Lauren’s story: the gain in loss
Lauren experienced a missed miscarriage. In her story, she explores the importance of talking about pregnancy loss, and explains why some well-meaning comments can be hurtful.
To talk about it is painful, and yet it is so important that we do talk about it more, so that we know we are not alone and so that we can bring about much needed awareness to something experienced by so many.
I did everything right.
I was young. I exercised. I ate well. I had prior health checks and received a perfect score.
I found myself pregnant much quicker than I had anticipated. I followed all the rules. I read every book there was on pregnancy.
I thought I had mitigated every risk. Yet my husband and I lost our first child.
If you’re ever unfortunate enough to have experienced pregnancy loss, you will know that the first place your mind goes to is: What did I do wrong? Why did my body fail me?
In the moment that we found out we had lost our baby, it was like instinct that I turned into my husband and the only words that came out were “I’m sorry”, over and over again, through the most heartbroken tears I’ve ever shed.
But the recurring answer that I receive to this, is that it’s often quite the opposite. Despite what we’re told in school about how easy it is to have a baby; a lot has to go perfectly right. What I understand now is that the entire process is nothing short of a miracle – a perfect aspect of nature to create a human life. And so, I have been told by every professional I’ve seen – in a huge majority of pregnancy loss cases, our bodies often save our babies, or us, from suffering, because something wasn’t progressing as it should. You never know for certain the reason, and it doesn’t make it easier to accept, but if there is any chance that our child was spared a lifetime of suffering in exchange for the suffering we are left to feel now, it is a weight I accept to carry.
Research shows that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage – and those are just the ones reported. If you choose to view it scientifically, then I was simply part of a very common and unfortunate statistic. I rolled a one on a four-sided die.
But if you choose to see it spiritually, as I at least try to do, then maybe these difficult experiences are given to us so that we can help others through them. Losing our baby will never be a blessing in disguise, but I choose to see what I have learnt from this loss as a gift. I hope that writing this helps guide even just one person – whether experiencing loss themselves or being a support for someone experiencing it.
I remember sitting in the pregnancy unit’s counselling room, numb with shock after being told moments earlier that our baby’s heartbeat had stopped. A nurse sat with me and told me that the woman who had gone in after me had unfortunately just received the same sad news, and that I must know I am not alone. It didn’t take the pain away. I still felt like I was the only person in the world to have experienced this. But she was right that there was some comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only one. As humans, we naturally gravitate toward each other in pain and suffering. No matter how isolated your grief may feel, knowing that there are others feeling the same pain makes you feel a little less alone. So many women suffer this loss in silence. I understand why now. To talk about it is painful, and yet it is so important that we do talk about it more, so that we know we are not alone and so that we can bring about much needed awareness to something experienced by so many.
There is healing and validation in talking about loss, but there also needs to be more guidance for these conversations, as we know that careless words can unintentionally do more damage than good. I know that in every instance, people meant well and had the best intentions, but here are some of the things I heard that were unhelpful, and I hope to explain why:
- “At least you know you can get pregnant.”
I am aware that there is a different and equally as painful journey when a woman is unable to fall pregnant. Although these traumas are all based on the desire to have a family, they are different and cannot be compared. I was exceptionally lucky to have fallen pregnant almost immediately, and I was very conscious of telling people that because you can never be sure of other personal circumstances around you. But a comment like this after a loss also reminds you of the anxiety you now carry – getting pregnant again, with the possibility of facing a painful experience rather than the joyful one you had hoped for. The fear is indescribable. It also implies that the baby you lost could somehow easily be replaced. I remember thinking “I would’ve waited any amount of time for my baby if it meant I could’ve avoided losing them”, in response to this statement. But I cannot without doubt say that I believe this, as each experience has its own deep-rooted pain, which can’t be truly understood unless experienced personally.
- “Do you think it was maybe…?”
Trust me, I’ve asked myself a million times what could have caused this.
Google becomes a black hole of blame. Adding another theory to the pile just intensifies the torment.
- “So-and-so also had a miscarriage. It’s so common, you know.”
While it can be comforting to know you’re not alone, hearing a statistic (especially if said in a dismissive tone) from people who have never experienced it can feel like a minimisation of your loss – like it’s no different than catching the common cold.
But we didn’t just lose to a statistic. We lost our child.
- “When do you think you’ll try again?”
