A Common Grief – giving voice to miscarriage
Posted on
Over the past few days, the entertainment headlines have been abuzz with Gwyneth Paltrow’s revelation that she nearly died miscarrying her third child.
The timing of the admission (she has just released a new cookbook) has been met with cynicism by many journalists. Even my favourite source of intelligent gossip, Lainey Gossip, has been damning in her assessment of the situation. She says:
“…am I the only [one] who’s choking back the As IF over the timing of it all? Here’s Gwyneth who prioritises privacy. Here’s Gwyneth selling a new book. Here’s Gwyneth sharing private details about a very personal tragedy to a British tabloid (I don’t care if they try to class it for the Mail On Sunday — it’s still the DAILY MAIL). And you’re telling me it’s a coincidence and not a conspiracy? Please. What it is is…Gross. And worse, for her at least… Super common. Like Kardashian common.”
I don’t agree with Lainey on this one. I think Gwyneth has set a precedent for being open and honest about the difficulties of motherhood…like when she admitted last year that she’d suffered from postnatal depression. Call me naive if you will, but I think she genuinely believes talking about these issues will help normalise them…and help people understand it’s ok to tell people about them. They don’t have to be secret.
I miscarried my first pregnancy at eight weeks…I remember excitedly telling so many people (as you tend to do with your first pregnancy, not yet knowing how fragile and fleeting it can all be) and then having to explain it was all over not too long afterwards.
At the time, I felt really alone and felt like it was expected I should speak about it in whispers…and it’s not until you actually confide in someone that you realise how many of us have suffered miscarriages. We just don’t talk about it…and we should.
Last year, HerCanberra’s Heidi Silberman contributed to the anthology The Sound of Silence – 22 women’s stories of miscarriage, edited by Canberra’s Irma Gold. I thought it was timely to revisit her powerful piece. Read it below.
I shifted uncomfortably on sticky vinyl in a waiting room crowded with germs. A man coughed noisily behind a magazine, mothers wiped snotty faces and someone in the corner had a distinctly green tinge.
I wasn’t sick in fact I felt healthier than I had for weeks. That was part of the problem. That and the bleeding.
The doctor called me in.
‘I’m twelve weeks pregnant and last night I started bleeding.’ I said, tears behind my eyes.
He clasped his hands. ‘Bleeding doesn’t mean you’re miscarrying.’
That’s hopeful. I thought, relaxing a little.
‘If it is a miscarriage though, it’s just nature’s way of saying it’s a non-viable pregnancy. There’s nothing you can do about it, you just go with the flow.’ He said, hands waving.
‘Go with the flow?’ I’m bleeding, my baby could be dead and you’re telling me to ‘go with the flow’?
‘If you were working I’d tell you to take the day off and put your feet up.’
But as I’m a stay-at-home-mum I can spend it chasing two toddlers.
With an estimated one in three pregnancies ending in miscarriage it’s no wonder some medicos are blasé, but for the parents concerned it’s not an everyday occurrence. Some can ‘go with the flow’ and some cannot.
I woke the next day to a dull ache in my abdomen and lower back. Waving goodbye to the kids and my mum I said ‘I’ll be back soon.’ Declaring in this small way that everything would be OK.
My GP (a different one, complete with sympathetic bedside manner) thought otherwise, sending me to hospital where in another reckless display of hope I parked in a two hour spot.
On the ante-natal ward process took over. A midwife did some obs, the registrar repeated them. They performed an internal examination. ‘This will feel just like a pap smear.’ It didn’t. They took blood to check my hormone levels. ‘The results should come back in under an hour.’ They didn’t.
I rang my husband Dave, then returned to the ward to wait.
‘Is hubby coming?’ a midwife asked.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give me his number.’
I didn’t want him to come. If he didn’t have to everything would be fine. If he did it meant bad news. But all this time the ache was turning to pain.
