I recently posed the question on Facebook : does it help to read about people’s negative experiences or is it just more shit to be miserable about in these already gloomy times. The response was that sharing is important and that if your words can help one other person then it’s worth it.
As a person who shares a lot on social media as a way of staying in touch with distant friends and family, I always try to keep the sharing positive, I enjoy social media as a place to read funnies, read about what my friends are up to or what music they are listening to, see photos of their lives wherever they are in the world. It makes me happy . So when something bad happens, I’m not comfortable sharing it because I don’t want to be the unhappy story spoiling anyone’s news feed.
A year ago this week I discovered I was pregnant. My response was to drink a bottle of red wine.
I was terrified. And I didn’t want to share the news.
If I did people would be excited and expect me to be too. But the truth was, I wasn’t happy, I couldn’t allow myself to be happy.
You see almost 3 months to the day previously, I’d had a miscarriage . And when I found out I was pregnant again, all I could think of was that I was going to have another miscarriage. And that feeling, that fear, stayed with me through the following 41 weeks. I had weekly scans for the first 3 months, and every time I waited for them to say it was over again. Every single day of my pregnancy I expected the sight of blood, or a sudden stillness inside. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I couldn’t allow myself to feel any kind of joy about being pregnant, it was self preservation.
Anyone who has had a miscarriage will know the damage it does to you, for people who have had several I salute their bravery, and faith to keep trying. And if you are blessed enough not to have had such an experience, take it from me: those who continually miscarry are possibly the strongest people you will ever meet. Because to experience that loss even once and try again, takes guts. The memories of the morning I lost my first baby are as fresh today as they were the day after it happened, and I even though I now have a baby, I know I will never get over that experience.
Just one day shy of being 12 weeks pregnant I woke up at 4am and I was bleeding heavily. I began to cry, I didn’t know what to do. So I called an ambulance that took an hour to get to me, and they took me and my husband, Neil to Kings Hospital. I arrived at 6am. By 11am I was being taken into surgery because my blood pressure was dangerously low. But by then it was all over anyway, the Doctor had confirmed that the baby was definitely gone, even though I’d spent 7 hours bleeding so much I was sure I’d die, there was still that question from both me and Neil : ‘Is there no hope?’ Seems ridiculous, but even at that point you still can’t believe your baby is really gone. So they took me to surgery and cleared away what was left while I slept. When I woke up I felt empty.
I realised very quickly afterwards that I didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t want to share the news on social media, I didn’t want to share my experience with anyone, it was as though there was no actual way to talk about it without it feeling like an overshare. As though it was unacceptable to share my grief. I endlessly shared my grief when my beloved cat died, but this was not suitable for sharing somehow. The only person who I felt could understand was my husband, I knew he felt the loss as strongly as I did.
I cried all the time, I couldn’t bear to look at babies, at work I’d hide if a colleague brought in their baby, I spent my time on Facebook scrolling past my friends happy photos of their babies wondering why the hell people had to share so many bloody photos of their children. I had dreams every night that my baby had lived and I was heavily pregnant, or actually holding my child, and I’d wake up crying. In the end after 3 months after talking to my husband and my best friends I agreed to seek help, find a support group and find a way to move on and stop crying. I never did, because the week I agreed to do it, I found out I was pregnant.
The truth is I understand why so many women don’t talk about their experience of miscarriage. It’s because it’s just too painful, like bringing it up is the same as reopening a wound, feeling that loss, the dreadful emptiness inside where something else once was. Even now, a year and 3 months after, I still cry if I think about it.
And it’s not just women, the loss of a child is terrible for fathers too. It may not be physical, but the emotional damage is just as difficult.
But now I have a child and I am the annoying Facebook friend who shares too many photos of her baby, and I do it because I’m so grateful she is here; that the pregnancy is over and I didn’t have another miscarriage. That she lived.
So I wonder how many othe parents overshare for that same reason, almost as daily proof, a reminder that it worked out this time. In the same way selfie’s are said to be the result some deeply psychological need to prove we are here that we exist, could the baby spam be the need to show that we succeeded in creating a life?
It also makes me aware that there will be some people who will scroll past or even unfollow me for that same reason that I swore under my breath at all the baby photos after my miscarriage. That they too are struggling to get over a loss and my constant barrage of baby photos is just too much.
There’s no way of knowing who we hurt or help with our actions; by sharing baby photos, or by asking the the question ‘do you think you will have children?’in innocent conversation, are we accidentally reopening a wound for someone else? Or even when a person is pregnant, how hard it can be to answer the question ‘ are you excited?’ and all you want to say is : ‘ No I’m miserable and terrified.’
Either way, I’m finally sharing my loss, saying what I should have done back then, releasing my demons. It might be a year late, but I got there, after a dozen deleted attempts at this blog, I’ve done it. It shouldn’t be so hard to share, but it is. I know I felt unable to, that it was just too much information, but I’ve read a few blogs of people who have and it made me feel less alone.
It’s ok to grieve that loss, to struggle with any pregnancy that follows, to lie and say you are happy when really you wake up scared every day of that pregnancy. What matters is that you were brave and strong and you had faith that it might work out one day. It’s also ok to say no more. To not want to try again. We all have limits, and we decide how much we can take of loss. Whatever you decide, be honest and talk about it, you never know who you might help.
The Miscarriage Association
NHS
‘Men need more support to deal with the tragedy of miscarriage’ – Article
Men and Miscarriage
Anne-Marie Ormsby 