"I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat"
I heard the words, "I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat".
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Those words will stay with me forever. I went in for an early 8-week scan, full of hope but with a deep feeling inside that something was wrong. I had pushed for an extra check, needing reassurance. But instead, I was told that my baby was no longer with us. They had passed away just shy of 7 weeks. I was devastated. My world had been ripped apart. Only weeks earlier, I had heard their strong little heartbeat at a 6-week scan. How could this have happened?
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I sat there in the scan room, numb and in shock. It was like I was frozen, while at the same time, hot tears streamed down my face. My husband was with me, holding my hand, trying to be supportive, but I could feel his grief too. He didn’t know what to do, how to comfort me, while he was also struggling with his own pain. The sonographer explained my options, but I barely heard a word. All I could think about was that my baby was gone.
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I chose to have medical management at the hospital because I wanted all the support I could get. I have a complicated medical history—I’m permanently on strong blood thinners—and I wanted to be in a safe environment. But when I asked for help, I was told there was no room for me and to go home and come back in two weeks. Two weeks? I had just found out my baby had died, and now I had to wait?
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I had to carry my dead baby around for two weeks, knowing that as I was walking around, my baby was decomposing inside of me. I was trying to keep them safe, but they were already gone. I felt like I had become a mortuary, carrying this precious life inside me that was no longer living. The pain of that realisation was unbearable.
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During those two weeks, my body started to miscarry naturally. I was terrified. I called the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit (EPAU), asking if I could come in, but they said there was still no room. What do I do? I asked, desperate. They told me to take some paracetamol, use a hot water bottle, and manage at home, call us if it gets bad.
Manage at home? How do I do that?
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I remember asking them, how do I collect my baby? The thought of flushing them down the toilet was indescribable. The feeling was beyond horrific—it made me feel sick with grief. Their response still haunts me: "Try and catch them and bring them in."
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"Straight away?" I asked.
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"During opening hours," they replied.
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"What if it happens outside of that?"
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"Store them in the fridge as best you can."
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I was stunned. Store my baby in the fridge? I asked how I was supposed to "catch" them, and they simply said, "Just try your best."
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"What do I look for?"
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"Blood clots are red and shiny, pregnancy tissue will be pink and matt," they said, as if that made it any easier.
I felt completely lost. What was I supposed to do? I was in a world of pain, both physically and emotionally, and now I was expected to somehow collect my baby at home. I ended up using a kitchen sieve.
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It was awful. I looked through everything that came out of me, agonising over whether to flush or keep it. Is that my baby? My baby? How could I be looking for my baby among blood, urine, and faecal matter?
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To this day, I can’t use a kitchen sieve without the reminder of what happened.
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Eventually, I caught what I thought was my baby. I stored them in the fridge, in a Chinese takeout container, as I was instructed. Every time I opened the fridge over the weekend, I saw them. My heart broke a little more each time.
When the weekend was over, I took my baby to the hospital in a "Bag for Life." I had rooted through the plastic bags in the cupboard to find one with a cartoon fish on it, thinking it added some semblance of dignity to the process. But it didn’t, not really.
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Nothing about that experience felt dignified. It felt like I was abandoned to handle the most heartbreaking moment of my life alone, with a kitchen sieve and a takeaway container as my only tools. The emotional scars from that day still linger, and I knew something needed to change in how we handle miscarriage care.
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Two weeks after the ordeal, the night before I was due to start work again, I started to bleed. Heavily. I remember standing up from a chair, and suddenly, blood was dripping down my legs. I was terrified. I’ve always had a fear of hospitals, so part of me thought, maybe if I wait a bit, it will stop. My husband was pleading with me to get help, so as a compromise, I called 111.
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I got the call back around 11 at night while I was sitting in bed, still bleeding heavily. I should have gone to A&E a lot sooner, but I kept convincing myself it would get better. As I was speaking to the person on the phone, I almost passed out, and that’s when an ambulance was called.
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The ambulance crew arrived, and they were so compassionate. They reassured me when I was scared, and the phrase that finally convinced me to ride with them to the hospital was, "Bleeding this much isn’t normal, we should get you checked out at least".
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At the hospital, things got worse. I lost a lot more blood—eventually more than half. Every time I tried to sit up, I would pass out. I was in real danger. Despite the incredible care from the hospital staff, I had to be rushed into emergency surgery, and I ended up needing several blood transfusions to survive.
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Throughout my experience at both Bassetlaw and Doncaster hospitals, including their gynaecology units and the Bassetlaw EPAU, I saw first hand just how compassionate and caring the staff are. The nurses, doctors, sonographers, and support staff worked tirelessly, doing everything in their power to help me, but they are constrained by the resources they have, stretched thin by a system that doesn’t provide them with the tools they need. It can’t be easy to work in an environment where bad news is delivered every day, but despite that, I witnessed so much empathy and kindness. I am incredibly grateful for everything they did for me, and I know they do the same for so many others every day.
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Looking back on it now, I realise how close I came to losing more than just my baby. The physical pain was overwhelming, but the emotional weight of what I had already been through made it even harder to bear.
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My miscarriage was incomplete, and that's what triggered the bleeding and put my life in danger. The bleeding wasn’t just heavy; it was life-threatening. It took an additional week after discharge before I could even manage to get to the toilet by myself, and much longer before I had the physical strength to leave the house.
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When I finally did venture out, I went to the shop to get a pint of milk and some biscuits, thinking I was having a particularly good day. But when I got to the counter, I nearly passed out. I couldn’t even lift my basket to the till. A kind man behind me saw I was struggling and had to help me back to my car—the car I had driven by myself. I sat there for 30 minutes, trying to gather enough strength to make the 2-minute drive back home. I shouldn’t have driven at all, but I didn’t realise how weak I still was. I couldn’t go back to work for months.
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It was so hard, trying to grieve the loss of my baby while recovering from a near-death experience myself. All the while, I was trying to be a good partner to my husband, who was grieving too, and a good mum to my amazing 2-year-old daughter.
Looking back, I can’t believe how unaware I was during that pregnancy. I never imagined something like this could happen. I lived in blissful ignorance, thinking miscarriage was something that happened to other people. No one talks about the dark side of pregnancy until you’re part of this club—this club I never wanted to be in.
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When I eventually felt some semblance of normalcy, I was consumed by anger. A deep, heated anger. Anger at the lack of hospital space. Anger at the absence of proper tools to handle such a devastating experience. Anger at the lack of pain relief, the lack of education, and the complete lack of awareness. Anger at how common miscarriage is, yet no one talks about it. And anger at a government that has chronically underfunded the NHS.
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I was angry that if there had been space in the hospital, I wouldn’t have miscarried at home. I wouldn’t have had an incomplete miscarriage that almost cost me my life and months of physical recovery. And all this time later, I’m still recovering emotionally.
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Something needed to change.
It’s not right.
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People are given a test tube to collect a sample of urine, but when I was told to collect my baby, I was given nothing. Nothing to catch them in. No guidance. No dignity in the process.
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I’m angry. It shouldn’t have been this way. No one should have to go through what I went through, with next to no support.
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This is why I started Dignity Care Network — miscarriage care should be compassionate, dignified, and supportive, no matter where or when it happens. This experience showed me just how broken the system is, and I am determined to make sure other women are treated with the respect they deserve during such a painful time.