Like birth stories, no two miscarriage stories are the same, but both unite so many of us women—one garnering boisterous congratulations, the other quiet condolences delivered with a knowing look, a hushed conversation, a wordless click of a heart on a soul-bearing Facebook post. If you haven’t personally experienced a miscarriage, you likely know someone who has—but you might not know it. As common as the experience is (one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage), they aren’t often shared.
I didn’t tell many people, just a few close friends and family members, figuring that I wouldn’t keep a miscarriage a secret from these folks, so why hide the pregnancy?
My story is not especially dramatic—many miscarriages are not—but I offer it as a gesture of sisterhood, a cautionary tale for those who might benefit or comfort for those who have experienced or will experience this kind of loss.
I was eight weeks into my first pregnancy and willfully ignoring the “12 weeks till you tell others” rule. While I had been very excited about the pregnancy, I hadn’t been actively “trying” to get pregnant, so I had really just begun to wrap my head around the idea, and I was processing out loud. Though my body had not shown any signs of preparation yet—there was no nausea, no fatigue, no breast tenderness (maybe that should have been a clue)—my mind was actively preparing, imagining, and anticipating. I didn’t tell many people, just a few close friends and family members, figuring that I wouldn’t keep a miscarriage a secret from these folks, so why hide the pregnancy?
On the eve of Mother’s Day, I had a full day planned: a visit with a group of friends, then dinner and a concert with my best friend, and plans to spend the night at my mother’s house in advance of our Mother’s Day brunch outing. Having shrugged off some stomach cramps I felt earlier in the day, I went on to meet my friend for dinner. Before our entrées came out, I excused myself to the bathroom, making a quick comment about my stomach acting up and that I hoped it wasn’t related to the pregnancy. I sat on the toilet and felt the passage and plunk of a clot. I hadn’t experienced any spotting or bleeding thus far, and I knew that that sometimes can happen as part of a healthy pregnancy, but this felt more . . . substantial. I looked at it in horror and flushed, almost embarrassed to have had this happen at a restaurant (Is that even allowed? Should I tell someone?). I rushed back to the table, telling my friend to meet me in the car, because I was pretty sure I was having a miscarriage.
I had no idea what was supposed to happen next.
I called my OB/GYN. The operator who took my call was cold and robotic. I was shocked that someone in this position had so little warmth to offer someone in distress.
But the work that lay in the weeks ahead was in the unraveling of my prematurely shared good news.
The doctor who called back was thankfully very caring and told me to just go home and wait it out, that it would feel like a very bad period, but that I wouldn’t likely need to go to a hospital.
Relieved that I wouldn’t have to endure any clinical procedures, I went to my mother’s house, reassured by the comfort of my childhood home, my loving mother, and my dear friend who had come along to help me get settled, eventually leaving me with my mother to whimper and cry intermittently through the night at the pain in my body and the pain in my heart.
By morning, I was resolved to accept that nature had intervened in what otherwise would likely have been an unhealthy pregnancy.
But the work that lay in the weeks ahead was in the unraveling of my prematurely shared good news. The awkwardness began with the ultrasound tech and an assistant at my OB/GYN who didn’t seem to have their communication synced up and perkily asked about my pregnancy when I went in for a follow-up. Then there were the reactions from the grapevine that I had unwittingly planted: unsolicited hugs, unwanted texts, uncomfortable recantations.
My secret had been too exciting for me to keep, so I had shared it with my inner circle. But what I hadn’t considered was the possibility that the circle would grow without my consent. The secret was no longer just mine; nor, then, was the news of my miscarriage—an update I was now forced to deliver on demand, sometimes to near strangers, forcing intimacy where it had no place.
I ran into an acquaintance who had heard about my miscarriage and who rushed toward me, arms open, wrapping me in an embrace that felt way too big for what had happened.
I felt undeserving of grand sympathies and felt great remorse each time I had to dismiss an offer of congratulations, such as those I received from an acquaintance whose wife, I had just learned, was newly pregnant.
“You, too, right?” he said, his beaming eyes and smile seemingly ushering me into a joint happy dance.
“Ummmm . . . no . . . that didn’t end up working out,” I offered, feeling nothing short of treasonous as I watched the joy evaporate from his face.
What I was recovering from, in my mind, was not a great tragedy but a great disappointment. I was anticipating going on one of the great adventures of life, and now the trip had been abruptly canceled, possibly never to come again. I had to dismantle my dream of motherhood, at least for the moment. That would have been the extent of my troubles—had I not hastily decided to throw a small party that became a big party that suddenly turned into a funeral.
I got pregnant again later that year, and the following Mother’s Day was marked by what felt like the first kicks from my daughter, though I kept this unconfirmed development to myself this time around.
What I was recovering from, in my mind, was not a great tragedy but a great disappointment.
On the next Mother’s Day, I shared my story on Facebook. There were several comments thanking me for my bravery. A few friends echoed with their own stories. Others responded with a wordless click of a heart, some of which I knew to mark similar losses.
While the 12-weeks rule proved to be sound and confirmed for me the importance of privacy following a miscarriage, it took me some time to realize that my issue wasn’t being too open; it was really just the timing of my openness. And the sisterhood that I have found in those who have shared in this experience suggests that openness is still a good thing too.
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