Fast-forward six weeks to mid-November 2016. I was feeling a little better following the miscarriage. We had had a lovely week in Dubai to load up on vitamin D ahead of the winter, so things seemed brighter. My period had returned (somewhat normal – I can’t remember to be honest) at the right time, so I felt hopeful. My body was back to normal!
I went for an ultrasound scan with the guy I had been to see previously on Harley Street to track my ovulation (I wanted to make sure I was ovulating regularly again). The good news was that I was ovlulating, but the bad news was that the scan showed that part of the foetus was still in my uterus. WTF?!!
It turned out that the little foetus, my bean, was more stubborn than its mother (what comes around…) and would not give in. Sobbing loudly I walked back to the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU) (again) at the London Hospital and asked to be seen. The lady at the desk asked if I had had my period. Yes, I replied, but I KNOW there is still a piece of the foetus inside me. She didn’t believe me until I managed to get the private ultrasound report sent over.
After crying at the EPU for well over an hour, I was finally seen by a doctor. She did a trans-vaginal ultrasound, which confirmed that there was indeed “remains” in my uterus, excused herself and went to fetch a colleague. Now you know that it isn’t a good sign if two doctors need to take a look at you. The two doctors concluded that it was highly unlikely that the “piece” would come out naturally (especially as I had had a period by this point) and recommended a second ERPC, but this time by a senior consultant to make sure that it was properly done. There was no mention of the risk of scarring or Asherman’s Syndrome.
The next 10 days were hell. I knew I had a piece of my bean still in me, but the EPU were struggling to find me an appointment to remove said piece. I called the nurses every day and begged. I’m not sure why they had given me the direct line for the nurses… On the Friday afternoon I felt so desperate that I cried/screamed down the phone (apparently the entire office heard this, ah well): PLEASE JUST GIVE ME AN APPOINTMENT. YOU ARE TORTURING ME.
The poor nurse who I spoke with couldn’t confirm an appointment, so H and I marched back into the EPU (please don’t make me go there ever again) and I cried until we were seen. The lovely head nurse sorted an appointment for a week later and then somehow the situation was then easier to deal with. I think with anything fertility-related you feel much better mentally once there is a plan in place and you know the next step, whatever that next step is it is a next step and it is one towards you having a baby.
I had the second ERPC on 2 December, which went well, with a follow-up ultrasound to confirm all was in order on 21 December – the Christmas miracle was here (or so I thought…). The senior consultant did explain to me just before the ERPC that in rare cases could scarring form as a result of the ERPCs (especially if you had two in succession). I did ask at the follow-up whether any scars had formed, but she said she couldn’t see any – which, as I learnt afterwards, was accurate as it is hard to spot scars and Asherman’s Syndrome on a simple ultrasound.
You’d think that the moral of this story would be: listen to your body. But, honestly, in my case I didn’t even realise something was wrong. Perhaps subconsciously I suspected as I wandered off to have an ultrasound to make sure everything was OK. Who knows. I think the moral of the story is: cry a lot and you will get seen quicker.