Miscarriage was still a very real possibility; as many as 1-5 pregnancies end in miscarriage and most within the first trimester. But my feeling at the time was: Look, a lot of women miscarry. It’s happening right now to someone. It’s probably happened to a quarter of the women working in the building. If it’s so common, maybe we should talk about it more. It’s hard enough without all the secrecy.
But what did I know? I had never had a miscarriage. I had never been touched by pregnancy loss. I understood when friends kept their pregnancy news under wraps for a few months, feeling that a loss would be better suffered without an audience of middle-level friends and colleagues. I could see the point. Maybe I’m just an over-sharer, I thought [though at the time the term over-sharing had yet to go into circulation].
I just read Jody Pratt’s candid essay on her miscarriages and all these questions came up again. Pratt chose to keep her early pregnancies and miscarriages a secret. She used the vague excuse of “lady” troubles to explain her absence from work. Now, looking back, she wonders if all that privacy was really doing her, or other people who’ve lost babies, any good.
“Years later, I still think about that miserable afternoon at work and how much easier it would have been if I’d just exhaled the truth. If I could have let people say, ‘I’m so sorry.’ If I hadn’t had to pretend that it was a normal day even as I was in the grips of soul-swallowing grief. Because the only thing worse than losing something that meant the world to you is pretending that you lost nothing.”
I never really got just how awful pregnancy loss can be until I had children. Even then, it took talking to women who’d miscarried and attending several workshops on pregnancy loss for me to start to understand the grief parents can feel. I still don’t know what it’s really like. But I’ve had some training. I know that, for example, I don’t need to give a woman who has just had a miscarriage a pep talk. Nor do I need to emphasize how early it was in the pregnancy. “I ultimately had two miscarriages, both at about 10 weeks,” writes Pratt. “Both times, I knew I was pregnant for nearly two months. That’s a lot of mornings to wake up enchanted that there’s a child growing inside you. It’s many long afternoons of fatigue, strange cravings, and nausea. It’s countless cups of decaf coffee and glasses of wine declined. It’s 60 prenatal vitamins.”
One of the best ways to work through a loss (that never entirely goes away–before she died, my mother-in-law acknowledged the birthday of her stillborn daughter every year) is to be able to talk about it. Of course most people stumble when they try to help a grieving friend. We’re not great at talking about death in general. But as Pratt points out: there are millions of women out there who have miscarried, millions. If you mention a miscarriage, chances are pretty good that soon enough another mother will tell her story and understand yours.
The fact that we’re so quiet about miscarriage might send the message that it’s not that big of a deal. I have heard people talk about friends who have miscarried with not a little surprise in their voices, “she took it really hard.” And there’s some more normal way to take it?
What do you think? Does keeping miscarriage on the down low always have to mean ‘suffering in silence’? Perhaps there’s a middle ground? Reaching out for support from a slightly wider circle of friends than just your partner, perhaps? But not announcing it in a mass email? Maybe openly acknowledging the loss in places like your office, but seeking real support from other parents who’ve lost babies. There are lots of places online and in various communities to help parents grieve. Last year, miscarriage made the papers numerous times, with celebrities opening up about their losses. Lisa Ling started a website for women to share more personal stories in a supportive and anonymous setting. Maybe times are changing. Maybe the taboo is not as strong as it was even a few years back.
In the end, talking about miscarriage is a highly personal choice. There so many different women dealing with such a huge range of circumstances, there are bound to be as many variations on how to talk about it and grieve. What makes me sad is when women feel they need to hold back due to cultural stigma and a widespread lack of understanding. Or when their feelings are invalidated by a culture that (maybe not purposefully) seems to be saying, hey, you’ll get over it.
"It was..." I trailed off, trying to decide how much I wanted to share with someone who was really more of a professional contact than a friend. "It was...lady stuff."
Just like that, I slapped a vague label on the most excruciating loss of my life.
Mere days before this conversation took place, I was chipper and dreamy and carrying a baby. Then, in the course of one horrid day, it all unraveled. Now, I found myself sitting back in my office chair, stunned, grieving, and facing an urgent mountain of work.
I pawed my pile listlessly, wondering how the world could go on when mine had surely ended. All around me, keyboards chattered and telephones rang. Coworkers eyed me suspiciously, clearly not buying my excuse that I was ambiguously under the weather.
I'd just lost a baby. And it had dropped me into a hell of despair so deep that it hurt just to breathe.
So, why was I keeping it a secret?
Miscarriage is death. It brings with it all the agonizing grief that comes with losing a loved one. But miscarriage is also a taboo topic. It's the very reason that we hide our pregnancies during those first dicey months, fretfully waiting for the danger to abate before making any announcements.
When bad news comes, couples that lose a pregnancy tend to mourn in secret, telling only close friends and family about their loss.
There are no funerals. No memorials. You don't get sympathy cards and bereavement time. Instead, routines go on, and you take sick days.
In fact, the only tradition our society does have regarding miscarriage is that you're not supposed to talk about it. We expect grieving couples to buck up and pretend that the little life lost never existed in the first place.
We reduce a miracle to a topic not fit for polite conversation.
An estimated one in seven pregnancies ends in miscarriage. Each year in the U.S. alone, over 700,000 babies don't survive to be born. Millions of people must be mourning them. So, where are they? “The only tradition our society does have regarding miscarriage is that you're not supposed to talk about it.”
As a society, we let ourselves believe the lie that miscarriage is a minor event in a woman's life. "It happens all the time," people tell you, as if knowledge of its frequency will put the loss in perspective. (Imagine giving that same line to someone who just lost a grandparent.)
"It really wasn't a baby yet" is another line people glibly offer. Or, "You hardly even knew you were pregnant."
I ultimately had two miscarriages, both at about 10 weeks. Both times, I knew I was pregnant for nearly two months.
That's a lot of mornings to wake up enchanted that there's a child growing inside you. It's many long afternoons of fatigue, strange cravings, and nausea. It's countless cups of decaf coffee and glasses of wine declined. It's 60 prenatal vitamins.
I don't blame society for being so callous about pregnancy loss. If nobody ever tells people how much it hurts, how are they to know that miscarriage is such a big deal? Why shouldn't they think that it is no worse than blowing a job interview or having your team lose the big game?
As with so many verboten topics, perhaps the answer is simply for people to be more open. To stop pretending that if we ignore miscarriage, it won't hurt.
Years later, I still think about that miserable afternoon at work and how much easier it would have been if I'd just exhaled the truth. If I could have let people say, "I'm so sorry." If I hadn't had to pretend that it was a normal day even as I was in the grips of soul-swallowing grief.
Because the only thing worse than losing something that meant the world to you is pretending that you lost nothing.