Dave arrived, we talked about the baby, cars, work. Then suddenly the pain became too much. He rubbed my head and held my hand while I sobbed and groaned. I hadn’t known how physically painful a miscarriage can be. It hurt like labour.
They gave me Panadeine Forte. I was scared I would fall asleep, my baby would disappear and I would wake up empty but I took it for the pain. It hit me hard. I tried to think, to focus on something, anything.
The midwife came in.
‘The doctor will be here to talk about the blood test results.’
I wish they wouldn’t say things like that. It was another forty minutes of drugged anticipation before she came.
‘You’ll go and have an ultrasound.’
I wondered if I had slept after all missing half a conversation. Four and a half hours waiting for blood results and she was talking about an ultrasound? I forced my eyes open, interrupting her in my slurred voice.
‘What about the blood test?’
She told us a number – nine-hundred-and-something. ‘It’s low for 12 weeks.’
‘So it’s not looking good?’
‘No, it’s not looking good.’
I hoped to see my baby on the screen – a perfect little person like in the pregnancy books. But it wasn’t perfect. It had died weeks earlier, before I even knew I was pregnant.
The bleeding increased as suddenly the pain stopped. My body expelled something. No baby, just a small browny purpley spotty sack, leaving an emptiness like nothing I had ever known.
The next morning three doctors stood at the end of my bed. I had showered and breakfasted, but was under the blanket again, grieving. The senior registrar spoke.
‘So what happened after the ultrasound yesterday?’
Read my notes I wanted to say.
Ask your registrar I wanted to say.
If you can’t work it out I’m not going to tell you I wanted to say. Surely I didn’t have to say it out loud? But I did.
They sent me for another ultrasound to see what was left. A doctor came in.
‘So what happened after yesterday’s ultrasound?’
How was it that so many doctors with years of university training still couldn’t read? Surely this information was in my notes. Surely he knew. Why did I have to say it again?
A trip to pathology followed. I mentioned to the young woman that I had just had an ultrasound.
‘That’s weird they’re testing the level of pregnancy hormone. Ultrasound shows more clearly than a blood test how far along you are.’
‘I’ve had a miscarriage.’ I was getting used to saying it now.
She rubbed my arm with alcohol. ‘Oh. I’ve got a friend who’s just had a miscarriage. She’s shattered – she’s just not coping.’ She shook her head, shrugged her shoulders and put the needle in my arm.
She didn’t understand. I could have enlightened her. I could have screamed ‘Of course she isn’t coping – her baby has died, how does anyone ‘cope’ with that? I may look like I’m coping, but yesterday I was pregnant and today I’m not.’
But I didn’t. I was becoming accustomed to insensitive medicos who didn’t know any better.
And yet I appreciated the wonderful sensitivity of others. Midwives who listened to me, who gave me paper and pen at 4am, who called my husband, who were there to catch the remains of my baby.
The sonographer, gentle and sorrowful. The social worker who listened and gave helpful information. My friend, working at the hospital who gave me hope by saying ‘If I hadn’t had my miscarriage I wouldn’t have my Tom.’
They ran tests on the embryo and I rang a few weeks later for the results. The woman came back to the phone.
‘You there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Blighted ovum.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Blighted ovum.’
‘Oh. Right.’
Looking up the term, I learnt that the fertilised egg had failed to develop. There are multiple ways to pass on information, and to some people stark medical jargon unencumbered by kindness, sympathy or even a complete sentence is the way to go.
But what if everyone dealing with a woman experiencing miscarriage understood that this day will be burned in her consciousness forever? That they have an opportunity to make it a little easier for her? That all it takes is thirty seconds to glance at her notes or explain a procedure, and no time at all to acknowledge her grief? They can’t save her baby, but perhaps they can help create softer memories.
Have you had a miscarriage? What’s your story?
NB: You don’t need to use your real name to comment, if you’d rather do so anonymously…
Anon says:
Melinda Small. says:
Margaret Whitley says:
Mel says:
Stephanie Burgess says:
Sonja says:
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.