I remember that day as if it happened only yesterday. I tried to take a step, but a deep, relentless pain in my lower abdomen stopped me in my tracks. The only muscles that seemed to work were those in my face, contorting into an expression of pain. I bent over and gave a soft moan. My younger sister, who calls me “Aunty” for reasons I still find amusing, watched as excitement on her face flipped to worry in an instant.
“Aunty, what is happening to you?” she asked in a shaky voice. (For some reason, my younger sisters call me Aunty).
I had no answer, because I didn’t know either. She turned to our mother and asked,
“Mummy, what is happening to Aunty Pre?”
My mother quickly offered a reassuring explanation:
“Don’t worry, Mum. These things happen to women who have children. She will be fine.”
Her answer did little to satisfy my sister’s curiosity. I continued struggling to walk while tears welled in my sister’s eyes. The pain felt like several invisible knives cutting horizontally across my belly. After the dramatic pain I experienced during my first childbirth, this was the second time pain was forcing me into an involuntary performance — and this time I had a larger, more public audience. We were on visiting Sunday at the boarding Presbyterian Secondary School, Mankon, in Bamenda, the capital of Cameroon’s North West region. I had gone cheerfully with my parents, my younger sister, and my nine-month-old daughter, not imagining that my cheer would turn to tears so quickly.
That morning I had noticed an unusual menstrual flow while bathing before church: dark blood with clots, something I had never seen since puberty. Although there was no pain then, I was concerned and went to the mission hospital where I had delivered my first child. The reverend sisters on duty suggested I be admitted, but since it was Sunday there was no doctor and the pharmacy was closed. They recommended registering as an inpatient to be seen on Monday. I couldn’t understand the point of lying in a bed with no medical staff available, so I left and decided to attend church.
At church I sat at the back with other nursing mothers, missing my favorite part of the service—Praise and Worship—but hoping for solace. Afterwards I returned to my parents’ house, where I was staying while my partner worked abroad. I told my mother about the bleeding; she brushed it off. I took a nap and woke to more blood, still without pain. I dressed and set off to visit my sister at school. I did not expect to be suddenly crippled by sharp, intense pain on the campus, struggling even to take a step. Seeing my sister’s tears made me realize how serious it looked. I managed to climb into my father’s car and we hurried to find medical help.
Our first stop was a large private hospital. A nurse tried to take my temperature and perform routine checks, but I was shaking so badly that the thermometer fell and broke. The nurse was clearly upset, but my concern was the heavy bleeding that had soaked the pad I wore and was now leaking onto my trousers. There was no doctor on duty, so we moved on to a smaller clinic where, thankfully, the gynecologist was present.
I waited in a queue, blood soaking through my clothing and staining the bench beneath me. At last the doctor examined me and said plainly, “You are having an inevitable abortion.” Those words hit me like a physical blow. He explained that a dilation and curettage (D&C) was necessary to remove the remaining tissue from my uterus and asked for a deposit of 30,000 CFA francs. We left briefly and returned with the money.
For the first time in my life I entered an operating theatre. The instruments, the procedure, the pain and the screams are memories that remain raw. When it was over, I left with the knowledge that I had lost a pregnancy I hadn’t known I was carrying. I felt stunned and deeply devastated.
I was also ashamed, because my first baby was only nine months old and still breastfeeding. I blamed myself, wondering if I had worked too hard, been too stressed, or failed in some other way. Those “maybe” thoughts haunted me: maybe I could have done something to prevent this. Even now, the loss lingers. It wasn’t just tissue to me—it was a life, a child I never met. I wonder whether my baby would have been a boy or a girl, what they might have looked like, how old they would be now. If lost babies do find their way to Heaven, I ask God to watch over mine and to know that I love them.
Afterward, in subsequent pregnancies I often feared another miscarriage. Every unusual ache made me tremble. Carrying a pregnancy to term feels like a profound blessing, and I think of the many women who do not get that chance. If you have lost a baby, allow yourself to grieve so you can begin to heal. I found comfort in words that remind us the baby was always loved and never alone:
Babies lost in the womb were NEVER touched by fear… They were NEVER cold… NEVER hungry… NEVER alone and importantly ALWAYS knew LOVE – sayinggoodbye.org
If you have experienced a similar loss, please consider sharing your story in the comments below. You may remain anonymous if you prefer, but don’t stay silent—your voice could help someone else know they are not alone. Thank you for reading.