submitted by Richmond Mom Whitney Fogg
Richmond Mom Whitney Fogg
April 1 marked the two year anniversary of my miscarriage. I am shocked at how difficult this realization is. The wound is still open and occasionally as fresh as it was that early morning, as I writhed in pain and begged an unmerciful God to let me keep my baby.
It is a terrible feeling when your body fails you. It is a tremendous blow to lose the magical power of reproduction.
I knew I was pregnant immediately, and it was definitely an “Oh, shit” pregnancy. It wasn’t a great time to have another child.
Our house was too small, our bank account was too low, and the job market was too volatile. Once we got over the initial shock, we sketched a few ideas for a house addition and started looking at minivans. I quit smoking (again) and lamented the arsenal of wine I had just purchased at Trader Joe’s. I decided it was a girl. We started to prepare to become a family of four.
At five and a half weeks pregnant, I woke up bleeding. I panicked. My doctor said the pregnancy “appeared abnormal” but he “could be wrong” and “stranger things have happened” and then sent me to LabCorp. No one would use the big “M” word, or even look me in the eye.
My husband clung to these morsels of positivity, but I knew what was happening. I was angry at the doctor for being so vague and indecisive. I didn’t want false hope, I wanted an answer. I wanted to know what to expect – how long it would take, how would it feel, how would I feel? Would I know it was happening?
That night, I woke up to what felt like a mini-labor. I understood my body was preparing to expel the tiny life it had only so recently created. I crept downstairs to lie on the couch; I wanted to be alone. I sobbed, silently pleading my baby not to leave me. She did.
Credit: bellyitchblog.com
The next day my husband went to work. I left a voice mail for my doctor describing my experience. A return call from the nurse resulted in another awkward conversation in which she could not confirm what I had experienced was a miscarriage. She recommended I return to LabCorp in a few days. I switched doctors.
Some friends cried with me. Others, well meaning, pointed out how lucky I was to have another child or suggested I just try again. Everyone seemed to expect me to be fine in a matter of days and I tried so hard to be. I got a pedicure, went shopping, got drunk, celebrated my 30th birthday, and got drunk some more, but I could not shake the grief. I could barely function.
Out of necessity, I eventually reentered the world of the living. But I haven’t been the same since.
I write this not to ask for your sympathy, but to ask for your honesty. There are many of us who have experienced this very real, profound loss. We still grieve. We do not, however, talk about it.
We feel ashamed. We feel we did something wrong. We feel silly for being so damn sad. We wonder why we can’t just get over it. So, we try to forget about it. We don’t bring it up and we continue to grieve in silence.
This is simply unnecessary. There are so many of us; in fact, approximately one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage. I am tired of acting like a leper. I want to talk about the hopes and dreams that I lost that day.
I want to remember that baby because she was real to me. I just want her to be real to someone else, too. I want someone else to remember and grieve for her with me.
That’s the worst part about a miscarriage – to everyone else, it kind of never happened. There’s no memorial service, no sympathy lasagnas and banana bread , and no old friends calling to say they’ve heard the sad news.
We simply don’t know what to do or say. I get that.
But instead of closing the blinds and suffering alone, let’s reach out to each other. I am always shocked at the support I have found in the most unlikely of places, but I had to ask for it first. Let’s be more honest with each other, more real. We’re not alone in this world and we shouldn’t have to act as though we are. This is a real loss and a real death. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help to cope with it.
My friend Lia recently shared this quote by Adrienne Rich with me: “When a woman tells the truth, she is creating the possibility for more truth around her.”
This is my truth – maybe it’s yours, too? Let’s end our silence and grieve together.
If you have a story you’re willing to share with our readers, please email us. We appreciate your heartfelt honesty and our thoughts are with anyone who has had a similar loss; we hope that some healing will occur in the sharing of these stories.
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