Budapest, 29th January
Me and my husband were excited to learn I was expecting a baby girl. We already had two boys together and were also raising my two older daughters who have a different father, and I was pregnant again. But at 12 weeks, a test revealed that our daughter had Edwards syndrome, a rare genetic disorder, and a very small chance of survival. So we decided to let her go and terminate the pregnancy.
On the morning of the 8th of May 2015, I met my usual gynaecologist. Unfortunately, he couldn’t perform the operation, so he walked me to the ward before leaving, while I was put in a 6-bed hospital room.
My roommates were all waiting for gynecological procedures. Among them was a young mother who was there for an abortion, who said she was glad to get some rest. I thought: “Excuse me?”. In hindsight, I don’t feel angry about that young woman —you never know what’s behind the termination of a pregnancy— but at that time, in my situation, it just felt unfair.
After a while, the nurses took me to a separate room to insert a dilator stick in preparation for the operation. I was lying there, legs apart, crying, when the doctor turned to me, and told me he would send me out if I didn’t stop. I’m the type of person who smiles in the face of discomfort, but this time it wasn’t an honest smile. I just couldn’t stand up for myself.
I then went back to the bedroom, where the pain, similar to period pain, began. My husband was waiting outside. He requested to come and wait with me. Even though my roommates accepted, the nurse denied him.
After a while, the doctors came and took me for surgery, I saw him in the corridor. We were just standing there, looking at each other, asking for the last time: did we do everything we could, were we sure? I was in my silly surgery gown, he had his hands on my belly. That was how we said goodbye.
I walked to the surgery room. I remember the ugly, plastic hospital chairs lining the dark corridor, where I was sitting alone with my thoughts for 20 minutes.
Then they invited me into surgery, where everything was prepared. It was heartbreaking. I was surrounded by people as I lay down in the middle of this big room, but no one had a nice word for me. When I woke up, I was alone.
I returned to the bedroom, and bled heavily during the afternoon. I pleaded for a new sheet, but no one was around to help. I had to stand up and walk out to ask for a new one.
By this time, the other women had gone home. The room was empty. Then my husband came in, and finally it was the two of us! Before the nurse returned and told me off for having a visitor. I spent the evening alone in that room.
At one point, they brought in a new mother. She asked me when I had given birth. I had to tell her my baby had just died.
There are so many things that could have been better if someone had paid more attention. If someone had held my hand; if they had had a kind comment; if they had put me in a separate room. Now I know that my husband should have been let inside the room. How different it would have been if they had allowed him to sit with me before the surgery in that dark corridor.
I’m the mother of eight children, three of them were never born. For my two miscarriages, the whole experience was different: the doctor walked into the ward with me, holding my hand, listening to me. One of the nurses told me that she had been through a miscarriage as well. I remember my sister’s words: the baby who went had prepared me for the next. And I had another baby soon afterwards. But after the abortion, I found it harder to let go.
The trauma, the memories, from the hospital came back to me a few weeks later. I realised I needed to talk about it, I thought to myself: what if the others didn’t have access to all the information they needed to deal with this kind of situation?
I spoke to a friend of mine, who said I should grieve, and find happiness in my four healthy children instead. But I wrote about my experience on Facebook nevertheless, and it drew sympathy. The post then grew into a group, then a community, and later, a foundation.
I let my daughter go on the 8th May, 2015. This year the Foundation turns 10 years old.
Over the past decade, we have worked with state institutions, medical professionals and parents. I have visited hospitals to talk to staff. We’ve helped thousands of couples through exhibitions, events or financial aid and counselling with professionals.
Topics such as miscarriages, infertility and pregnancies can’t be treated as taboo topics anymore. I would like everybody to be better informed, both parents and doctors. Once, at an event, medical staff told me they didn’t know their actions and tone mattered so much. When in fact they can change everything for someone.
