Dharma Bum

I have a secret. I have always wanted kids my entire life. I didn’t know when, where or how, but I knew someday I would have a family. I would act tough, even indifferent about it sometimes. I grappled with the thought of it. Would I be selling out? Would I be any good at being a mother? Would I enjoy it? Would I feel like my life was over? I still hadn’t been to Italy. Would I feel fulfilled or was I fulfilling some role that others expected of me? After having lost an ovary and fallopian tube at 17, I never thought my chances would be outstanding so I downplayed motherhood in public and would secretly weep about the unknown in private.

I knew I would get to it, albeit by my own womb or someone else's, I just had so many questions and doubts. So when I got pregnant, I was over the moon! So was my husband. We’re what you might call late bloomers. He had said from the get go that he wanted children. I would say I wasn’t sure. After years of dating, and a handful more being married, we talked about trying to have children mostly after a few drinks when I would let my guard down. From the moment that I took that pregnancy test (and the subsequent two, three and four more), I began planning. Dreaming and scheming of what I would do with my little one, how we would travel the world with our kid! Go to punk rock fests and be the parents with the toddler wearing the headphones, sitting on our shoulders. Grow a garden together and instill the importance of being a part of and sharing a genuine appreciation for where our food comes from. We had to start building the library right away! And of course, collecting and getting excited about nursery decorating ideas. I couldn’t wait! I was so in awe of finally being pregnant that I was only mildly hesitant really to tell people.

It’s such a weird place to be when you are newly pregnant. No one is opening doors for you or giving up their seat on the bus because no one knows. You are in your own secret world. Your body is working overtime and it is seriously exhausting and you want so badly to tell people! But you are supposed to wait until you are out of the first trimester, they say. I was almost there! So I couldn’t keep it in at times. I eagerly told the woman cashier at the supermarket. We told our families and friends. I can even remember saying, “Well, if something does go wrong, these are all of the people I would want to know anyway!” And that was certainly true. What I hadn’t planned for was how much it was going to hurt if something did go wrong. I couldn’t have prepared myself for that, nor could my husband. We were already on to what kind of hot rod would be a good family car.

At about 11 weeks, I started spotting which isn’t really that out of the ordinary, but the midwife suggested that I come in for an ultrasound anyway. There we discovered on the screen a tiny little person with no heartbeat. And that was that. As tears streamed down our faces, I was scheduled for my D&C a few days later. We practically ran through the waiting room, horrifying other parents to be, no doubt. I will never forget how it felt right then to hopelessly look down at my already beginning to swell belly. From the looks of the ultrasound, I had miscarried somewhere around 8 or 9 weeks, which is when my dog suddenly wouldn’t leave me alone; she even started sleeping on the floor along my side of the bed. I was incredulous. I felt almost foolish. “How did I not know this had happened instead of believing I was still pregnant if the baby died weeks prior?” I wondered. This just fueled my feelings of failure. Enduring the next few days of that until my procedure was brutal. Going to the hospital, getting changed into a gown and then being anesthetized was agony. I was like a zombie. Managing the gamut of emotions that followed in grief was so much harder than I ever thought they could be. My parents came over a lot. They cried with me. I bled for weeks, things went wrong. Multiple procedures and trips to the doctor followed. There was some bizarre disconnect between my brain and my body. It was as if somewhere the message got lost that there was no baby and it wasn’t until my due date that my body started normalizing, which seemed to take much longer than the time I felt afforded by most in society to have gotten over it. What is the appropriate time to heal from a miscarriage? Do you ever, really? As lots of people tried to help me get through it, they said and did a lot that both helped and hindered, all of it out of golden hearts, I know this to be true. But afterwards, I really wished I could have handed them a guide of what to say, what to do and how to act around me for the coming months. So I wrote this article in hopes that it might help someone else. Here are a few examples of what I would categorize under things not to say to someone who experienced a miscarriage:

“You know, that’s really common.”

