Entering the foreign territory of miscarriage

A columnist opens up about her miscarriage experience:

I didn’t know that this could happen to me. I thought I was too young, too healthy. I didn’t realize that up to 25 percent of confirmed pregnancies end in loss. I had never heard of a “missed miscarriage,” which is characterized by a lack of symptoms of a baby’s death. I didn’t have any clue how painful the question, “Do you have any children?” could be to hear and how hard it could be to answer.

“God needed another angel in heaven”; “At least you won’t have to care for a handicapped child”; “You still have time, and at least you know you can get pregnant”; “It happens all the time”; “This baby just wasn’t meant to be.” I’ve heard these phrases dozens of times from well-meaning friends and family, but it’s hard to take comfort in any of them. Nothing can diminish my love for my child, and my heartbreak over what is a unique loss, not a statistic.

I was shocked after we lost our baby that so many women I know shared that they, too, had had a miscarriage—or more than one. Even women who had lost their babies 20 years ago cried with me. Even women across oceans and continents shared my pain through e-mails and online forums.

But why doesn’t anyone talk about it before it happens? Why is there a veil of secrecy behind which we can only share our grief with others who have experienced the same grief? When I found out that our baby was no longer alive, I felt alone in the world. Indeed, there were people who seemed frightened of me, as if I had a contagious disease. And there were others who just never said anything about our baby at all. How was I to realize that a large percentage of women I know had suffered a similar loss? This wouldn’t have made my loss any less devastating, but I think it would have made a difference. It would have helped me to realize that I should not blame myself.

Finding peace with loss

Making sense of loss is a process:

This has been a hard couple of days for me, but I'm quickly becoming more at peace with the whole situation and through the support of family and a lot of prayer, I've found my silver lining. We conceived a baby! How cool is that??!! The way I see it, this was God's way of letting us know that we're going about everything correctly and we're working just fine. He wanted me to know that he's watching out for us and for our baby and that he's going to take care of us. He's going to make sure that when the situation is just right, that baby's going to stick around and be perfect for us. He won't let us settle for anything less. I still feel the pain of losing a baby and mourn what I know was there, even if it was only for a short time, but I am also comforted to know that God understands my grief.

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Blogging a past miscarriage

An aspiring author recalls:

It's rare, I've found, for anyone to talk about past miscarriages--recent or more distant. Before I'd had my miscarriage, I'd heard people say that they'd had one in the same tone as a person might say "Oh, yeah--I've had apple pie before." Somehow, the way that I'd always heard it talked about, so lightly in passing, made it more difficult when I experienced it myself, because I wasn't prepared.I wasn't prepared for the rawness. The power. The overwhelming, shaking, trembling anger at the universe. It stunned me and took my breath away. I had not expected that a miscarriage would cause me to collapse on a bed and sob myself to sleep as I cried out, over and over, that I wanted my baby back. I did not know that people felt that way, about this.I hadn't expected that it would shatter my heart--the first time that I knew, with certainty, that I was broken inside. I experienced the burning of pure, undiluted sorrow. The rational, logical part of me stood aside and said, "You, my friend, have lost it. You have two beautiful children, a husband that loves you, and a wonderful life. Pull it together." I felt so guilty for feeling so sad.I went for my follow-up appointment with my obstetrician. He is a good man, and a kind one. I sat there on the table with my hands clasped together as he told me that it was perfectly common and normal. That as many as 1/3 of pregnancies end in miscarriage, so--this was my third child, it was my turn. I could hardly see straight. I could hardly breathe. I was trying so desperately not to let my grief show. I felt like I had no right to be grieving.It seemed to me, at the time, that grief was understandable for women who lost children, infants, or even babies later in pregnancy. But for those of us still in the first trimester, it wasn't allowed. Which is why, when my doctor handed me a pamphlet and encouraged me to join a support group, I recoiled. I wasn't about to compare my pathetic experience to others who had lost two year olds or had stillborns. They had a right to be devastated and grief stricken. I was simply weak.