Hildee Weiss1
(1)
2401 Blossom Lane, Beachwood, OH 44122, USA
Hildee Weiss
Email: gweiss@roadrunner.com
Keywords
MiscarriageGrieving parentSupport
As a three-time survivor of pregnancy loss , I know all too well the pain and heartbreak that come with losing a much-wanted pregnancy. I say “survivor,” because pregnancy loss is indeed a loss that is not only experienced in the present state but is a loss that has to be overcome and a loss that has a past, a present, and a future. It is a loss that is all too real and a loss that knows no bounds when it comes to race, religion, and social group. It is a loss that I have personally experienced and known three times within the course of a 5-year period. For better or for worse, I call myself a survivor.
Nothing prepared me for the blow that hit me each and every time I was told that my pregnancy was lost. Nothing prepared me for the aftermath of my loss, when I was expected to move onward and upward. And nothing prepared me for the silence that was so deafening, when I so desperately needed to be heard and at the same time hear from others.
I was 25 when I became pregnant for the first time. I had been married for four and a half years and my husband and I were eager and excited about becoming parents. While I didn’t “feel” pregnant and I had been spared the horrors of morning sickness, I embraced this special time in my life. I had always loved children—babies, especially—and I couldn’t wait to have a child of my own. I bought maternity clothes in my 10th week, keeping the price tags on and I looked forward to wearing them once we officially announced my pregnancy. Both my parents and my husband’s parents knew of my pregnancy and they shared in our excitement. We kept the news quiet from our siblings and friends for the first trimester but we knew that they would be delighted with our news. My husband and I talked about names but didn’t pick anything out of superstition. I just needed to get through the 12-week visit with my doctor, knowing everything was fine with our baby, and then we could go public and start our planning. It was just a matter of days until we could reveal our news and we couldn’t have been more overjoyed.
I had known a few close friends who had suffered a first-trimester miscarriage , so going into my 12-week visit with my ob/gyn, I shared my nervousness about seeing my baby’s heartbeat for the first time. I was sure everything was fine and I would see the fluttering and beating heart but until I saw it for myself I was anxious. My doctor examined me and checked the heartbeat but there seemed to be some kind of problem that I didn’t understand with the equipment. I was told to go to the radiologist next door, all the while unaware that anything was wrong. (In my mind, I was going to the radiologist for an ultrasound with a “better view.”) As it turned out, the office was closing and I was told to return first thing in the morning with my husband. I never suspected anything was amiss. In my mind, it was simply a matter of waiting a few hours until we would know that everything was fine and we could finally share our excitement with our extended family and friends.
We went back the next morning, as eager and excited as the previous day, if not more so. The radiologist performed the ultrasound and delivered the blow that broke my heart in half. “Your fetus isn’t viable.” Huh? I thought. The radiologist added, “There is no heartbeat. Your baby is dead.”
Not viable. No heartbeat. Dead. Everything was a blur after hearing those cold and cruel words; yet I remember that day from more than 20 years ago as the day that I was forever changed. I had a D & C that afternoon and was un-pregnant once again.
I can look back at that time and say that my husband and I got through our loss but it came with so much heartache. Losing my first pregnancy didn’t just mean losing the baby I was carrying. It meant losing someone I would never meet; someone who was a part of something my husband and I created together and someone I would never know. It meant losing my innocence as that day etched as March 1, 1994, meant I was hardened by my pain yet broken by my grief.
The hospital stay was somewhat of an out-of-body experience, in that I was there experiencing everything physically and emotionally and yet I was raw and not yet feeling the grief that would soon overwhelm me in the coming days, weeks, and months. It was as if I was standing in the corner of my hospital room and in the operating room, observing it all but not feeling it sink in. I was a bystander and a witness to all that was happening around me and yet there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop or go back in time.
The sinking-in part is what I can recall most of all and to this day what I recall with the most pain. There was so much I needed and there was so little I received. Life went on even though I felt I couldn’t. I left the hospital empty-handed. I was no longer pregnant and I had nowhere to turn, other than going back to my home and resuming my life once again. There was a follow-up appointment scheduled with my doctor to make sure that everything was back to “normal” physically. There was no follow-up appointment with anyone at all to make sure that everything was back to “normal” emotionally.