That isn’t something a woman who has just miscarried finds remotely comforting. While it’s true, somewhere between 10-20% of known pregnancies end up in miscarriage, let’s just establish the fact that now would not be a great time to remind the woman who just suffered this blow that sure, by some standards, the odds were stacked against her. I am struggling to think of an appropriate time in which, “You know, that’s really common,” would be helpful to hear, and I’m coming up short. So maybe don’t say that ever, even if their loss, fear, condition or circumstances seem to be somewhat commonplace or even ordinary. Not to someone who has been or knows someone who was just diagnosed with breast cancer, not to someone who was involved in a car accident, not to someone who is going through a divorce. All pretty “common” scenarios but compassion and discretion should triumph here. Instead, start with a hug and say something like, “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

“When are you going to try for another?”

If you are asking that, chances are that you will now be placed in the “last to know” category. It really isn’t any of your business and she could be thinking a thousand different things like, “What’s wrong with me?” “Was this my fault somehow?” “I don’t want to go through this pain ever again.” Things will improve for her in time, and you are lucky enough to know that because that can only mean one thing: you are not in her shoes at this very moment in time. Maybe you have gone though this kind of loss. For now, let her figure out what her next best steps will be. She may get back in the saddle promptly. She also may opt to not try again. You love her so you must support all of the possibilities openly, even if it makes you uncomfortable.

“That happened like two months ago. Don’t you think it’s time you start to get over it?”

There is no amount of time you can measure healing after this loss. She may seem upbeat after two weeks. She many seem run down after 5 months. She can take as long as she needs. Please don’t stop acknowledging her pain. For me, I much preferred that people didn’t walk on eggshells. It made it worse for me when people wouldn’t say anything about my miscarriage. After a while, I felt as though I wasn’t supposed to talk about it. Believe me, it wasn’t like I wanted to talk about it 24/7. Just be careful in your messaging. Leave it open and ask how she is doing.

“Everything happens for a reason, it is what it is, this was God’s way…”

Nope. Not even remotely comforting. At least it wasn't for me. Whenever we experience a loss, we seek to find the explanations as to why it happened, although the hard truth is that often times, we will never get the answer. We must contend with the fact that it happened. Even if you are/she is religious or not, if it is a slogan that comes on a mug in the Hallmark store, maybe just omit those cliches and give her a hug instead. Promise, those conversations about what a higher power may have intended can happen. Just...later.

If you are thinking, “I am worried she will be uncomfortable around me and my baby.”

I know this one is close to your heart if you are the one asking, and it is kind and compassionate of you to wonder. In my case, I couldn't figure out if that discomfort was being projected on me or not, but rest assured, I definitely was not pining for other people's babies like they do in the movies. I did have a tough time with firsts. To be honest, I did cry after attending my first baby shower for a friend after I had miscarried, but I felt I had to go through it. It is possible to be a little sad for yourself and truly happy and joyful for the mom-to-be.

If you are thinking, “I really want to comfort her but I’m really not sure what to say.”

Good for you! You are already using a filter and demonstrating that you are a good listener, which is what I longed for the most. You don’t have to say anything at all. You don't have to have the answers. Instead, bring her food. Food is the outstretched hand. Food feeds the soul. Food means not having to go out to the store. Wine was always extremely welcomed at my house, too. As were visits, jokes and offers to go out. Don’t worry about trying to find the right words to comfort her. Hug her. She might feel like a failure. Help her to take care of herself. Bring food and wine but leave out the remarks like, "Hey, well at least you can drink now!" Seriously. Check in on her often and then again much later in the game than you’d think. You are a true blue friend. Keep up the good work. She will never forget the empathy you have shown. Winners all around!

A note for anyone going through it: I’m sorry. Welcome to the resourceful, elite and exclusive club that you joined, willingly or not. Child or childless. You became a mother. You know things and can comfort someone going through the loss of a baby like no other. I want to share with you two things. One - I will totally grab a beer with you if and when at all possible. And two – I will never forget the one and only thing that someone said to me that truly brought me comfort. She said that it is a Yogi belief (and I am paraphrasing here) that not every soul is meant to stay here, on this earth, at this particular time. They perhaps just needed a place to touch down before moving on. This wasn’t a complete loss in that sense and the pregnancy was not in vain. In my case, I provided that opportunity. This aligned with my adoration of science and the fact that energy cannot be created nor destroyed. It brought me peace. I hope that you are able to share what does eventually bring you peace, too. You have a voice and I would love to listen.