But I didn't post it. I've thought about writing something similar for a while, about how my miscarriages deepened and enriched my commitment to reproductive justice, and this felt like the right forum: less about me; contributing to a cause. Yet it still doesn't feel right to add my name, to "come out." I wonder if that's because my mother, from whom I'm estranged right now, hasn't heard from me about the miscarriages. Or because there are ex-close friends I haven't told, because they weren't as supportive as I needed when I was going through the estrangement from my mother right before the miscarriages. Or maybe it's because of work. I don't want my uterus to get more notoriety than my work. Or maybe it's because my grief is personal to me. Sharing it is a gift I don't want to bestow widely. And it's still raw, it still hurts. I would feel bad to share this and get a dismissive response from someone, or worse, no response. People often don't know what to say about pregnancy loss. In fact, most well-meaning people have said things that, well, no one who'd been through the loss of a wanted pregnancy would say. It's been rare that I get genuine empathy, naked empathy. Especially as the months wear on, if empathy appears at all it's accessorized by, "You'll have one," "come in, it'll work out," "I know someone who had a million miscarriages and then she had a baby/two unplanned babies/IVF/adopted/gave up trying and is actually really happy now" or "are you still trying?" "Are you having sex?" Or "I thought you were done trying" or "I wish you didn't have to memorialize it." All of these I've heard from people very close to me. Including, "I had coffee my whole pregnancy and I was fine," from multiple people if I dare express that I miss having coffee and it's hard for me to give it up, only to have me retort, "well I have proved incapable of sustaining a healthy pregnancy!" I've also been told how I should be taking progesterone by someone who took it for PCOS, despite the fact that I do not have PCOS, and I'm taking it according to a specialist doctors instructions. You know what I don't get?
Last year, I had two miscarriages in a row. My spouse and I were ready and enthusiastic to become parents, and I learned what it feels like to love the potential of a child from the moment I knew I was pregnant. And yet, I felt that way because I wanted those pregnancies. Suffering the surprisingly intense and even life-threatening physical complications of pregnancy and miscarriage opened my eyes even wider to how utterly wrong and unjust it is to force a woman to continue with a pregnancy she doesn't want, and to deny sex education and contraception to women who could unwittingly be going through the same frightening health complications I suffered. My miscarriages taught me to reclaim the word "miracle" from the anti-choice movement. The process of pregnancy and birth truly is miraculous and awe-inspiring, and unpredictable and intense and wondrous, and that is precisely why every woman should have the health care she needs to only experience it when she chooses to. Choice gives this process the honor it deserves.
- I'm so sorry.
- It makes sense this would still be really hard.
- I feel so sad for the two of you.
- It's definitely unfair what you've gone through.
- I wish there was something I could do to help, but I know I can't.
- People don't understand how to respond to miscarriage a lot of the time.
- I realize now how painful it is watching you suffer this.
- Take your time to grieve.
- This is a big loss.
- I am hopeful for you. I understand if it's too hard for you to be hopeful right now; I'll hold on to that hope for you.
- Maybe I can help you find ways to ritualize or honor your grief.
- Do you want to tell me again about what you went through? It's good to process such a traumatic experience if you ever feel the need. I'm here to listen.
- Remember what the doctor said: "do the things you enjoy." Maybe we can do something you enjoy together.
I feel so sad today. Maybe it's hot, and I'm tired, or maybe I'm lonely. I miss my mom--and by that I mostly mean I miss not having ever had a mom who would ever say those things to me. How I wished I would have a baby to love that unconditionally, to love and protect and support and comfort the way I never experienced myself. Yet I can't even have that. Not yet anyway. And it's not even on the horizon. I had a therapist last year who took the miscarriages seriously, but then when our relationship deteriorated shortly after the second miscarriage, she blamed me for "causing my own suffering" and she forgot that this shocking double loss had just happened, like I was supposed to be over it, and like I had to be healthy to be in treatment. I ditched her for a better counselor, well it seems better so far. At least this one recommended the pregnancy loss group, really validating my grief, and focusing on concrete ways to work through it.
But I still wonder, what did I do wrong to not deserve this joy? What did I do wrong to have lost so many people who could have been supportive, but weren't? I know I did nothing wrong, but the undeserving belief is still there. Several women in the support group said EMDR helped them through their pregnancy losses; it's a therapy that works on beliefs that get stuck like that in relation to traumatic events. I'm starting that process now. We started with "I am worthless." I know where that came from originally, and I know that the miscarriages just confirmed it. I know a child wouldn't suddenly heal all my wounds or fix all my old bad beliefs or make up for all my losses. But the joy and fulfillment and hope of a child, the love I would feel for it, would be succor along my own continuing journey. To feel, believe, that I am worthy. I know that's my deal no matter what, to work on that, and I know that losing two deeply wanted pregnancies in such complicated, drawn out, and painful ways sure as hell didn't help.
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