Comedy is the answer! Back in 2020, during the times of lockdown, Robert and I found ourselves locked down in our little cottage, perfectly nicknamed by me as Comedy Cottage! Needless to say, we thought of those as dark days. Not so much for ourselves, as only six months into our relationship, but for what was happening in the world around us. We were quietly enjoying the time, let's face it, what new couple wouldn’t?; no work, no clock watching, great weather, no responsibilities. But we knew family, friends and others were struggling. We embarked on a little daily spread of joy, telling people “This year Comedy is the answer!”

Fast forward four years and we continue with that motto. However, did we ever really understand what it meant? Did we ever spare a thought that for something which just started as a bit of silliness would in fact become a mantra for what was to come for us? 

Of course we didn’t! We were just breezing along with the breeze. 2024 started with us both being so very tired having spent the last year working endlessly, writing, editing and then promoting our new book, The Carry On Girls and still riding into January on the coattails of the promotion interviews. 

Mid-January I said I needed something different, a break, another direction. To me this was to throw myself into my house and make it even more special than it already is. Come February though a life change was gifted to us, one we had wanted, but hadn’t actively been looking for. 

John Lennon said it best, when he wrote “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans”. He was right, life certainly did happen to us, a new life…

“Oh Rob, I'm pregnant!” were the very words I uttered when I looked down at the pregnancy test. I can’t quite remember Robert’s response, but I do remember his smile and his eyes going wide and saying “Are you?! Are you really? Gemmie!” Naturally phone calls were made to just only our nearest and dearest, tears, laughter, excitement. Every emotion you could have rolled into one single ounce of happiness. 

Then the journey began, the morning sickness, the cravings, the going up in clothes sizes. Above all, for my short time as an expectant mother, was how you suddenly don’t care, you embrace you’re body and you’re also loving the fact your hair is shiny and your nails are growing, I probably looked the best I ever have in my life and I loved it. 

I found myself in Spring, literally and metaphorically. The early fragile moments of new life, the daffodils and the tulips were coming up, but slowly and fragile. I would sit and watch each day waiting for them to bloom. 

However, like nature we are fragile too and I was like that little tulip in my garden which bloomed for only a short while. Our little dream was not meant to be. We lost our baby. 

Robert has recorded what has happened. For me, it’s much harder. I can’t seem to find myself being able to go through the explanation, least not here. What angers me the most is that no support was ever given to us, and even further nothing was ever offered to Robert. He is part of this journey just as much as me. We always thought we had a pretty strong marriage and needless to say this has made it remarkably even stronger. Here is just a glimpse at part of the story, which Robert has written: 

“The test has come back negative, so you have lost the baby!” And with that, a dream was shattered. No hug. No “I’m really sorry for your loss.” Never. Not that, at that precise moment, anything would have eased the pain.

Gemma turned to me and muttered: “I’m so sorry. I've lost our baby!” Now that’s a moment which could bring tears to a lump of granite but, desperately trying to be strong despite feeling the exact opposite, I grip her hand. The nurse says: “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.” Which is about the first helpful thing she has said and done all day.

The tiny consulting room; antechamber; call it what you will, is clean and bright. Freshly-painted but still looking drab, somehow. It is not a reassuring room. It is not a room for good news. And, as it turned out, it wasn’t good news.

But that was it. No pamphlet on how to rebuild your life and try to move on. No kind words to lift our spirits. Even slightly. Just a tiny slip of paper with a telephone number on it. It was the size of a business card but not as sturdy. A photocopied strip, badly printed, like those scraps you get at a school fete tombola. 

Once home, and still in shock, Gemma felt the need to call the number. Of course she did. It went straight to a rather bored-sounding voicemail recording. Gemma left a message.

You see, this whole progansis had been simply based on a urine sample. No bloods. And, more to the point, no scan. Despite having been referred to the Early Pregnancy Unit from our Accident and Emergency consultation on Sunday. This was now Wednesday, by the way, but National Health Service cuts and all that. You take it on the chin, don’t you. And keep clapping the medics.

Anyway, the seed of doubt was sown by Gemma's brother, who works in the NHS. Long story short, he insisted that we really need a blood test *and* a scan to ascertain whether Baby Peanut had gone or not. Having mourned this poor little thing twice already I wasn’t sure that I could lift my hopes again, but you do. Of course you do.

The following day, having now wanted a second opinion, we were back in the same waiting room, at two minutes past eight in the morning. The second opinion was to come from the same nurse who came sprinting out of her office, laughing to the receptionist that she had: “mixed everything up!” This, I should remind you, was two minutes past eight in the morning. Not a great start to the day for her, but something of a comic, glimmer of hope for us.

It was to get better. Although not in the best way.

We were ushered into the same room as the previous day, although now we had a trainee nurse in tow. Frankly, she seemed to know more about what was going on in the place than anybody. If it had been down to me I would have put her in charge.

Anyway, Within the first ninety seconds the nurse from the previous day said not once but four times that a urine sample is never 100 percent accurate. Mistakes are always being made. Lovely. Please have made a mistake with us.

The required blood test was taken. The tourney wrapped ‘round Gemma’s arm had cartoon vampires and bats and spooky castles on it. Clearly, something from the children’s ward to make blood extraction more fun. Now I love a bit of horror, and I said so. My defence reflex is to make light of everything and to try and put everybody at ease. Even in a situation like this.