I had questions for my doctor; yet I was told that the miscarriage was “one of those things and probably wouldn’t happen again.” (It did happen again and a few years after, a third time. And because I had healthy, living children that came in between the losses, nothing was ever questioned or addressed regarding the cause or reason for my losses .)
I needed answers from my doctor and I didn’t get them. I needed to know why I lost my baby and I needed to know what to do so that it didn’t happen again. I needed words of support from her on that terrible day when she eventually confirmed the radiologist’s diagnosis and told me that I would have to have a D & C. I understand that she sees this happen on a regular basis as the statistics in 1994 claimed that 1 out of 4 pregnancies ends in a loss. I recognize that it is a part of her job and yet this happened to ME and it affected ME. I needed her to offer me a hug or some words of comfort during my hospital stay and I needed her reassurance in the aftermath. I understand that she is a doctor and I am a patient but for just a few moments I needed her to reach out to me, woman to woman. I needed to know that yes, this hurts and it will continue to hurt but it is a hurt that is to be expected and it is a hurt that will eventually lessen with time.
I needed some direction to deal with my grief; unfortunately, I was given very little. While I was given home-going instructions to deal with the physical recovery of my miscarriage , I was given nothing to prepare me emotionally for the aftermath of my loss. I was told nothing about support groups at the local hospital where I had my surgery nor did I hear about anything offered at the two other nearby hospitals. I wasn’t told about any pregnancy loss websites that existed and to be honest I didn’t think to look for resources online that could offer me names of books to read for answers. I think what I wanted most was to hear from others who had been through a miscarriage and tell me that what I was experiencing—the guilt, the anger, the sadness , the questioning of my faith, the isolation—was normal and to be expected.
I didn’t have many people to talk to and identify with my grief. My friends and family members were hearing about my miscarriage at the same time they were learning I had been pregnant. They all said, “I’m sorry” and that offered me consolation. What I was also hearing (and this was something that would be said over and over again) was “I’m so glad to hear you were pregnant.” The first time someone said that to me, I didn’t think much of it but then after hearing it a second time, a third time and so many times after that, I got angrier and angrier. I felt the same way when people told me that it was better to miscarry now than to lose the baby later. I know everyone meant well but the words were more harmful than helpful. Why was the news of my miscarriage a good thing? And what difference does it make if I lost my baby at 12 weeks instead of 24 weeks?
The friends who had suffered miscarriages in the past had gone on to have healthy babies and I didn’t feel right approaching them with questions. My siblings had, thankfully, never experienced a pregnancy loss and so I couldn’t expect them to understand what I was going through. My husband’s brother and his wife did go through a miscarriage but I didn’t feel comfortable talking to them and bringing up what I knew to be a painful time in their lives. I was hesitant to talk to my mother and mother-in-law as they had been so excited about my pregnancy and then so devastated when I miscarried. I had an aunt, with whom I had always been close, who confided in me about her own miscarriage. It was only with her and with my husband that I felt I didn’t have to grieve in silence. They listened to me, they wiped my tears, and they truly understood my pain.
I went on to have two additional pregnancy losses and I have been blessed with five beautiful, healthy children. The second time I miscarried, I had been eight and a half weeks along and I had two very young children. When I suffered my third loss, I had been almost 6 weeks along and I was a mother to three children. While each loss occurred earlier on in the pregnancy than my first miscarriage and I did have living children to offer me a ray of comfort, I was nonetheless devastated. I heard the words, “at least you have other children” and “this was probably too much for you, what with two small kids to run after.” A part of me just took it and didn’t respond, as I know that as with my first miscarriage , people meant well and they were merely trying to offer me comforting words. The other part of me wanted to scream that “yes, I do have a toddler and an infant AND I was looking forward to having this next baby.” The loss is no easier with living children. There is no “easy” about pregnancy loss.
On the anniversary of what would have been my due dates, I spend a lot of time thinking about that baby I never birthed and the child I never had the chance to nurture and know. September is particularly a difficult month for me as I remember two of my “angels” within less than 2 weeks. I cry a bit, I ponder over the what-ifs, and I remember all too well those fateful days in 1994, 1997, and 1999, when I was told that those pregnancies had come to an end.
