Why you should always pack a period pad in your tramping first aid kit

Content warning: miscarriage

I write this not knowing if I’ll ever hit publish, although if you’re reading this then obviously I decided to go ahead despite my misgivings. I need to write this for myself as a way to heal, and maybe as a way to help others? But the thought of putting this all into words and then sharing with the world is pretty fricking scary. You probably didn’t even know I was pregnant. So surprise! I’m not.

Miscarriage.

It feels like a dirty word that you should say in a low voice, before quickly moving on to a different topic. I don’t really understand why that is, because it is frighteningly common. Miscarriage is something that happens to so many people – 10 – 20% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage – but yet it is barely discussed. I would argue that this silence harms more people than it helps.

So get ready to sit in that uncomfortable space with me while I ramble on about my feelings and experiences. Because I wish more people had talked about their miscarriages before I experienced one. I don’t want other people to feel alone or ashamed. Let’s break the stigma.

Disclaimer for people who know me in person: I know that the “right” thing to do after reading this would seemingly be to reach out and say that you’re sorry this has happened to me – and I thank you for being lovely and supportive, I’m sorry it happened too! But while apologising might make you feel better, in reality it’s just going to interrupt my day with a reminder of a past negative experience. Please know that I’m super open to discussing my experience and miscarriage in general, so if you have questions or want to have a conversation about this – stop me and let’s chat! But if you’d rather not discuss miscarriage (which I get!), then I’d politely ask that you say nothing instead. Thank you for your support and understanding, it is deeply appreciated.

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My miscarriage

On Saturday

I was seven weeks pregnant. It was the last weekend before Christmas.

Lauren and I had planned to tramp the Routeburn Track in two days, meeting some friends at Falls Hut who were doing it in the usual three days. I’d preemptively sought some anti-nausea meds from my GP, just in case morning sickness started while I was on the track. But I was feeling great. I felt prepared.

Which is why, when I took a toilet break at Falls Hut three hours into the tramp, it was such a shock to look down and see bright red blood.

I know now that spotting can occur during pregnancies. But at the time I just assumed something was wrong. Like really, really wrong.

I remember being weirdly calm, and coming out to the balcony of Falls Hut to tell Lauren I thought I might be miscarrying – as our flatmate she’d been one of the first we’d told, giving her an official leave notice of nine months. Frustratingly my friend Penzy who we’d randomly bumped into at the hut, had just left to go climb F-Knob, so I couldn’t ask her opinion about what to do (she’s an orthopaedic surgical registrar, which while being almost as far from an obstetrician as possible and still being a doctor, is … still a doctor).

Lauren was happy to turn back around, but I wanted to keep going. I felt fine, despite the fact I didn’t have any sanitary products in my bag (BECAUSE WHY WOULD I?! – pregnancy was going to be my nine month grace period from periods). I thought that the DOC-supplied toilet paper could make a replacement pad.

Well that was my first mistake. I’m pretty sure on a scale of ‘biodegradable to plastic bag’, that DOC toilet paper would be rated as “already disintegrating”. It was not up to code when it came to stopping miscarriage bleeding (DOC, please take that feedback on board). And literally every single woman that we came across said they used a cup. Which you know, is great for the environment and all, but COME ON!

Anyway, I decided we should keep going. Which was probably my second mistake, now that I know more about ectopic pregnancies and the risks involved in them.

While Lauren and Jess hopped up Conical Hill, I told Anna what was happening – just in case things really went south. I was still feeling fine, the bleeding was getting lighter, and I had a PLB (personal locator beacon). The rest of the trip went well and by the time we got to Mackenzie Hut the bleeding seemed to have stopped. I started to think maybe I’d over-reacted.

On Monday

I went back to work and sent a text to my midwife about what was happening. She referred me for an urgent scan “for reassurance”. The bleeding has started again and was getting heavier. After work I went to pick up the mugs Matt and I had had made announcing our pregnancy to our families. We’d been planning on surprising them with the news on Christmas Eve.

I remember standing in an unmoving line in the Warehouse, feeling like my insides were becoming my outsides, and wanting to politely tap the person’s shoulder in front of me and say “I’m actively miscarrying, do you mind if I skip ahead of you to pick up some pretty tragically-timed mugs?”. But it didn’t seem like a socially acceptable thing to do. So I waited in line, while the cramping got worse.

On Tuesday

Matt and I took sick leave from work. I filled up my bladder to its extreme limits (literally the worst) and then had a lovely sonographer push on it, trying her best to test my pelvic floor muscles and catch a glimpse of a blueberry-sized embryo. She broke the news to Matt and I gently, but very directly, which I still appreciate.

There was nothing in my uterus. The lining was quite thin. I might be experiencing an ectopic pregnancy (where the embryo grows somewhere other than the uterus. If it’s growing in one of the Fallopian tubes it can rupture the tube, causing potentially life-threatening complications. Surgery is sometimes required to remove the embryo, which can never survive outside the uterus.)

We’d gone from miscarriage being the worst thing we could have possible imagined, to now hoping for it.

