This is the most delicate blog post I’ve ever written. You see, last night during a routine phone conversation, an enormous bombshell was dropped. A mind-blowing, perception-changing ball of knowledge that was upsetting, maddening but mostly just sad.
One year ago, almost exactly, I was grappling mostly with the medical repercussions of my miscarriage. I had a lot of hemorrhaging, and I had to go to the ER twice. I was ordered on bed rest for a few days, and needed help watching the kids while I recovered. Some nearest and dearest to me helped out, pitched in. Those who were assisting me seemed utterly clueless about what I was going through physically and emotionally. The usual platitudes that we’ve all heard were uttered: “For the best”, “Better off”, etc, etc.
I was reeling from what in the world had just happened, so I got on the old laptop and did some internet searches, mostly looking for medical explanations. But it turned out that I had experienced a remarkably similar pregnancy to Julie, and I found and read about her experience (the Google is Strong with Julie, and that is a wonderful thing). Her humor, honest depiction and searing pain shone through that post, and made me stop feeling like a freak because I wasn’t as accepting of the situation as all those around me wanted. It was a remarkable breakthrough for me. Soon after, I found Stirrup Queens.
A few days later, I started my very own blog, and three posts after that, Mel included me in her Friday round-up, and I discovered the whole, wide, wonderful world of y’all. The End.
Except, not. I discovered yesterday that at least one of the “clueless” people around me at the time of my miscarriage had suffered multiple miscarriages of her own. She’s most likely not alone, among those closest to me. Yet, they chose to remain silent about their own experiences while I was bleeding from my body and my heart.
WHY? Is it a generational thing? Do they themselves feel like they should not have felt pain after their own losses? Are miscarriages so demoralizing that you don’t even want to admit that they happened to you?
I’d really like to change this. I understand that you don’t want to talk about your miscarriages during casual dinner conversations, or even most of the time, but when those around you are suffering from one, what is the harm in speaking about your own experience? Am I missing something?
The statistics say that 1 in almost 3 people suffer from a miscarriage at one point in their life. That’s a LOT of people. It would be helpful if we all could support each other when the shoe falls. Feeling less alone helps the healing process immensely.
Can you take the pledge to help others (in real life and in bloggy life) to know that they are not alone? That miscarriages are emotional and physical hell? That the platitudes make us feel like this?
I will. And I will carry this pledge with me as I age. May the next generation not have to suffer in silence.