It was winter 2018. I had just miscarried my twins. Technically, I had failed to miscarry them and had to have not one, not two, but three surgical procedures under general anaesthetic to “extract the retained products of conception”. Each time I ended up back in hospital with severe pains or heavy bleeding, the doctors would scan me, express their surprise that there was still some “tissue” remaining in my uterus and schedule another surgery.
Just over six weeks after learning about our loss, I was feeling absolutely dreadful, once again in hospital and still testing positive for a pregnancy. The whole experience was surreal. But there was something about it that made complete sense to me: my body was no more ready to let go than my mind was. I was still holding on to my babies in every way I could.
