Loose ends: What lingers after loss

Grief-swollen, pregnancy swallowed, and an identity unstitched. Navigating miscarriage, motherhood and what might have been.

Content warning: pregnancy loss.

This is a bit of a departure from what I typically share here and to be honest, I really debated whether or not I deserved to talk about it – grief Olympics, global crisis and all that. However I have found a lot of comfort in the words and experiences of other women in recent weeks, so I hope that sharing mine will do the same for someone who needs it. Beyond just my job, writing has always been my release. So in addition to an explanation for my absence, I guess this is a way for me to draw back my own mental shutters too.

For anyone currently navigating the painful complexities of fertility, my heart is with you. I will be donating all proceeds from The Vanity’s paid subscriptions this month to The Pink Elephants Support Network, which provides incredible resources for those experiencing pregnancy loss. If this piece resonates with you, I would love for you to like or share it so that it can find its way to those going through it. And if you're in a position to subscribe, your paid subscription this month would help fund crucial resources for others navigating similar experiences.

As a serial tab hoarder, tiny favicons are often the sole clue as to what lies within dozens of compressed rectangles on my screen. The day after the ultrasound, I finally closed each one within an overstuffed browser window. It had been acting as something of a hidden dossier for what had been my first pregnancy – which goes some way to explain why some favicons were purple, some cream, but most the universally recognisable ‘pregnancy magenta’.

I sucked in a breath and x-ed my way through like I might outpace the sting of a resistant bandaid, flinching slightly as each tab popped open before me. As I clicked, I noticed that the window’s contents unfolded in a kind of timeline. In the immediate days after two blue lines had unexpectedly shown up, frenetic Google searches reveal my shock and trepidation at the news, ranging from ‘pregnancy tests wrong how often’ to ‘would I be a good mum quiz’ and ‘can’t sleep pregnant’.

Worry and hesitation seemingly gave way to my own primitive curiosity about fetal development, explained in search bar short-hand – ‘6 week baby fruit size’ and ‘does fetus pee in womb’ plus ‘does fetus know it exist’. I had moved on to items of somewhat greater significance from there, with ‘dating scan water intake’ then ‘sonographer suspects twins’ before ‘monochorionic twins ultrasound’ and ‘milky bar cookies and cream delivery surry hills’.

Like a true hoarder, I hadn’t wanted to close anything just in case I suddenly needed a refresher on the potential perils of ingesting gorgonzola while pregnant. Now, as I sat there exiting each tab, I knew for sure that I wouldn’t need it any more.

On the other side of a highly optimistic wishlist on The Memo, I waded through a heaving mass of forum pages. This time, the Googling that brought me there was ‘spotting light pink pregnant normal’ and ‘spotting red pregnant four days ok’. We know it’s ill-advised and they tell us not to do it, but in pregnancy – a paradox of reassurance and anxiety where everything is 'completely normal' and everything is also a 'potential danger' – desperation leads us to browser-led diagnostics anyway.

As I had combed for answers, the forums I landed on were surging with fresh and sudden fear, panicked pictures of stained toilet paper and imploring questions between pregnant women seeking first-person reassurance. Unqualified opinion obviously wasn’t enough, as next I’d searched ‘emergency department near me’ and opened one final tab, which had the phone number and operating hours of an early pregnancy assessment unit.

I close it, now the screen sits empty in front of me – and I, empty in front of it.

Emptiness, I've discovered, doesn’t actually feel like the absence of something. It settles into your bones with its own presence – heavy and insistent, whether the catalyst was the abrupt arrival of a future you never planned for, or perhaps the deliberate pursuit of one you did. After an extremely low AMH result a few years ago, I had completed two rounds of egg freezing that doctors deemed medically necessary for my best chance at preserving fertility. Still, I had struggled to reconcile my view of motherhood with… well, me.

