We recently hit a date which is significant only really to us: it was ten years to the day since we saw our first tiny baby, lost at 11 weeks gestation. I appreciate that am one of the lucky ones whose story ends happily – we then quickly went on to have three more children (I feel very thankful for that timeframe, as there was a short period between our first and second pregnancies when I was a mad woman who saw babies whenever I went, like Ally McBeal but the babies were real and in buggies and not dancing). I also know I am fortunate in that I feel very happy to recall the events now, and so I feel compelled to share the story, as I was the beneficiary of so many stories at that time, which I found to be so encouraging and consoling. Miscarriage is commonplace but not commonly talked about (save perhaps, an annual show of candles on social media). But when we went through it ourselves, we unexpectedly found ourselves members of an exclusive secret club. Brave friends generously shared their experiences, and their words were so comforting to our wounded souls, like being covered by a warm weighted blanket. The stories flowed to us: of multiple miscarriages and of nearly giving up hope, of feelings of guilt over possible causes, of long awaited IVF twins then lost, of the quick roller coaster of a positive test followed by a very early loss, and on and on. I am thankful in particular to two ladies who came round that same afternoon and sat on the sofa and held my hand and told me their stories. The fact that one was in her 80s was irrelevant – I think there’s an understanding that unites women who’ve lost babies. There’s a funny, empty sort of grief that can come with a miscarriage (or, indeed, I guess, to any kind of infant loss – I can only speak to my experience). It’s not a grief that looks back on shared memories, but rather a grief that points forward to all the disappointed expectations of all the experiences that won’t happen. And yes, we didn’t mourn “without hope” – we believe in a new creation – but I think it’s fair to say we felt bereft. Everyone’s circumstances and story will be different, but for me, the thing that I fixated on was the feeling that because our loss was early, the baby which was so real to us was a non-entity to others. The hospital staff referred to it as “the evacuated products of conception”, a medical term which to me negated the personhood of the little lost life. We were sent home with a leaflet with a link to The Miscarriage Association (which does wonderful, sympathetic work, and I appreciate how their literature acknowledges and encompasses the different situations and emotions the parents might feel). But there was not even an official piece of paper to say that this child ever existed (24 weeks gestation is necessary for a death certificate). It was as if I had been in hospital to have a tooth removed, not a much wanted baby. And so I went through a process of marking or memorialising what had happened: the hospital chaplain wrote our names in a book, we had a stone engraved, we had a gathering in our garden, I treasured and kept each kind card with its faltering message as evidence that the loss and therefore the child was real. It is to the absolute credit of our church community that I have a whole bundle of well-meant cards to show for it. When one friend suggested she organised a meal rota for us, I protested, “Oh no – church just does that we’ve you had a baby.” she reassured me firmly, “You have had a baby.”, sent off an email, and brought round a casserole. Comfort came in some surprising places. At the time, I was doing a year’s education research project and emailed the tutor to apologise for falling behind and why; he replied that he was praying for us. At work, in the days that immediately followed, it was generally better to avoid talking about it in case I became tearful, but over lunch I told another teacher about that day, how we had seen our teeny tiny child with its ten little fingers and toes, and whilst it was so sad, it was also – I broke off, and he supplied for me: “It was still a gift from God.” That’s just what it was: a little gift from God. And whilst we only got to look after our gift for such a short time, it’s part of our story now. I’m thankful for that baby, and I’m thankful for the children we have now, and I’m of course aware that if life worked like that film “Sliding Doors” you could argue that we wouldn’t have these children if we hadn’t have lost our first. So how could I wish for our story to be any different? I also continue to be thankful for the times when I’m able to pay forward the sympathy that was shown to us, by being available to share our story with friends who have been through miscarriage. I don’t want to shy away from an opportunity to “comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted” especially after people were so kind to us. My mum once told me of a mother of nine who said that not a day went by when she didn’t think about the two children she lost in pregnancy. I’m not like that – there’s certainly no raw grief ten years on, just nostalgia. I am ready to share in solidarity with people who are going through their own journeys. So I’m all for Meghan Markle and for the writers who dreamt up the opening of “Up” and story of “Marley and Me”, for highlighting people’s stories of miscarriage. Because for me, sharing stories is one of the kindest things we can do.
My talented husband wrote this piece of music about the baby - do take a listen.
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