This question is heavier than it sounds. It assumes healing is linear, and that trying again is just the next logical step.
There’s the physical recovery, the emotional grief, and the knowledge that another baby will never replace the one you lost.
There’s also the overwhelming anxiety: Will I ever be ready? Will I ever feel safe again? This question is a mountain in front of you that you’re not even sure you’re going to be able to climb yet, no matter how badly you want to get to the top.
- Not saying anything at all.
This one hurt the most. I noticed it especially with men (not all – I had men in my life provide me with some of kindest words and thoughts of comfort). For those that didn’t say anything – perhaps it’s too far from their experience. Maybe they don’t know what to say. Maybe they feel like acknowledging it could somehow make matters worse. But silence creates space for overthinking, and for isolation.
I knew they cared – they asked my husband how I was doing. Their good intentions were evident, but their uncomfortableness with the topic made me feel like I should be ashamed or that I had done something wrong.
So, if you’re a man reading this: please say something. Even just “I’m sorry.” A slightly longer hug. A simple text. Anything to acknowledge that someone is living a nightmare. I promise it goes a long way, even if the person you’re sending it to is too numb to respond, they will feel it.
The most comforting support we received came from people who walked this journey with us, each in their own way.
Some wrote letters or dropped off thoughtful gifts.
Some sobbed on the phone with us for hours, or spent their own time shedding tears for us.
Some sent food, knowing that it was the last thing on our mind.
Some shared their own stories of loss which they’d never shared with anyone else before.
I thought about sharing the details of my miscarriage step-by-step so that others could relate. But honestly, I found reading other people’s stories like this triggering and upsetting. It made me compare my experience to theirs – something that every mum will know starts the moment you find out you’re pregnant to the rest of parenthood.
So, I’m not going to do that. All I will say is that I had what is called a ‘silent miscarriage’ (or ‘missed miscarriage’). I had seen our baby’s heartbeat so many times on a screen – I had recordings of the scan that I obsessively watched over and over, just mesmerized by the little life inside me. And then the worst moment of my life took place, as the room filled with silence and the doctor turned to me, saying: “I’m sorry, but there’s no heartbeat”. Our baby had died – while my body still thought I was pregnant – and the following days and nights that I sat waiting to miscarry the child inside me, who I knew had already died, is a dark, dark time that I could never begin to put into words. The tears of pain and anguish that I felt so deep to my core came out in screams, while my husband held me for hours on end. For a while those anguished screams continued, if just in my own head. There was nothing silent or subtle about it.
Each story is unique.
And so is each healing journey.
There’s no textbook for grief. No set path.
Some days, I walked in the forest.
Some days, I sat in the shower and cried.
Some days, I managed to laugh a little with a friend.
Some days, I couldn’t eat. Some days I ate too much.
At first, I counted the hours in bed until I could take a sleeping pill to tick off another day that felt like a marathon I’d managed to get through.
Then I gardened for hours with my husband in silence.
Then I binge-watched five seasons of Yellowstone (odd choice, I know). But ironically, and a bit triggering so, pregnancy loss came up in an episode, and a character then said something I’ll keep with me forever:
“That boy lived a perfect life. We’re the only ones who know it was brief. All he knew was you, and that you loved him.”
From the moment you see that positive pregnancy test, or the flicker of a heartbeat on the screen, you know what a mother’s love feels like for this little human existing inside you. There is truly nothing more powerful on this earth. And that is all our baby knew of this world.
The hardest part of grief is the shock of how the world keeps moving, while yours stands still.
I remember looking at the clouds and the leaves on the trees. Even they looked completely frozen, mirroring my world.
And as life started to move on again, everything around me felt like it remained the same, but I had changed.
I look at photos of myself before we lost our baby, and I see a completely different person now.
Life goes on. The world keeps turning.
But we will never be the same.
I once read something special, and I want to leave it with you:
“Every child a woman carries changes her DNA forever.”
Regardless of whether you got to meet your baby or not, they have changed the very essence of you and will remain with you forever. I found this comforting, and I hope it helps others too.
Even though I felt robbed of time with our child, and that I had lost a part of me, this reminded me:
We weren’t left with nothing.
We gained a beautiful guardian angel that will always be a part of us and our hopeful family.
We didn’t get to carry our baby in our arms.
But we will carry them forever in our hearts.