Dear Carla and sisterhood,
I read your story and cried. I too belong to the invisible and silent sister hood of suffering. I agree that NO ONE talks about the possiblility of miscarrying until after it happens. It was over 10 years ago but it seems like yesterday. But for me, I had had a beautiful baby girl exactly when I wanted her. Then within a year I was pregnant again and lost the baby cruelly at 5 months of pregnancy. I will never forget the imagine of my dead baby. She was so beautiful. Then the doctor said, it was unexplainable and that there was no reason not to try again. After another year I tried again and got pregnant. After the first doctors visit all was well. She said to come back 3 weeks later. At that time we did an ultrasound and I knew when I looked at the screen that there was no heartbeat any more.It was 3 months this time. I will never forget the look on my doctor's face and how hard it was for her to tell me what I already knew. I told her- This is the last time you will see me pregnant and it was. No one could ever explain why a healthy young woman could have miscarriages. Only after this happened did I realize how expansive our sisterhood of suffering really was. I agree that it is NOT talked about at the doctor's office or in magazines etc. It is something that unfortunately you find about about the hard way.
I also do not understand comments (like my mohter's) that God does things for a reason, it is God's will etc... How could God want me to suffer like this? Why?
Then I always have to answer the question - when are you going to give your daughter a sibling? Or how come you only had one? People can be so insensitive if they don't understand.
Thank you very much for having the courage and strength to write your article. I see by the other comments that we are not alone and we all understand each other. After all these years, I am still crying as I write these words......
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A Sisterhood of Suffering
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At the spa that next week, waiting for much-needed pampering, I started talking to the pregnant women who seemed to surround me. I mentioned needing a facial due to dropping hormones, and all of them started speaking up. Seven of the women in that room had had a miscarriage in the recent past. I was surrounded by understanding strangers. I learned what no one tells you until devastation has set in: up to 25 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. It made me feel better, but it also made me need to talk.
I got on the phone and told all my friends. I got a lot of pity. Some people were uncomfortable; many of my friends who had recently become mothers seemed smug, but I talked anyway. I wasn't seeking their help; I just wanted to put the word out. Hell, I wanted to write it on my forehead.
Two months later, my phone rang. It was an old friend I rarely talk to. She is a private person, seldom sharing her personal woes. I picked up the phone, and she attempted a few sentences. By fragment number three, I knew. I talked to her. I cried with her. I told her how long the crying would last, and then everything else that follows. Her crying slowed, and helping her helped me.
People keep too mum about private tragedies such as this. True, miscarriages are not catastrophic, especially in terms of sheer commonality, but it can tear away a piece of you that you didn't know was there. We need to talk to each other rather than suffer, surrounded by silent sisters. Sure, there are chat rooms for support, and the doctors will always offer the facts in a flowery condolence pamphlet, but we need to know about the other wounded.
Now my husband and I are ready to become parents. Readiness works better for me, and we are keeping the plan casual. At least now I know that it doesn't always work, and that's OK. I have people to talk to about it.
Drew lives in Warrenton, Va.
© 2008
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