Miscarriage: The story of a tiny, personal tragedy

The Early Pregnancy Unit in the Rotunda is a quiet side space away from the rush and heave of pregnancy and ambulance deliveries. I like the receptionist. She is pleasant and soft, with red shoes and a positive disposition. I remark on her shoes; it is not often you see a woman in red shoes. They are pretty, flat, shiny, I think. She wears them with black trousers. Her desk is full of Post-Its and I know she knows I am fine by the way she looks at me and responds to my questions.

I don’t feel like I belong there, nor have I anything in common with the ladies beside me. They are miscarriage ladies; I don’t know this world.

It is alien to me. I know the emergency room, with my big, heaving, contracting belly and the clickity-clackity-clack of the baby heartbeat echoing around the room, surround sound. I sigh, look at my watch, wonder what Alec is doing to entertain Joshua on Parnell Square, sip water from a plastic cup and wait. (Times) >


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