A Guide for Grieving a Miscarriage

You never know how a death like this is going to affect you. Perhaps you think you know - maybe you'll be relieved, maybe you'll remind yourself that it was probably all for the best, or maybe you'll thank your lucky stars that you lost a baby with what's-his-name because parenting "with" him would have been a nightmare. Or perhaps you are dying to have a baby, and the crushing blow of "birthing" your child in addition to the strain of not knowing whether or not you will be able to carry a healthy child with the love of your life is too much to bear. You get up every day, go through the motions, but the grief you carry is intense.

I never really thought about how I would feel about having a miscarriage until I had my first one. I didn't even know I was pregnant. Looking back, I can see that I had all the symptoms, but I just didn't know. I was on depo-provera (the birth control, hormone injection that you can get every three months) and I don't menstruate when I take that form of birth control. I had given birth to a healthy little girl a few years prior, and was not looking to put myself back on the mommy market. A husband, maybe - but, no baby. For a day or so, I had the most intense menstrual cramps I had ever experienced. I was popping ibuprofen like a maniac, and while I was taking a shower I felt this wave of relief take over. And it was over: just like that.

I didn't know right away what had happened. But, I can still feel how the fetus felt in the palm of my hand. He was the size of my pinky. That was how a grieving process that took five years began. I named him, and held a small funeral with two close friends, where his little body was signified by a rosebud that I released into a special place by the water that I have never returned to. I didn't speak to anyone about my miscarriage: how could they possibly understand?

The few that I told that understood never said the most soul-crushing phrases that are meant to be comforting but really could never comfort a soul in mourning, and if the person repeating them had any compassion or empathy, they would never utter those words. Such, as "it's all for the best". No. It's just not. Or, "God doesn't give you more than you can handle." Perhaps, but you still have to handle it, and somehow 'handling' a death does not mean stoic, emotionless acceptance of something that just feels AWFUL. Or, my personal favorite, an unemotional reminder that you are not exactly in a position to be raising a child on your own. Ah, economics. My favorite way to handle any crisis! Reiterate the bottom line, and acknowledge that nobody has a 'right' to raise a child in poverty. Takes me back to a time when doctors tried to force black women and other poor women to become sterilized before they would perform any medical treatment. My eyes are misty with nostalgia.

So, while there isn't a 'right' way to mourn anything, there certainly isn't a 'right' or 'wrong' way to mourn a miscarriage. When I finally began to mourn this loss five years after it happened, I discovered some things that made it easier for me.

First, acknowledge your child. Other people cannot acknowledge what they cannot see. You may not have had a funeral, a burial, or even a visibly evident pregnancy: but you DID have one. Name your child and honor their life. No child is alive in your womb without changing you on some level. Give them that part of your soul, and allow the thoughts of seeing them in Heaven or thinking of them occasionally to be a private part of your being that you do not deny. Most people will not understand, but they don't have to.

Second, do not listen to anyone who has the audacity to tell you that 'maybe it is all for the best'. You might decide that later, as I did. But, that takes time and perspective. No grieving person should rush either one. In fact, avoid people who may say hurtful and cruel things to you for a while. They probably have not endured a heartache that would have given them the gift of compassion towards others. Either that, or they felt grieving would have been weak and have a stunted, underdeveloped soul. They deserve pity, but you can think about that later. Or not.

Third, just allow yourself to grieve as it comes. Don't rush yourself to return to 'normal', because you will never return to it. At least, not in the way you think. Life will continue in its usual pattern, as life tends to do. But, a death of so personal a nature has a way of becoming a wound that eventually becomes a scar on your soul. It cannot go away and really, you would not want it to. Simply because the depth of the scar signifies the immense importance that the person you have lost. You cannot erase, expunge or empty your life and your soul of your child, and the length of time they were in your life is immaterial.

Just allow yourself to feel what you feel.

I had to open myself up to talking about my experience. I confessed to my parents about what happened, and it explained a lot of behavior that they felt was odd. I spoke to a therapist, who cried with me as I talked about how I had blamed myself for his death. She told me that it wasn't my fault; it simply couldn't have been. What was most difficult was struggling with a loss that nobody could see. I still feel the heartache. When a friend of mine lost her son right after he was born, I mourned them both. When a friend of mine suffers the loss of a miscarriage, I feel my own loss again. Recently, when an acquaintance of mine lost twins that stopped developing around eight or ten weeks, I cried for two days.

I am grateful that I have been given the gift of compassion. I would not have it, had I not lost my child. It deepens and augments the human experience, but it took me a really, really long time to come to that place.