‘It’s not your fault.’ The extraordinary pain of an ordinary miscarriage.
By Maggie O'Farrell
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If I sit straight, it seems to be saying, no one will notice.
I know how it should be, how it should look. This is my second pregnancy. I know the heartbeat should be there, flashing and flashing like a siren. So when the radiologist says that he’s sorry, the baby is dead, I already know. But I carry on staring at the monitor because there is some frail, furled part of me that is hoping there has been a mistake, that the heartbeat might suddenly appear, that the scanning machine might roll further and there it will be. I can’t look away, even when the radiologist starts talking again. I want to burn the image of that tiny, ghost-pale form into my retina. I want to remember it, to honor its existence, however short. Continue Reading
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