Seven years ago I lost my baby. Though others didn’t call it that. It was called a ‘missed miscarriage’, a foetus, a zygote and ‘it’ – but never a ‘baby’. Never a word that reflected what by unborn child ever really meant to me. I found out there was no heartbeat just before I was due to have my first scan.
For me, this baby was everything. I had a lovely home and a wonderful husband; my baby was the missing piece of the puzzle. When I started bleeding, I Googled every possible normal cause there could be – anything that could be an alternative to miscarriage because I couldn’t bear to think that this story ended in any other way than my child coming into this world in six months’ time.
I’d already imagined their features and pictured what our new life would look like. My husband and I would talk to the ‘bump’ about our family members, our lives and sing to them. I’d imagined scenes of us taking a stroll in the park, feeding them, stroking them to sleep gazing at their innocence and angelic beauty. I’d thought about their room, possible names and how loved they’d be by our family.
When it all fell apart, the way I was treated was anything but emotional or with care – a complete juxtaposition. I was processed by the hospital; just another ERCP and sent home as they worked through their list of patients in the same boat. What was for me such excruciating trauma emotionally and physically, I guess for the medical staff was as commonplace as the removal of a tooth by a dentist.
I remember feeling so desperate and alone and searching on the Internet for answers. All I came across were forums where mums were asking the same questions that I was thinking, why did this happen? Was it something I ate? Did I not take care of myself properly and thus put my unborn baby’s life in jeopardy? I just wanted to know why.
I turned to my culture. I was told by some relatives that losing this baby was actually a blessing. That according to karma (paying off the debt of your past actions) and reincarnation, conception was all the baby needed in order to achieve their ultimate realisation and merging with God. This concept was so ethereal and difficult to grasp from my limited human mind but strangely, it did provide some comfort. But not the practical answers and reasons I was looking for. What I learned much later was that there wasn’t a single definitive reason for this happening which I could hang my rationale on and point to as something I would never ‘do’ again.
I was looking for a cause; something I could blame. Then I could demonise it and cast it out of my life forever.
The logical mind looks for reasons I suppose. But what I really needed at that time was the ability to walk and talk through what I was going through with people around me.
Starvation of conversation
But people were afraid of asking me how I was and I was afraid to bring it up directly in case it made them feel uncomfortable. So here we all were circling the subject, each pretending that we were achieving Oscar winning performances wearing the ‘look’ we thought most appropriate for the occasion when the reality was a palpably awkward environment with everyone itching for an exit stage left.
So what were we all afraid of? Were people afraid that if they talked to me about it I would cry? Did they think that I was on my way to forgetting about it all and perhaps talking about it would set me off again? The irony is that the longer I didn’t talk about it the harder it was to deal with. I would’ve really appreciated those around me asking me “so how are you feeling today?” Or “how are you coping with your loss?” This would have at least told me that they were open to hearing about my feelings.
Now I realise that this is about way more than talking about miscarriage.
The problem with asking someone “how are you?” is that you never really know whether they’re asking out of politeness or whether they are genuinely enquiring about how you are coping emotionally with life.
You just don’t know how much of your feelings or experiences to offer up in response when you’re asked this question.
I’ve learnt so much from this experience. I’ve learnt to ask people specifically how they are in relation to whatever is going on in their life. I want to be the best mother, sister, friend and wife I can be and I realise that this means being open emotionally and also being prepared to share my own experiences so that others can identify with me.
That’s one of the reasons I’m talking about this today. It’s crucial to acknowledge that it’s not only helpful to talk about emotionally destabilising experiences but that any trauma requires a healing process and internal reconciliation – not just burying it within, which like graves in a cemetery eventually crack through the earth’s surface and manifest again waiting to be dealt with.
I remember from my childhood the days when something happened and my parents would make a phone call using the old dial telephone to offer support (you know, the one which if you got a digit wrong you’d have to start the whole dialling experience again) and then if practical, they’d turn up at that person’s house. They didn’t have a lot to offer, certainly not showing up with gifts, chocolates, flowers or any other token item. It was just them. People. They’d show up as a sign of solidarity and whether they said it explicitly or not they were telling people that they were there for them.
Sometimes I feel like we’re living in a parallel universe. How can it be that in a world where you can speak to someone through video phone on the other side of the world in a fraction of a second with complete digital clarity, we’re actually more emotionally isolated from one another than we’ve ever been?
The digital age has made it all too easy in times of suffering for us to just send a vanilla message – “sorry to hear your mum’s died, I’m here for you if you need me” – leaving the onus on the vulnerable suffering to reach out to seek support. Did we really mean that message of support or did we feel that it was something we ought to do to relieve our conscience of a societally imposed obligation? It’s uncomfortable thinking, hey? Hell, I’m no angel, I’ve been guilty of it too.
But reflecting on this has led me to commit to myself that where I can, I’ll make the special effort to make that phone call or to drop by. No chocolate; no flowers; just me. Being present – showing up. On the days when the only time I come up for air from a frantic day is before 5am or post 10pm (generally accepted as times one oughtn’t ring people) I’ll leave a recorded message on WhatsApp. A meaningful dedication with depth expressing what I need to and offering a practical hand of support (N.B. I’m good at popping over with a macaroni cheese).
It’s my small commitment to making this life as rich and deep with meaningful relationships as I possibly can.
I’d encourage you to reflect on whether your relationships are as nurtured as you’d like. And anyway, you don’t need to listen to me, I’m just some random person spilling out my thoughts and feelings onto the page and hoping you’re not throwing tomatoes at your screen. But various spiritual texts talk about sharing love, speakers qualified to talk about relationships like Jay Shetty, Brenee Brown, Marisa Peer, even Oprah talk about investing in your relationships, listening to hear; not to respond, and being your authentic self.
They must be on to something… surely?