ILLUSTRATION BY KAREN SHANGGUAN/The Globe and Mail
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We didn’t get to meet our child. I knew that something was not right a week before the actual miscarriage took place, the nausea slowly faded, my breasts started to feel less tender, and I had an appetite for the things that I couldn’t even stand the smell of days earlier. We waited for the results of our blood work, mostly so my partner could understand that the pregnancy was not going to continue, that we were no longer pregnant.
I had no idea how painful physically and emotionally it would be. All I could do, for a change, was be present. Present with myself, my body, the pain, my partner and the loss.
The cramps took over for an entire day and I surrendered to letting go.
Since miscarriages are so common – as many as one in three pregnancies – many people had cautioned us not to tell anyone we were pregnant until the three-month mark. I don’t regret sharing my pregnancy with anyone as secrecy doesn’t protect anyone from anything, it simply allows suffering to take place in silence. We should be able to share our joys as much as our sorrows with our friends and family. In the same open-hearted way I’d told everyone I was pregnant, I tried to remain as open in sharing the news about our loss. It was definitely not as well received. The discomfort of death, the uncomfortable truth of my situation and the awkward attempt to offer comforting remarks filled the days that followed. It felt so empty after being full of so much life.
When I found out I was pregnant, everything changed. It was one of the most incredible experiences and also one of the scariest. For 2 1/2 months, I oscillated between basking in the beauty of a baby growing inside me and the pressure of making the best choices for this being. I was navigating nausea, hormones and the insensitivity of our health-care system, as well as the joy of telling everyone we were pregnant.
I was surprised at how easy it was for us to get pregnant and overjoyed at the thought of meeting our baby. Excited about our positive pregnancy test, we swiftly interviewed several doulas, found the perfect one, and signed on with an incredible team of midwives, then planned for our ideal home-birth. After our first ultrasound, technicians told us we would have to come back in a few weeks to see if this was a viable pregnancy. “Viable pregnancy?” we thought, “How insensitive.” We were naive and hopeful, forgetting how common miscarriages are.
At 10 weeks, we experienced another less than ideal experience at the lab; the technician forgot to invite my partner in the room and told us that the dating on the last ultrasound must have been wrong. We left confused and received a phone call from our midwife saying something seemed off and that I should get my hormone levels tested as the pregnancy “wasn’t progressing in a normal way.” I tried to stay optimistic, but started to feel as though things were not quite right. My partner remained hopeful to the end.
Within a day of the phone call from our midwife, I knew we were losing this baby. I was overcome with guilt and shame and found my thoughts swirling in a tornado of questions asking myself what I could have done differently. The next day, the miscarriage felt like a mini-birth and it was an awfully painful and heartbreaking experience. My partner was by my side for every single moment and I am forever grateful for this. It helped him realize that we would not be meeting our baby after all. The loss was overwhelming and profound. We learned a great deal from it - I got a glimpse of how self-sacrificing it truly is to be a mother, the worry, the unconditional love and the non-stop judgment that is endured.
Worse than the actual miscarriage, however, was what came afterward. While we were grieving, we also had to dance around others’ discomfort with our loss. It was extremely painful to be met with such unease and awkwardness at such a fragile time. “I hope you get over this soon,” someone remarked; “Let me know if you need anything,” and the day after our loss: “Want to come to a fun dinner party tomorrow?” But the worst comment blamed me: “You didn’t eat enough meat.” Every one of these gestures left me feeling more hurt and alone. Being told that “everything happens for a reason” was a less than comforting platitude offered too frequently.
I mistakenly thought it was obvious that a miscarriage is not something you simply get over. Being in a state of shock, I barely knew what I needed, but I am grateful for the people who showed up for me unconditionally. This experience has been a big lesson in accepting others’ vulnerability and in how uncomfortable we are with death. I knew I shouldn’t blame myself, but I did. Still, I found the courage to be open and honest and, in turn, I was amazed at how many women opened up to me and revealed that they had suffered a miscarriage, too. That they, too, suffered in silence.
A few months after the miscarriage, my partner and I held a small bonfire on the beach at sunset. We’d each written a letter to the child we didn’t get to meet and read them aloud before letting the flames take away the words and perhaps some of the pain. This goodbye ritual helped me forgive those who made the experience more difficult and it helped me forgive myself, releasing the blame I still carried around.
We do not share our stories to shame others, we share them to offer our experience, to learn and heal, together. One day, I look forward to being pregnant again. And yes, I will tell everyone before waiting until three months has passed.
Anna Grabowski lives in Vancouver.