I walked out of the sonographer’s office in shock. I’d sort of realised I was miscarrying, but it was very different vaguely guessing versus being told by a medical professional. I think it was worse for Matt who had went into the appointment hoping everything was still fine. I went up to the counter to pay for the scan (yes, we had to pay $40 for the pleasure of finding out we’d miscarried), but my eyes didn’t seem to be working. Turns out they were filled with tears. I got my pin wrong twice before the lovely lady printed off the bill and told us we could pay it at home later.

I went and got a blood test later that afternoon to check my betaHCG hormone. I’ve since gone on to have three more blood tests to ensure the hormone levels were decreasing back to normal – indicative that I’d had a complete miscarriage and I didn’t have an embryo still growing somewhere inside me (phew, just a normal miscarriage!).

On Wednesday

I took another day off work. Physically I felt fine other than still bleeding, but emotionally I was not in a good space. I lay on the couch crying around mouthfuls of chocolate while watching Christmas movies. We told our families that we had been pregnant, but now we weren’t. Mum came down to hang out and check on me. Penzy arrived with more chocolate (which was handy, as I’d already eaten all the chocolate that was in the house).

And lots of flowers arrived from friends and family we’d already told. The flowers joined the celebratory bouquet Matt had bought me when we’d returned that first positive test.

I wrote in my diary: “Being pregnant felt like a dream. And that dream felt so real. I don’t want to wake up from it. But the dream is bleeding out of me, day by day”.

On Thursday

I went back to work and was very grateful that no-one asked if I was ok, while being annoyed that no-one asked if I was ok. To them, I’d had two days off sick. To me, my whole world had just changed for the second time in as many months.

On Saturday

It was Christmas. Matt and I ‘celebrated’ with his family and close family friends. I could consume all of the cheese, charcuterie meats, fish, salad and alcohol that I wanted. So I did, and it was glorious.

On Tuesday

More than a week after it had begun, the bleeding finally stopped. The repeat blood tests that were making my arms look like I was a heroin addict showed that my hormones were getting closer to normal. I kept reminding myself I was no longer pregnant and didn’t have to start rearranging my life around a due date.

Today

Weeks on from the whole thing, I’m feeling back to ‘normal’. Miscarriage is downright awful. But we’ve since experienced the loss of a beloved family member, which brought home that there are many different kinds of grief out there in the world. For me, miscarriage was the death of a dream and after the dream was gone, Matt and I got to return to the life we’d already been leading prior the pregnancy. You don’t have that luxury when you lose a person who’s been a massive part of your life since you were born. They leave a hole that you can’t ever really fill.

I’m still really sad that miscarriage isn’t something that we talk about. And since then I’ve been trying to rectify that with my friends and family (sorry to everyone who’s got an earful whether they wanted it or not).

But I think I’m now ready to start rectifying that with people I don’t even know – hence why you’re reading this now. I don’t want miscarriage to be something that is hushed up, something that you just deal with in silence on your own like it’s something you should hide. Absolutely if that’s the easiest way for you to deal with your loss, then you should do that. But if it’s not, if you deal with loss and grief by talking it through with others, then we should live in a society where you feel supported to do so.

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Some things I’ve learnt

I don’t really have any profound things to say about miscarriage. A lot of people have already written on the subject who are much more eloquent and experienced than I am. But I’ve learnt a some things in these past few weeks and I thought I could share some of them.

1. Miscarriage is grief

Going through a miscarriage made me realise I’ve probably been really bad at dealing with other people’s grief in the past. The responses I found the most helpful initially were “I’m coming around to give you a hug, and then I’ll leave”, or “Love you and thinking of you. No need to reply to this message”. They showed unconditional support without requiring anything from me.

After the initial stages, the people who said “That’s really awful” and then asked further questions like “Do you want to talk about it?” or “How are you feeling now?” rather than quickly moving on, were the best. They showed interest and empathy in how I was feeling and what I was going through.

A lot of people sat in awkward silence or quickly moved on to other topics, probably because they thought the miscarriage was too raw for me to talk about. But by brushing my grief aside, it made it feel like it was something to be ashamed of, or that it was an uncomfortable burden I was placing on them. It was really helpful to be given the space and time to talk about what I was going through.

2. Don’t leave your Christmas shopping to the last minute

You never know what might come up. Sorry to those people who had me as a secret santa this year.

3. Mental health is just as important as physical health

At no point during this entire journey was I asked by a medical professional about my mental health. Which just blows my mind. I’ve had contact with my midwife, a sonographer, multiple phlebotomists, and (at the time of writing) two doctors from the Early Pregnancy Clinic via phone consults. No-one asked how I was doing mentally or offered options for further support. Please value your mental health like you would your physical health, just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t equally as important.

4. Always pack sanitary products in your tramping first aid kit

Screw cups. Pack pads into your first aid kit, even if you don’t think you’ll need them (and consider reusable cloth pads if not too heavy). They have a myriad of uses for bleeding control, not limited to miscarriage or menstruation.

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So that’s my story so far. I hope that if you’ve never been through a miscarriage then it’s opened your eyes a little. And if you have been through a miscarriage or are going through one, I am so sorry. I hope that it is a small comfort to know that you’re not alone. Kia kaha.

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