10th Jan 2008
Surviving a Miscarriage
I wish there were tips for surviving a miscarriage, but, honestly, I’m surprised anyone survives at all. To me, it feels akin to rape in that once it happens you should immediately get a Do Over card to come back in the next life in a more protected and innocent form for a while.
It is exactly three months after miscarriage #2. I found my original post Out of Sorts; Out of Mind listed on Miscarriage Wisdom. I don’t deserve that and certainly didn’t express any wisdom other than honesty. I think it reflects that there is a shortage of accessible writing on miscarriages, so I will write a bit more here.
I would say there are three main emotions that have arisen from this miscarriage. The most obvious emotion is overwhelming grief that seems impossible to describe. A few weeks after having a miscarriage, I found this passage in A Thousand Splendid Suns, the UU Book Club’s October selection:
The grief kept surprising Mariam. All it took to unleash it was her thinking of the unfinished crib in the toolshed or the suede coat in Rasheed’s closet. The baby came to life then and she could hear it, could hear its hungry grunts, its gurgles and jabbering. She felt it sniffling at her breasts. The grief washed over her, swept her up, tossed her upside down. Mariam was dumbfounded that she could miss in such a crippling manner a being she had never ever seen….
Yes, it is like that—like being tossed around at sea and often going down underneath the surface. It’s startling how strong it is. I think it’s probably difficult to imagine unless you’ve felt it personally. And it’s far worse the second time than it was the first time I miscarried. When I hear stories of women who have survived three or four (or seven in one instance) miscarriages, I simply cannot comprehend how that is possible because I think the grief would bury both of us.
Another emotion, which is much less widely discussed in public, and, with which I’m much less comfortable, is jealousy. I don’t think I’m often overwhelmingly jealous, but having so many friends (15-20 depending on which circles of friends I include) have babies in the past two years has made me jealous. I’m jealous of babies. And of easy pregnancies. And hard pregnancies, for that matter. I can’t seem to control it. It’s not rational; it’s not kind; it’s not generous. It just is. And it’s also not really like other jealousy—I don’t want your bumps, your babies, your toddlers. I just want my own. Just one. And it doesn’t seem too much to ask.
Since I don’t seem to be able to do anything about these feelings, I’m trying to be more comfortable with them and just “be” with them rather than chasing them away. I also found a passage in A Thousand Splendid Suns that suggested I’m not alone.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious suddenly, of the neighborhood women and their wealth of children. Some had seven or eight and didn’t understand how fortunate they were, how blessed that their children had flourished in their wombs, lived to squirm in their arms and take the milk from their breasts. Children that they had not bled away with soapy water….
It does not help that we live at the edge of suburbia in a community where most people have children. And, it should be said, when some people hear that we’re “trying” they say absolutely stupid things as if we haven’t figured out how to a. have reproductive sex or b. take a pre-natal vitamin and are just at home naked flailing around stupidly with a bottle of vodka and box of donuts. Jim saw something on the news that suggested we are living in a baby boom, and that certainly describes how it feels: a baby boom in which we’re left as the childless.
And then the third emotion is a sense of hopelessness in terms of children. We waited too long. We didn’t pay attention soon enough. Adoption seems infinitely complicated and full of judgment. And then there is the dread that I might actually get pregnant and miscarry again. God help us if that happens.
So how do you survive?
I don’t know. You just do. Getting flowers helped. Growing flowers helped. Repotting plants helped. Walking helped. Talking about it helped. Writing about it helped. Cards helped. Emails helped. Phone calls helped. Therapy helped. And, apologies all around because this is sacrilegious, avoiding babies helped. You survive minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Wow, thanks for posting this. It’s important to hear your experience before, during, after.
We’re planning on trying, and I keep wanting to be cautious, making room in my mind for the possibility that it might not happen - or it might be very, very hard.
But whenever I mention the possibility of it not happening, or not being easy, everyone just tells m not to worry about it, it won’t be a problem. “Just think positive.” I think about your posts whenever I hear this. If people are so dismissive of my (valid) concerns now, what happens later, if those concerns come to pass? How can so many people be in denial?
The more I think on it, the more profound the lack of understanding seems. And I don’t really know, either.
Clarification: by “before, during, after” I was referring to women before, during, and after trying to get pregnant.
There seems to be a lot of myths and secrets around miscarriages. I think most people don’t know how common they are; I think many people don’t allow themselves to grieve. Yet when I read anonymous spaces on-line for women who have had miscarriages, I’m struck by how many women have had them and how they don’t feel their feelings are valid.
My sister had several miscarriages when she was much younger, before she carried a baby to term. To the best of my knowledge, she has just scabbed over that pain and has never dealt with it. I love her dearly but wonder if her brusque, almost distanced love for her children (though not her grandchildren) is related to her grief. It’s kind of counter-intuitive, I guess, but I do wonder.
Ms. T, it sounds like you are dealing with it in a much more healthful way, even though it’s terribly difficult and painful. I read the Thousand Suns book and was also struck by Mariam’s experience.
I was surprised myself since you do not usually reveal such a personal side of yourself on this blog. But I am certainly glad you did. I admire your courage to say this in a very public fashion.
You’ll be in my thoughts.
I don’t think there’s anything sacrilegious in any of it. You do what you have to do to get through the night. And the day. You try to not go outside with your chest ripped open, you try to not have your heart bleed all over the sidewalk, or in the mall, or any of the other places you go where pain and sorrow will sneak up on you.
