Bright red fresh blood

I close my eyes. Tell me it’s there! Tell me it’s there! She sighs. She frowns. She lowers her eyes.

Heartbreaking stories. Devastating stories. The miscarriage story needs to change. That's why we've created Tommy's book of #misCOURAGE. Read this story now and help spread the word that miscarriage can no longer be ignored. Help us change the story to save babies' lives.


November 2016

Kate Benson

Blood. Lots of blood. Bright red fresh blood. Bad blood. Warning blood. It started yesterday and is now full flow. Mild cramping; a clot too. I catch the clot in my hand as I pee. Baby? Tears. Full fat wet tears. I reach for a nappy, cut it up and wedge it into my knickers. 

“Try a nappy” husband suggests “works just the same.”

Bright red fresh blood. Miscarriage. It had to be. Back in bed. I stare and stare into the black. I’m howling. I’m actually howling. 

“I’m sorry…. I sob “Ssshhhhhh” he says and pulls me in. 

Sleep. I needed sleep. Google. I shouldn’t but I do. Bleeding in early pregnancy. Bright red fresh blood 4-5 weeks pregnant. Bleeding and clotting. Bleeding after a positive pregnancy test, IVF. Story after story.

“Stay positive, hun!”

”Same thing happened to me, hun xxx”

“Bright red fresh blood doesn’t mean the end, hun.”

My eyes droop. Movement down below. More blood. Back to bed.

“Mummy! Daddy!”

I can’t go. Ping.

“How are you? Still bleeding?” Sister support. A thread ensues.

I’m losing it. Not losing it, losing it. Back to Google. Bright red fresh blood. 

“Call your Dr, hun…” Really? What could a Dr do? I was bleeding. Bright red fresh blood. It was obvious. It was inevitable. Dr, call the Dr. It’s Saturday, no answer.

“Mummy, mummy I’m making lego!”

My son. My beautiful, smiley, happy son. I bend for a hug. I get one. I forget. For a second I forget. Bright red fresh blood. Breathe, don’t think. Walk about, lie down. Keep strong, believe. 

“Bright red fresh blood doesn’t mean the end, hun.” 

Dr, now.

“You need to be seen.

Heart rate’s high.

“Anxious?” He asks.

“Yes” I reply.

Temperature too, thirty seven point eight. I leave. I sob. I bleed. Why?

The day drags on; nothing to be done… Tomorrow I’ll know, and I’ll know for sure. I climb the stairs. I follow the signs. I sit on a chair and wait. I’m willing a miracle; I’m clinging to hope. Cold, green, sterile gel. I close my eyes. Tell me it’s there! Tell me it’s there! She sighs. She frowns. She lowers her eyes. 

“This pregnancy won’t continue.” 

I nod. I smile. I swallow back bile. Bright red fresh blood. Bright. Red. Fresh. Blood.

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Please note that the opinions expressed by users in Tommy’s Book of #misCOURAGE are solely those of the user, who is unlikely to have had medical training. These opinions do not represent the opinions of Tommy’s and are not advice from Tommy's. Reading individual, real-life experiences can be a helpful resource, but it is never a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment from a qualified health care provider. We strongly advise readers not to take drugs that are not prescribed by your qualified healthcare provider. If you think you may have a medical emergency, call your doctor, midwife or hospital immediately. Read full disclaimer


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