I was already an established helicopter parent to my French Bulldog Walter, but ‘mother’ was a label I wasn’t entirely convinced would fit. I imagined it might at some point, but having a child was still more of an abstract idea for future Kate to contend with. Now, unexpectedly, the label of mother had begun to sink into my skin, recoding every cell and reshaping my identity as I grew anew. It adhered to me invisibly, slowly coaxing me into the quiet, happy acceptance that I was slipping into something less comfortable, but surprisingly, something that felt right. Except it didn’t quite stick.

I drifted in and out of consciousness in the emergency room. Lest I momentarily forget, every few minutes the ugly fluorescent lights overhead brought the nightmare back into nauseating focus. Life leaking rapidly from both of us, as my body clung to the pregnancy tissue a little too tightly. My partner pressing his lips to my clammy forehead as I sob through labour pains and the utter cruelty of having it all ripped away, right in front of me. Doctors explaining the likelihood of a transfusion, as I had lost more than a third of my blood.

In the weeks of recovery that have followed – my body rebuilding what was lost in those critical hours, when doctors worried they might lose me too – I came to understand how growing a child can be so deeply metamorphic. Not just for the new world that they pull you into, but for how they transform the one that you’re already existing in.

It meant that when it ended, all I saw were loose ends everywhere. I ran through them: Unfollow all the pregnancy accounts. Practice recanting the news to family, friends, and that one lovely masseuse who caught me throwing up in Byron Bay. Cancel all pre-booked ultrasounds.

Tabs closed and all the admin details neatly tied off, I’m left to unravel a big mess of my own incomplete threads. The label of mother that I once resisted has now come unstuck, but didn't cleanly peel away. The edges of a life I briefly imagined are lifting, leaving the space beneath tender, raw and exposed. My body remains nostalgic with pregnancy symptoms for a few days, but there’s no relief for what has been witnessed by the mind.

Who am I now, grief-swollen and pregnancy swallowed? I had already adopted the strength and resolve of the mother I hoped to become, picking up impending parenthood like a mandate to baby-proof my entire life. I had taken stock of my mental health (a long-awaited ADHD diagnosis), finances (legal action for outstanding invoices) and my space (a stainless steel spiral staircase wasn’t advised for our new housemate, strangely enough).

It’s hard to explain what it means to mourn something that few knew existed, but it’s like my normal life has become waterlogged. My friends look me over for little cracks, but I make sure there’s no visible trace. “How are you feeling?” they ask. Soggy, I think. “Fine,” I reply. I pick away at the sticky residue of what might have been by returning to some of my regular activities, smiling politely when people point out “at least you know you can get pregnant”.

Now that the bleeding has almost stopped, I book in at a laser hair removal clinic. Waiting in reception, I read Haley Nahman’s latest Maybe Baby. She writes of a friend who suggested that rather than resist an uncomfortable feeling, she should invite it in and ‘tell it to grow bigger’ as a processing method. I ponder this as I’m ushered in to the treatment room.

I mention a recent miscarriage to the technician in case it’s somehow pertinent to disclose. Turns out it isn’t, but I’ve come to know there’s nothing like fertility woes to break the ice between women. She is in her sixties with five children and two grandchildren, so naturally she wants to hear what happened. She listens as sharp blasts of light exterminate stubborn hair follicles in my lower leg.

I admit to her that I’m barely able to recognise who I have become in the time between the positive test and today. She gently puts down the laser and looks up at me. “Yes,” she says, squeezing my hand, “because you are a mother now.” I start blinking back the tears that promptly arrive, then I remember – tell it to grow bigger – and I stop swallowing the pregnancy, the grief, and let the pain swell instead.

I take a big gulp, feel it overtake. Maybe some loose ends aren't meant to be gathered, but remain free for a fabric that’s still coming together. On the next inhale, I allow myself to breathe a little hope back in.

It feels good.

In Australia, 1 in 3 women will be impacted by pregnancy loss, and 75 percent feel unsupported in their grief. If you or someone you know is struggling after pregnancy loss, you’re never alone:

Australia: The Pink Elephants Support Network - pinkelephants.org.au or SANDS - 1300 072 637

UK: The Miscarriage Association - 01924 200799 or miscarriageassociation.org.uk

USA: Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support - 1-800-821-6819 or nationalshare.org