It’s Not About You: Family, Friends and Miscarriage

When I was 18 weeks pregnant with Big H I got some big news. So I went to the mall, I walked into Gymboree for the very first time, and I bought him an adorable little blue shorts outfit with a fish on it. It was sized for a 6 month old, but it seemed so tiny. I went home and I hung it in his closet, where it hung, all alone, until my third trimester, a small reminder of what was to come. A baby.

When I told people I was pregnant, I heard some wonderful things. Everyone knew exactly what to say. Everyone was hopeful and positive and absolutely thrilled for me. It was so different from the things I’d heard before, after my first miscarriage:

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“My prayers are with you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

When you have a miscarriage you expect to hear a lot of things: remorse, sympathy, prayers, love and support and maybe even silence. Those of us who have been there and done that know that many people, even the people we love the most, have absolutely no idea how to react to the news of a miscarriage. We expect the awkwardness and we know that people have only the best of intentions.

But we don’t expect anger. At least not directed at us.

Unfortunately, anger is exactly what I got when I wrote about my miscarriages on the Attain Fertility Facebook page last month and here on the blog in October of last year. Along with “I’m so sorry,” I also heard anger that I hadn’t shared the news of my pregnancy, only the news of my miscarriage.

Whaaaaa?????

Anger? Censure?

Wow. That, I did not expect.

I’ve had six miscarriages. Four before Big H was born and 2 more since Trey and I started trying to have another baby more than two years ago. The most recent was last month and I blogged about it. I blog about my miscarriages and my struggles with infertility because I truly believe that sharing my story might help others. And I blog because I know that it helps me.

I haven’t announced my pregnancies here. Because I know that the news could be hurtful to my community, to all of you. I know what it’s like to get that kick in the gut, even when you are truly happy for someone else’s pregnancy. But even if I knew a pregnancy announcement wouldn’t hurt those of you struggling here, I probably still wouldn’t share the news. Because “getting a positive pregnancy test” doesn’t mean “having a baby.” At least not for me.

Picking up the phone and telling people? That’s a leap of faith I can’t take at 5 weeks. Not anymore. Not after so many disappointments. It’s just not ever going to happen again before an ultrasound with a heartbeat.

After my miscarriages, I have shared my stories here. I’ve reached out to you, my community, my online support system, for help in carrying the burden of grief. Yes, that is sort of selfish of me. But I know that all of you get it in a very visceral way. You don’t hesitate when you answer, you aren’t awkward in your silences. You just get it.

And so because I blog, family and friends now hear about my miscarriages and struggles, things they didn’t hear when Trey and I originally started trying to have a family in 2002. In 2002 there was no Facebook, no Twitter and I was still writing my heart out in a journal. With a pen. Very quaint, I know. If I was feeling a little hip, I’d share stories with some nearly anonymous women going through the same struggles on a message board. But I didn’t share our hurt with many people in “real life.”

In the 2011 world of instant updates and weekly blog posts, I’m facing some very real anger because I haven’t shared news of my pregnancies when they happened.

I’m not quite sure how to react to this.

While I’m sure my family and friends are eager to support us in our quest to have a baby, I don’t think everyone quite understands just how hard this is. I don’t think they understand that seeing two pink lines (or, as is more likely, one dark pink line and one really, really faint pink line) is not a moment of celebration for me. My reaction is usually to: (a) feel like I’m going to throw up and not in a morning sickness kind of way; (b) think, “Great. Here we go again;” and then (c) burst into tears.

I then go through the motions of calling my various doctors, adjusting my medications, switching to insulin, getting blood tests and scheduling ultrasounds with that wonderful all seeing wand. (And, yes, the “wonderful” comment was sarcasm.) I go through these motions until the inevitable spotting begins, the blood test results come back to tell me that, yes, my HCG level is going down and not up, and the miscarriage begins.

Yeah, that sounds like fun. Really makes you want to throw a ticker tape parade as well, doesn’t it?

Not once, since my very first pregnancy all those years ago, have I felt excited at the sight of a positive pregnancy test. I have never immediately begun planning room décor, looking at maternity clothing or picking out baby names. In fact during my pregnancy with Big H I didn’t but a single baby item until I got my perfectly normal amniocentesis results back at 18 weeks.

At 18 weeks, I finally let myself hope. And then I bought one cute little blue outfit. I still only let myself buy one tiny little piece of hope and I hung it in the closet and closed the door until I hit my third trimester.

So, to my family and friends who feel shortchanged by my failure to share the “happy news” as soon as two pink lines appear, I hope you get it now.

I’d love to celebrate. I’d love to be able to shout it from the roof tops and call you and tell the kids and immediately bust out the pants with the elastic waistband. I’d love to go buy a little blue or pink outfit.

I can’t.

Please try to understand.