I’m sorry.
Oh, Ms. T, I’m so sorry. I can’t begin to imagine. I was talking to a friend whose partner is dying. Through tears she said, “I’m learning that life is all around.” It’s pain. But’s it’s also all the other stuff, too. All the other stuff, too. I’m thinking of you … May love surround you, even in pain.
I’m really glad you posted this. I have done research on the kind of help available to grieving women who have miscarried and was astonished to find how little there really is–it just gets lumped into one big category, “grief.” But I don’t think it’s the same as losing your cat, your mother or your cousin…
J
Wow, I’m so sorry, and I don’t even have anything poignant or helpful to say or share. I have no children and have no idea how to even say anything helpful. Except I don’t think it’s sacreligious not to hang out with people with babies. It’s a big sadness, and you need time to make the space so you can be excited for other people. It’s okay. It’s okay.
My wife and I endured a number of miscarriages. As you report, it’s awful. Everything you have written about here is exactly like it was for us. My wife found the jealousy to be nearly overpowering. For our sanity, we had to avoid couples with children.
Please give Jim my regards, albeit from an anonymous commenter. I remember that as the man, I felt a little left out of the whole thing. It’s a weird role to be in. However, one day an acquaintance who had heard about our latest loss called me, and shared that he and his wife had gone through it, too. It meant a TON to me that another man called to talk about it. It’s devastating to both genders, but it’s different.
I feel so much for you. I hope god blesses you and keeps you safe from further hurt. I’m not going to say it’s going to be okay, but with friends around it’s going to get better.
I don’t know if this will help but I can share my story of what I went through and am going through. My daughter is now almost 13. 2 years ago she decided to live with her father.
When I concieved her, I had just broken up with her Father, he had taken all of my money and stolen all of my furniture and when he found out I was pregant he and his massive family tried to convince me to have an abortion. I wanted so badly for her to be as protected in the world as she was my womb. I really feared that there would be alot of strife with her father and his family. There was, for years…
I had not graduated high school. When I was pregnant, I went back and finished, started college a year after she was born. I started a job in day care and she came with me. I always put her first.
When she made the decision to move to her father’s I felt like I lost her. She’s so wrapped up in her friends, and social life that I see her once a month if I’m lucky.
I know it’s not the same as having a miscarriage. But it still hurts, that deep down kind of soul hurt.
Hang in there. I’m praying for you.
Sorry, Stephanie and Jim. We’ve been there too.
Oh, Steph. This made me cry. Mike and I went through years of infertility, though most people have no idea because I never talk about it. But I know the pain of that jealousy (and the tug of war between being ashamed of it and knowing I was entitled to it) and of people’s stupid, hurtful remarks. I think I remember that the most. Worst of all, after I’d been through it I accidentally made the most cloddish, idiotic, insensitive remark to a woman who had been through the same thing as me. How could I! I’m still furious at myself for that. Horrible.
Sending you peace and love, Steph …
Thank you for your very powerful and honest words. My heart goes out to you.
[…] Theologian wrote bravely about surviving two miscarriages, sharing with readers the grief, jealousy (of friends with children), and hopelessness she has […]
I wish I would have ran across a post like this a year ago, when I had my first miscarriage. I have had three more since that one. With each miscarriage, the desire to be pregnant increased. I got depressed each month that it didn’t work and eventually went on medication. Yesterday we found out that we are pregnant again. I am praying this one will stick. I can’t go through that again.
Thank you for being a voice and speaking out.
I don’t think anything I can say will help, but as an avid reader of this blog and admirer of S.A./Ms.T. I just wanted to say that you and Jim are in my thoughts. I wish there was a way to heal pain for others, but I guess all we can really do is be there. Say it’s okay however you need to handle this. And just be. Thanks for being willing to share. Hugs hugs, Elizabeth
Totally unrelated side note: A good friend has started a new job and I’ve recently had a challenging professional situation and at least once a week I have to stop myself from being like, “I’ll email Surviving the Workday and see what she has to say about this!” If I were you, I’d consider a business of $5 (via pay pal) advice on work situations for short, easy problems, and $10-$20 for more complex ones. I think you could make some money. Not that that is the main goal of this blog/ministry, but, hey, it could work……
I’m so sorry, my friend. Thank you for your post.
Thank you for writing this… my husband and I have endured 2 miscarriages. No children yet, and somedays the jealousy and unbelievable sadness over what never can be is there. I miss our children, though I’ve never met them. It can’t be explained. But it hurts deeply.
I suffered a miscarriage in September 2007, I was 4 months pregnant on the day that I miscarried. My baby was such a beautiful little angel and although the daily crying has stopped, I still can’t bring myself to go to friends’ babies birthdays or baby showers. I have my good days and bad days and I still do get days where the pain feels as if it has only just happened. My baby wasn’t planned and I wasn’t sure how to feel in my first month of pregnancy, but started to bond with my baby - I’d talk to him, tell him what was going on in the outside world and just wanted him to know how much I loved him. I’ve been considering going for counselling to help me heal, if that’s possible at all. It feels as if no one understands the pain I feel, I constantly get comments like, “life goes on” or “at least he wasn’t born yet”. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever been through and would never wish it on my worst enemy..