It seems like I’m the only one that’s so upset about my miscarriage. In fact it sometimes seems like I’m the only one that remembers about it at all.
I know that seems like the meanest thing to say about my husband, and paints him in a really bad light. That couldn’t be further from what I mean. It’s cliched to say he has been my rock – but he has. I couldn’t have got through it without him. From the first day in the hospital, when he phoned my parents to tell them, comforted me, held me and talked to me; to those awful days afterwards when I was showing him sheets of bloodstained toilet paper and clots and he had to take endless days off work just to sit and watch me cry; and right through to now when he is so understanding and sympathetic to my various hang ups and concerns and still has to deal with the nights when I can’t stop weeping. He has gone so far beyond the call of duty, and has been everything I ever hoped for. Marrying him was SO the right move, and I love him even more after what we’ve been through together. I didn’t even know it was possible to love him more.
So it’s not that he isn’t supportive. It’s just that he’s, well, *him*. He’s a very logical, rational and intellectual person. And although he’s one of the most sensitive and non-macho men ever born, he’s still a man! He doesn’t want to dwell on things. He wants to move on, and think about the future, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with difficult feelings every single day. I don’t think he’s repressing it, really – he just doesn’t need to pick the scab all the time.
I seem to need to pick the scab constantly. This means that sometimes I feel like, even though I can share everything with him normally, I need to keep some of my darkest thoughts to myself.
And then there’s my Mum. My Mum is one of the best mums ever – I hope you’re getting the impression that I’m very lucky with my family. But she, too, is supremely practical. She came down to stay with us a couple of days after my miscarriage, and she came to scans with me, talked to endless doctors with me, brought me flowers, made me laugh, took me for a massive retail therapy session, and was everything anyone could ever need.
But now she too is resolutely forward looking. She insists that we’ll be pregnant again soon and is impatient at my worries that we could lose another baby or struggle to conceive again. Maybe she’s right, statistically, and I probably need a dose of optimism. I can handle her no-nonsense attitude in that way.
But what’s impossible to deal with it her conviction that losing this baby was a good thing, because, as the doctors told us, the most likely reason for the miscarriage was some kind of chromosome abnormality which made the pregnancy non-viable. She says things like, “you really wanted rid of that, whatever *it* was”, and talks about the horrible thing that I was growing inside me and how I needed to get it out fast. It wasn’t a baby – it was just a bundle of cells that went really wrong and could never have been a person.
That IS my baby she’s talking about. I know a person couldn’t manage to fully grow from those cells, but there was DNA there that was formed from my husband and me – there was a tiny heart that was beating, however briefly. That was my tiny little baby, that never made it.
I feel angry and so hurt that she talks about him like that. I know she’s trying to help but she gets it so wrong.
We didn’t tell many friends, although those we did tell have been wonderful, and much more prepared to see it from my point of view, as a loss to grieve for. But it’s the people closest to you that you really depend on when something like this happens, and when they can’t quite be what you need it’s lonely. That’s why I relaunched this blog, because it gives me the opportunity to articulate how I feel, fully and freely, without having a chorus of “come on, you need to be more positive”. It’s wonderful how the internet gives you access to a community of people who have been there too, wherever “there” is.
I want to move forward too, and I feel like I’ve been doing that pretty well, all along. But I can’t move forwards by forgetting what’s happened. I need to take it with me. It feels a bit like a scar – I’m glad to be healthy and to have recovered from the wound, but the mark is still there and sometimes I need to look at it, and remember how it got there. In some ways, remembering how I felt then makes me feel more positive because I can see how far I’ve come and how much better I’m doing now. It’s only been three months.
Maybe in the end the problem is that no one else experienced the full horror of what happened. My husband had the emotional trauma, but the combination of the emotional and the physical is something no one could go through but me. However they try to share it, it’s my miscarriage in the end.