Private stories that shouldn’t be told

Sir — It was 2013. I was sitting watching my one-year-old son playing, while I was having a miscarriage. This was day three. It was an early one, nothing very dramatic. I went to work the next day and the Early Pregnancy Unit the day after to check it was all gone, and that was it. It was a period with a few clots and a flush of the toilet. No funeral, no burial, I could’ve dreamt it. It was a sad experience, but manageable.

The Savita Halappanavar inquiry had been in the news. I was oblivious really to the Eighth prior to that. It seemed normal that women had to travel for an abortion. But it hit me, as I looked at my one-yearold playing, that I was more important than that foetus at that time. I was this child’s mother. He needed me alive and healthy. Then my husband came in, a look of concern on his face. Not for the foetus at that point, but for me. I was more important than that foetus, at that time. He needed me alive and healthy.

In the three pregnancies I brought to term, my connection and love evolved over time and in uncomplicated circumstances. If, at any time, there had been a conflict between my needs and the demands of the pregnancy, I could only make any decision required based on the gestation at that time and the issues coming into conflict with it. And I know any decision would have been based first and foremost on how it would impact the lives and well-being of my family. I could only make that decision for myself, with my husband, guided by a health professional.

I have withheld my name because this story is personal. It’s private, and it should remain that way. I wish no one had to tell their private stories, but ironically it seems we have to, precisely in order to help people see that this is what these things are. Private. They shouldn’t be up for public debate.

Name and address with Editor