I have moved forward with my life and I am now in a place where I can look at my losses as life experiences that have shaped me and changed me in so many ways. I will never “get over” what I’ve lost. I am able to write about my losses, I can speak about my losses, and I can be a voice of experience to other grieving parents facing pregnancy loss . I don’t pretend to be an expert but I do have the personal experience and I want others to know that they do not have to suffer in silence. I can listen, I can share my experience, and I can validate the loss. That is really all we grieving parents want.
I use the term “we” as I will forever include myself in the ties that bind me with bereaved parents worldwide. It is a “club” I never imagined I would join; yet it is a club that has enriched my life through the friendships I have made with other men and women facing pregnancy loss. There is no turning back the clock on what I experienced and I can only hope that I can offer that voice of experience and be their advocate. There are so many things we need and want when we learn that our pregnancies have been lost and I humbly make the following recommendations and suggestions.
First, I would encourage all doctors, midwives, and obstetrical nurses to have some training in dealing with pregnancy loss, whether it is an early trimester loss, miscarriage , or stillbirth. There should be courses in nursing/medical schools and in the medical residencies for diagnosing and treating pregnancy loss. Bereaved parents need doctors, midwives, and nurses who can offer empathy, support, and comfort in those moments of diagnosing, treating, and recovering from a pregnancy loss of any kind. When a medical assistant comes to the room to check the patient’s vitals, he/she should offer a simple “I’m sorry for your loss.” When the doctor or midwife confirms the diagnosis of a pregnancy loss , he/she should offer words of consolation, avoid any blame, assuage any guilt, and, to put it simply, be there. We know that the practitioner’s time is limited and there are other patients waiting in the next examination room but we need your consideration, your attention, and your understanding that WE matter. The blow of a pregnancy loss is heartbreaking as it is; recognize this and show us that you understand and you will be there for us over the coming days and weeks. Call your patient the day after surgery and ask her how she is coping and LISTEN. Ask her how her husband or partner is coping. Let her know that you are there for her if she has questions or concerns.
We need to hear that we are not alone and we don’t need to grieve in silence and isolation. We need to know that there are support groups in our community and there are books and counselors to offer us for resources. Every obstetrician and midwifery office should have lists readily available. I would even go so far as to suggest that there be something of a support system setup in which patients who have previously experienced pregnancy loss offer to be something of a support system to a new grieving parent. I hesitate to offer the word “sponsor” but in essence that is exactly what I needed at my times of loss.
I would strongly recommend that when a woman is admitted to the hospital with a miscarriage or stillbirth, she is situated as far away from the neonatal ward as possible. She is coming to say goodbye to a pregnancy and the one thing she does not need to hear is the sound of a newborn baby’s cry. I experienced this personally when I was admitted for a D & C and the sounds of a crying baby still ring in my ears more than 20 years later.
A pregnancy loss packet would be most helpful for a grieving mother to take home. This could include information about local pregnancy loss support groups, a book, and a business card for a social worker or counselor who specializes in pregnancy loss. There are so many wonderful resources that are available and they need to be offered from the onset.
From our family members, friends, clergy, and co-workers, we need you to validate our losses. We do not want you to turn the other way when you see us coming. We do not want you to feel awkward and feel that you cannot acknowledge our loss. We do not need to have our losses trivialized or minimized. Whether we were five days pregnant, 5 weeks pregnant, or 5 months pregnant, we were looking forward to becoming parents. Whether this was a first pregnancy or a tenth pregnancy, we were excited about giving birth and holding our babies. Please do not say “it’s for the best” or “God had another plan” or “You will have another one.” Losing a much-wanted pregnancy is not for the best and there is no guarantee that there will be another pregnancy. Please do not say “I can’t imagine what you’re going through” because we hear it as “this could never happen to me.” The one and only thing you should say is “I’m so sorry for your loss and I am here for you.” Leave it at that. And when we come to you and we want to talk and share our grief, be there for us. Listen to us and let us cry and vent and say whatever we need to say and be there for us. You don’t have to offer words … just listen and be there for us. Do not tell it’s time to move on and urge us to “get over it.” Pregnancy loss is not something that one gets over. We will move on but it will be on our time watch and not on anyone else’s watch.