It was that reasoning that instantly brought to mind the Alec Guinness comedy film Last Holiday when, in a brilliantly scripted call-back to that opening moment of the morning, our nurse brought in paperwork for ‘Gemma Ross’ and then stumbled saying: “Oh no, that’s not you is it. We have so many Gemmas. I’m getting mixed up…” Gemma practically ran down the corridor saying: “No, that is me!” The trainee knew it was the correct paperwork and backed Gemma up. I just sat there and thought of Last Holiday. Spoiler: Alec Guinness is told he has weeks to live, takes all his money and settles in a hotel to see it out… and becomes a prophet of the ragbag assortment of residents. Sid James included. Of course, it’s all a mistake… and his doctor has muddled up his results.

Anyway, it got even funnier. The nurse struggled to read Gemma’s date of birth because: “I’ve lost my glasses. Can’t find them anyway!” I wanted to jump in here and say: “Are you sure you read that test result correctly!?”, but didn’t, of course. I’m too bloody English; too bloody polite for that. Even in the strictest grief. 

We finally had our news confirmed later that day. A day neither of us ever want to face again. 

Ok, so the practical elements of this do take over, and what can I advise anyone to say or do to someone who’s lost a baby? 

Crazily it’s really personal. For me though the one thing that annoys me is “you did nothing wrong”. Of course I did nothing wrong, but want someone to tell me why it happened to us and no matter what I think both partners look at each other and feel some level of guilt that maybe they did something wrong - what or why we will never quite know. Why did this have to be part of our life journey? Why have we got to suffer this? And yes, as the mother, I do say sorry to Robert and he equally says sorry to me. We both know what this means, we don’t need a response, just a hug. 

Another thing that really would annoy me would be if someone said “I’ve had such a tough week” - ironically throughout this, neither Robert or I have ever vocalised this as being a “tough” time. As the mother, the focus is on you during this and one thing I wanted to hear first was “How is Robert?” or “How are you both?” - don’t put the baby daddies as an afterthought, because they are just as part of this journey as the mother and baby are. Even at the hospital, no one at all ever acknowledged Robert sitting next to me - no eye contact, no offer of condolences to him. I even made a joke a couple of times and said “He’s the one to blame”. Probably poor taste now, but that’s what we both do, we turn to comedy, because in the face of all this, comedy is the answer.

Many women have since told me their stories. One woman said to me “I know this doesn’t help you, but I understand because I too lost my baby” and actually it did help me, because I didn’t feel alone any more, as a sisterhood, we can relate. 

We’ve learnt in the days following that we have to laugh together. YES! Our laughter has turned to tears and our tears to laughter. It may not be the solution for everyone but it works for us and when it comes to miscarriage - there are no rules any more! 

One lovely friend did something so beautiful, I don’t think she will ever know how much that meant to me. She just sent me a daily text with a flower emoji in the days after. No words, no calls, no questions, just a simple image of a flower Just like that tulip in our garden. Someone else told me, just try to smell the perfume in the wildness. And we’re trying - every day! 

Life can shake you to the core, and we do have to pause and regroup, but we also have to find a moment to smell the perfume. 

Elizabeth Taylor famously said “Now is the time for guts and guile”. I think of that each morning when I sit at my dressing table and put my makeup on. Yes, I still do my make up, just like lockdown, and even when suffering a miscarriage, I still put my makeup on. I still wear something beautiful, but is it guts and guile? Maybe. But for me, I’m just smelling the perfume in the wilderness.

One thing we’ve been blessed with is that we’ve had some time in our life to pause, I’ve had some half days at work (yes I’ve gone back to work - that’s the guts and guile bit) but then we’ve walked and gone for a lovely lunch together and just from our daily walks, and lunches together, we’ve been able to smell that perfume. 

Miscarriage is not talked about. You have to google the support if you want it, no one offers it to you. Not that I’m sure I would personally take it, but to spend my days googling where the support is, is simply wrong. Mainly because you end up reading all sorts of things, which isn’t always the best thing to do. We are blessed to have both of our families around, just knowing we can call them at any point or go and see them has been one of the biggest help. 

Robert and I have made a joint decision to talk about this, and we know from both of our platforms, we can try and at least raise some awareness that this isn’t something to hide. If you fall pregnant and think you have to keep it to yourself for 12 weeks then it’s your decision, but for us just having our families and friends know exactly what we’ve been going through, has been a huge support to us. Sometimes we don’t want to talk on the phone, but like my friend sending me a little flower emoji in the early days, it allowed me to smile and smell the perfume. 

And comedy - where is the comedy in all this? Well there are instances when we had to laugh, even when we were sitting in the hospital. The laughter allows us to smell the perfume in the wilderness… Where do we go next might be the question any couple asks each other in these circumstances. I say we embrace our life and laugh at life, live each day to the fullest and keep our “little peanut” in our heart and live it for that little one, because they will always be with us. 

We would respect now some quiet time, but if you do feel the need to reach out to us then just send us a flower emoji - it will mean more to us than any words at this difficult time. 

If you need support if you or someone you know has suffered a miscarriage or loss then we would recommend: 

www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk 

www.sands.org.uk/support-you