I know how intense it might feel to read
this. Horrific even. But so many women
and families have had similar experiences,
and so few feel able to talk about it openly.
I’ve ended up apologising to others for my
sad news making them feel bad when I see
their faces inevitably drop. It’s hard for ei-
ther of us to know what to say.
Like me, millions of women do not get
answers to why their baby died. But I
consider myself one of the “lucky” ones
with the excellent care I received here in
the UK. I have reported on maternal
health from many parts of the world and
I’ve seen first-hand how so many
women — particularly in some develop-
ing countries — don’t see a medical pro-
fessional before, during or after losing
their babies.
I remember meeting 17-year-old Sulaina
in central Uganda. She was in labour on
the floor of her small hut for two days
before she was able to get to the nearest
hospital two hours away. Her baby girl
was stillborn. Sulaina told me that she
didn’t even get to hold her, and when
she returned home, she was shunned by
her community.Y
ou never think it will
happen to you. But then
you’re sitting in scan room
9, you’re staring at your
bright blue socks as you
wriggle your toes against
the white hospital sheets,
waiting for the sonographer to say
something.
But they don’t. Instead they call some-
one else in. And in the split second before
she speaks, you realise that your world is
about to go into freefall.
“I. Am. So. Sorry,” the doctor says.
I have had four miscarriages in the past
two years. Two losses in the first trimester,
known as an early miscarriage, and two
late losses in the second trimester.
Before these losses I’d had an uncompli-
cated pregnancy and gave birth to my
beautiful son, Rion, in 2018. He is a
constant (and extremely cheeky!) light in
my life.
It’s estimated that at least one in four
pregnancies ends in miscarriage in the
UK. About 50 per cent of the time it’s down
to a chromosomal abnormality, where the
baby would never have been able to sur-
vive, and most women do go on to have a
healthy pregnancy.
But like me, one in 100 women will
experience recurrent miscarriage, which
is defined in the UK as three miscarriages
in a row, and the more losses we experi-
ence, the less likely a successful pregnancy
becomes.
About half of these losses are attributed
to known causes, such as problems with
clotting or the lining of the womb. But for
many couples the reasons remain un-
known, simply because the research
hasn’t been funded and undertaken yet.
Women’s health issues are notoriously
under-researched.
My losses went from bad to worse. The
first was an early pregnancy test, followed
by a late and long period that’s known as
a chemical pregnancy. The second was
what’s called a “blighted ovum”, where a
gestational sac was found, but no embryo
was developing. I lost that pregnancy
while on an assignment for work,
reporting on maternal health in a Greek
refugee camp.
As I popped in and out of the camp’s
filthy portable loos, I just had to focus on
the task at hand. I was acutely aware that,
with thousands of women packed into the
camp, I wouldn’t be the only one in the
process of losing a pregnancy. But, unlikeFour miscarriages: I was
told I was just unlucky
The BBC’s Tulip
Mazumdar has had
several pregnancy
losses in a row. It’s
important to talk
about it, she says