“Don’t worry you can try again, at least you know you can get pregnant.” “You weren’t very far along; you’ll recover in no time” “This is very common; a lot of women go through this.” I still remember these phrases that tumbled out of the doctor’s mouth in the emergency department while he tried to console my husband and me. Our much longed for and prayed for baby wasn’t staying with us. With me.
“Don’t worry you can try again, at least you know you can get pregnant.” “You weren’t very far along; you’ll recover in no time” “This is very common; a lot of women go through this.” I still remember these phrases that tumbled out of the doctor’s mouth in the emergency department while he tried to console my husband and me. Our much longed for and prayed for baby wasn’t staying with us. With me.
Sitting in those hard, cold chairs felt so clinical, especially when my eyes were stinging with the tears
I was trying to stop. I stared at the floor and traced the yellow line leading to the exit, my mind flashed back to five hours earlier. My husband and I had been happily chatting about the future.
How much our then two year old would enjoy being a big sister. Feeling so elated that after months of trying and hard fertility treatment, I was finally pregnant. You know those moments where you want to pinch yourself because you can’t believe how lucky you are? In the beginning that’s what I found hardest to reconcile. That before I went to the toilet and saw blood, I was just so stupidly happy.
Dragging my attention back to the doctor, I wanted to tell him that his well-meaning words felt empty.
Sure, I did get pregnant, but what about all those months of heartache trying? The concoction of drugs my body had been pumped with to force it to ovulate? Sure, I could try again (and I would), but I wanted THAT baby. Sure, it might be common, but in that moment it didn’t feel like it. It felt like I’d been cut loose and was floating without an anchor.
On the way home I rang my mum and cried. Tears that felt like they’d never end from hurting I had never experienced before. The next few days were filled with tears and pain. Emotional and physical. But I also remember how much love I was given. I had only told a few people I was pregnant and the messages of love, prayers and practical support gave me lifeline.
Over those next few weeks I questioned why this had happened to me. I’m a Christian and I blamed God. How dare he put me through this? Why didn’t he want me to have another baby? Why was he forcing me to go through this kind of pain? Although I will never understand why my baby died, I do know that I was carried by those in my community and God turned up in those interactions.
I had a second miscarriage after this one. It was another few months before I fell pregnant with my now 21-month-old. Yet, for some reason, my first experience of miscarriage grief still takes the wind out of me.
Looking back at this experience from almost three years ago, there’s some things I want you to know.
1. If you are experiencing or have experienced a miscarriage, it doesn’t matter how far along you were. Your baby has value and will always be loved.
2. Having other pregnancies after loss feels conflicting. Of course you’re happy to be expecting again, but you might also be a basket case of anxiety. During a good chunk of my pregnancy with my 21 month old, I would go to the toilet all the time, terrified I’d see blood. Then there are the feelings of joy in growing another human while still dealing with the fact that you loved the baby you were pregnant with. This is normal. It is ok to be confused.
3. People will say stupid (albeit, well-meaning) things. I hated that the first question people would ask me was “how far along were you?” as if because it was early my grief was somehow less.
4. If you want to name your baby/ies, that is ok. I remember telling one of my friends I wanted to name them and she looked at me confused “but you don’t know what they were going to be”. Doesn’t matter. My husband and I named them for us. Their names are still etched in my heart. I still think about them. It is also just as valid to decide not to give them a name. They are still yours.
5. Honour your loss in a way that helps you heal. I still struggle with this one. I can talk about my losses in a very candid way a lot of the time, but there are still moments where my breath will catch. Or dates that are important in their timelines come up. It is ok to make yourself busier, or shut yourself away for a few days. It is ok to cry. It is ok to laugh. This is your grief journey.
1 in 4 women are reported to experience miscarriage. Odds are there are women all around you who have this grief in their heart. My hope for you, is that you know you are not alone.
- Rebecca