The Miscarriage Mystique

One spring morning, at 6 am, my life was turned upside down by two lines on a home pregnancy test. Having dealt with the increasingly common PCOS (Poly-cystic ovaries syndrome), it was a token test, to eliminate the impossible. Except. 

Suddenly, there was indication of new life growing inside me, and aside from the nature-encoded wonderment of such a miracle, was mind-numbing terror. Pregnancy was the last thing on my mind and all the inadequacy I had ever felt, not to mention the terror of living in an apocalyptic world, came thundering down on me. So, of course, when my partner asked me what I wanted, I said I wanted to go back to sleep.

Except this was like taking the red pill (or was it the blue one?) and there was no sleeping away another person inside me. So the panic subsided over a lovely morning walk at the local lake park. When reason returned, I wanted to quickly eliminate a false positive and took an immediate appointment with a nearby OBGYN.

Imagine my stupefaction at the doctor’s office a few hours later when she was shoving a trans-vaginal ultrasound device into me and I could see a blip on the screen that showed my uterus! It was a tiny, tiny black dot, much tinier than the cyst in my right ovary nearby, and I already loved it. 

Suddenly, I was kicking into Mama-mode and making plans. We would figure it out - this was after all the world’s oldest magic trick. Suddenly I was facing faith, and optimism, and working towards becoming superhuman (which I soon figured out is not really an option). I could at least learn to apologise for my mistakes and have conversations, and usher a new flavour of intergenerational trauma that would be all my own.

Friends and family were told, and I found myself in goddess mode. There were gifts and hugs and toasts and validation, and I felt completely invincible. I would work extra-hard to transform my bad habits and eat, sleep, think for the unborn appleseed. There was always the viability caveat, of course, which also I was told to remove from my mind as I remained positive.

The glow and the health and the magic lasted for two weeks. At the next appointment, when it would be 8 weeks according to medical calculations by LMP (Last Month of Period), the doctor scanned me again to say in a cool tone, 

“It hasn’t grown in the past two weeks. It’s a blighted ovum. Happens 20% of the time by random chance. There is nothing to do. Would you like to ensure a clean removal of blood and tissue by swallowing tablets or having a minor surgery?”

While my two-week-old world completely feel apart, my partner took care of billing and medication purchase. I came home confused, ashamed and guilty. While I knew it wasn’t my fault, the whispers of patriarchy slithered through my vulnerable mind telling me that I was inadequate somehow. 

At war with the patriarchy was the feminist activist in me, incredulous at this mental attack. When I informed friends and family again, many didn’t know what to say. Some tried to give me space. And I interpreted every interaction or lack thereof as their judgment of me, of them seeing me as ‘less than’ now that this was happening to me. 

This is not a moment that I am proud of, and sharing it feels like screaming naked in the middle of a park, but it’s important to me to vocalise something that is so rarely spoken about.

When I took the misoprostol as directed by the doctor, I had pain of which I had never experienced an equivalent. As I sat on the pot, sweating and waiting for the moment to pass somehow, I involuntarily passed a clump of blood that I knew was appleseed. The blood and the pain continued for hours, and when it passed, it felt like a small miracle.

My OBGYN had said nothing to prepare me for this. When I shared with friends, they were incredulous - no one knew it hurt! Again and again I kept asking, why does no one speak of this!? 

My mother and grandmother both in their very sweet ways welcomed me to the lineage, telling me that they too had had missed periods before conceiving children that eventually became periods and there was nothing to do!

Except, with the advancement in technology that we as a society are so proud of, I didn’t just bleed out a perhaps, I bled out an appleseed sized blip from my uterus that I had befriended and loved for weeks. It wasn’t just a period for me, it was a misoprostol-induced labour that gave me blood clots instead of the baby I had imagined. 

I was reassured that I could try again, and the first time is too easy, and it’s an excuse to become healthy and prepare for the next one - but I was grieving for the one I had lost and there was no context for this.

I had heard recently from a mother who had miscarried a few months into her pregnancy, and all she spoke to me about was acceptance and surrender. 

Now I understand that acceptance and surrender are inevitable and important, the crucial ingredients to survive the recipe of life. But I ask again, why are we not talking about any of this?

My mother’s answer was, “it’s so common, what is there to talk about?”

But that is exactly why we need to talk about it. Miscarriage happens to women regularly, and we are regularly dismissed, our pain is minimised and our grief invalidated. 

In pregnancy, there is support and joy, an outpouring of gifts and love for a new generation, then why not offer similar support for the flip side of the coin?

Now you may call me a cynic on an angry rant (it wouldn’t be the first time), so here’s what I have to offer for the inevitable question of what do you expect from us?

Friends and family - 

Offer unconditional support. Instead of asking yourself what you would want, ask the woman what she wants. I had some wonderful people reaching out and checking on me, giving me the choice of whether I wanted to talk or not. It made me feel loved. Let your person know that she is loved.

If you have been through this - 

You are not alone. All your feelings are completely normal and there is nothing wrong with you. You are so strong to be going through this, and I hope that you have the support you need to get through this.

Take your time and space, let yourself grieve. I know I struggle with this, especially after being told how common it is. But not everyone falls in love with an ultrasound before a miscarriage. I know I won’t head to the doctor until a few more weeks have passed if there is a next time. Do what you need to do.

Talk about this if and when you can. Change takes place one person at a time, and I believe that it is high time that the ‘ugly underbellies’ of women’s experience be made public. It is a conversation that can invite compassion and understanding. I understand if it’s scary. This is scary for me. But I say again, you are not alone and neither am I.

Let’s shed the mystique around motherhood that deifies the healthy pregnancy and dismisses the common miscarriage. All experiences are valid. All experiences deserve to be acknowledged. If it’s so common, let’s learn to communicate with a compassion that makes grieving almost-mothers feel loved and empowered, and ready to face their lives after a massive heartbreak. 

After all, loved, nurtured and empowered individuals together make a loved, nurtured, empowered culture, and this is something we desperately need today.