I had a miscarriage – no one should be forced to work through it

‘It’s not good news’. 

That was the text I sent to my mum, my in-laws and my boss as I left an early ultrasound clinic last July. 

As my husband and I cycled home through eyes filled with tears, I received replies from all of them. My mum was on her way over, my in-laws ready to jump in the car to be with us, my boss’s message full of sorrowful words and pleas not to think about work for one second. 

She would handle everything – she would speak to HR; to my team; and manage my workload. I should take as long as I needed and focus on myself, my husband and my needs over the next couple of weeks. 

I’m fortunate that during that time – the worst in my life – I had one less thing to worry about. This is not the case for so many people. 

In fact, unless your baby loss happens after 24 weeks – when it is considered a stillbirth, rather than a miscarriage – parents-to-be are not eligible for any statutory leave. 

Now, the government is set to make amendments to the Employment Rights Bill, which would see them get ‘at least’ a week – although specifics have not been laid out. 

(Those who have a stillbirth, or lose a child under 18, are currently entitled to two weeks off, which in my opinion is nowhere near enough). 

In total, I took just over a fortnight off after my miscarriage – but could have taken longer if I wanted. 

I had gone for a private early reassurance scan at seven weeks, before I was supposed to fly abroad for a friend’s wedding. It was my first pregnancy and I just wanted to know everything was looking OK. 

But like up to 20% of women, I was about to have a miscarriage before 12 weeks. I was told by a kind doctor that there was no heartbeat, that they would normally expect to see one by this point, and that the chances of one developing after this point were slim to none. 

I expected the miscarriage would follow shortly after. I was wrong.

Unless it happened naturally before then, the next step would be to wait a week and go to the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU). It was important to wait, she said, in case there was any change. 

So we went home and waited. I sobbed. I screamed. I made guttural sounds I didn’t know I was capable of making. 

And I frantically Googled ‘How likely is it that a seven week foetus will develop a heartbeat?. I held on to a small glimmer of hope – even if my husband gently repeated the kind doctor’s words that in 18 years of doing her job she had never seen it happen. 

The lowest I felt day was on day seven. The EPU is basically A&E. You can get appointments there but generally that’s for follow up. So you have to wait. 

We arrived for the 9am opening and sat down among hordes of anxious couples looking for reassurance that their babies were OK. Over the course of the day, the room emptied out, sometimes others would come in, and yet we stayed. 

We spent seven hours waiting to be seen in a windowless room, not daring to move or dart out to get food unless our names were called. It was torture. 

When it did start – on my wedding anniversary no less – the pain was excruciating

In the end, there was still no heartbeat. We were told by an empathetic doctor that this was likely a chromosomal issue – as is the case in most early miscarriages – and heartbreakingly, I’d have to wait another week as they couldn’t accept my private scan as proof. 

However, if the miscarriage hadn’t started naturally within that time, they would book me in for a medical procedure to get it underway. 

With this news I could start to mourn my longed-for baby; the grief overwhelming. But I also felt unable to leave the house. What if the miscarriage started when I decided to go out? I couldn’t face the thought of it. 

The doctors warned me about the pain. They warned me that unless I bled through two sanitary pads per hour for two or more hours, or had a fever, it was ‘normal’ and I could handle it at home. My mind boggled. 

When it did start – on my wedding anniversary no less – the pain was excruciating. 

Out at dinner, I couldn’t eat. 

Couldn’t think of anything else except the stabbing in my abdomen. It sounds like something from a Greek tragedy, but it was during this moment that the woman on the table behind us announced her pregnancy to friends. She talked about not feeling particularly excited. 

I could write countless words about all the horrendous parts of miscarriage. The fact that you still have pregnancy symptoms; the bleeding that goes on and on and on; the limbo of waiting to lose your baby and having to see it in the loo. 

When I returned to work, I was still bleeding. I was still crying in the bathroom most days. It took me a long time to feel like myself again. I can’t think too hard about that time last year without getting emotional. 

So I hope with every bone in my body that the government not only makes statutory bereavement leave longer than a week for those who have suffered miscarriages, but that they also increase time off for parents who are grieving post-24 week losses and children. 

Because forcing people in the throes of grief to work – or take sick leave – is inexplicable to me. 

Yes, the loss is different to losing an adult child. It’s different to a stillbirth. 

But it is a bereavement. It’s not sickness. 

As I heard MP Sarah Owen say on the radio this morning, no one says ‘get better soon’ during a miscarriage, but they do say ‘sorry for your loss’. 

And it’s time employers acknowledge that loss. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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