Why I stopped talking about my miscarriage
There are things no-one is supposed to say - so I'm going to say them.
Trigger warning: This post covers miscarriage, so you may prefer to give it a miss. Take care of yourselves.
Many of the people who know me in real life, do not know that I’ve had a miscarriage. I don’t tend to mention it, but not for the reasons you might imagine. I don’t feel I’ve been silenced, or shamed, by the taboo surrounding the subject. No, I stopped talking about my miscarriage because I got the impression that I didn’t handle it in ‘the right way’. That my feelings around it were inappropriate, even unpalatable. But that’s also why I feel compelled to share it now.
I’ve been pregnant four times and my second pregnancy turned out to be a miscarriage. In that sense, I’m a walking statistic - a real life representation of the ‘one in four’ pregnancies that end in loss. I should add a caveat here that I know I’ve been extremely lucky. I was fortunate to fall pregnant, and have only suffered one slightly traumatic experience related to fertility. This is not the case for many, and I’m sending you so much love if you’re dealing with that whole nightmare.
Still, I did have a miscarriage that was picked up at my 12 week scan. I should have been surprised by the sonographer’s expression, but I wasn’t. Not because I’d experienced any miscarriage symptoms, but because it felt predictable. A second baby was very much planned and hoped for, and yet I somehow knew that loss was looming. The sonographer was kind. She fetched a colleague who offered up reasons for the lack of a heartbeat. Perhaps I’d got my dates wrong, maybe I wasn’t that far along? I knew that wasn’t the case, but I’d need to come back in a few days before they could confirm it.
My next appointment was at the early pregnancy unit, next to the labour ward where I’d given birth to my son two years before. On the day they confirmed my miscarriage, soon-to-be mothers were milling around the doorway clutching their bumps. Men breezed by sporting the classic ‘newborn-in-car seat’ look. I knew the utter joy of that moment, having recently experienced it myself, and I beamed at them sincerely. Not because I’m a selfless person, but because that feeling was comfortable to me. I knew what they were heading for. I had no way to navigate what was coming for me; no language for it. Just silence.
The midwife couched her words carefully - no doubt years of practice had helped her to deliver this news sensitively. She said I had “lost my little baby” which was meant to reassure me, but it jarred. I hadn’t decided (or accepted?) that I’d been growing a little baby. And it brought Oscar Wilde to mind (to lose one’s baby looks like carelessness!) which is a kind of gallows humour that I suspected would not have been well received. I was silent once again, until I was called upon to make a decision. Would I rather let nature take its course, pills, or book surgery? None of the options appealed, but the ‘do nothing’ approach matched more with my state of mind. So I carried on with my day, taking care of my toddler and firing off work to clients. All with a ticking time bomb inside of me.
Not knowing when or how my miscarriage would happen made it impossible to live normally, so I called the clinic back and asked for the pills. My husband had taken too much time off for the scans, so we booked a babysitter to watch my son and I went to the hospital alone. I remember being handed document after document to sign, one which was titled “Medical Management of Miscarriage” which I thought sounded too much like something out of Harry Potter to be real. Had no-one ever mentioned that? I held onto my silly joke and, once again, fell silent. It was as if I was outside of my own body, looking down at the ridiculousness of it all. I couldn’t be myself, couldn’t express myself in a dignified Meghan Markle kind of way, so I said nothing.
I’ll spare you the details of the miscarriage itself, though I will say that it remains the most physically painful experience of my life. And I’ve given birth to two children on paracetamol (I’m not bragging - I was too late for the drugs). I’m years down the line now, and it’s impossible to say whether the experience changed me, or not. I guess that I went into self-protection mode so that the full emotional force wouldn’t incapacitate me. And yet, I still haven’t grieved properly. I still haven’t found any right words except that my husband, whose first language isn’t English, calls it my “miscourage”. I’ve never corrected him because I can relate to it. I feel like I’ve misplaced my courage. As Wilde would say, how careless of me.
I’d love to know, has anyone else ever felt like me - like their reaction to something was “off” or just didn’t fit with the accepted culture? Have you found lightness where you’re not supposed to, or darkness in moments that should be joyful? It’s these little fringe experiences that I’d love to explore here. I’d be delighted to hear from you in the comments, if you feel inclined to share.
This was beautifully written. I too have had "inappropriate" reactions to tragic situations. At the time it shamed me but now, many years after the fact, I realize that it was too much for me to process so I resorted to my usual brand of sarcasm to help me process.