Healing after miscarriage
Around this time last month, my nine-week-old fetus, whose existence had been acknowledged only to a very few, died in my womb. A week or so later I had some light spotting, and then an ultrasound confirmed what I suspected: my third pregnancy was over.
I know quite a few women who have undergone this ordeal. One of my dearest friends miscarried at twenty weeks. My sister-in-law suffered this loss twice, once at twelve weeks. I admire their strength; I'm not sure I'd be able to get through this experience again or at such a late stage. Although the pain is not quite as raw as it was last month, the loss is still constantly on my mind, and I still have several sleepless nights a week -- tonight being one.
We knew from the start that the pregnancy was high-risk; I have a rare blood incompatibility with Mr. Reedpipe, similar to the Rh factor but with no Rhogam shot to fix it because of its rarity; both my boys were born prematurely; and I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. We felt we had the best high-risk OB team possible, who monitored and tested and supported us from very early on. When we had our first ultrasound at seven weeks and saw the miraculous little heartbeat, we were prepared for every possible difficulty in bringing our third child into the world.
Except this one.
Considering how common miscarriages are -- I've read estimates ranging from 15 to 30 percent of all pregnancies -- it baffles me why miscarriage isn't talked about more often, and when it does get discussed, it's talked about in whispers and hushed tones as if it's a guilty secret. Since I've told others about my miscarriage, I've found out about so many other women I know and love who have had similar losses, and they have been marvelously supportive of me. But I think that having no real way to acknowledge the loss, except for these almost-whispered discussions, hampers the healing process. I've read about a Japanese custom of bringing gifts to little statues of babies after a miscarriage, and while the author of that article found the garden of statues a little creepy, she also found some comfort in being able publicly to memorialize the child she carried and lost.
The Christian Church does have a few rites and liturgies that can be celebrated after miscarriage, but the forms are rarely used and the ones we looked at didn't seem adequate -- mostly because the sentiment that "this was God's will" is never helpful in times like this. This was not God's will. It is not God's will to take babies from their mothers. It is not God's will that we should live a life of grief.
Mr. Reedpipe, who is a liturgical scholar, put together a liturgy using various sources, primarily Methodist, Lutheran and Roman Catholic. The pastor at our (Roman Catholic) parish agreed to celebrate the liturgy with us privately, and it went a long way in fulfilling my own need to deal with my grief, and say how sorry I was to my unborn baby -- not for anything I did, but for the potential of a life we would never know.
And I do know, intellectually, that there's nothing I could have done to prevent my miscarriage. But guilt is an insidious thing, and sometimes, on nights like tonight, I go through a catalog of every possibly harmful thing I ate, drank or did during the short time I was pregnant: that mug of green tea, that cup of Starbucks, that file box I shouldn't have lifted. I know it's ridiculous, truly I do. But still, for some reason, thoughts like these keep me up at night.
I will be fine, eventually.
I know quite a few women who have undergone this ordeal. One of my dearest friends miscarried at twenty weeks. My sister-in-law suffered this loss twice, once at twelve weeks. I admire their strength; I'm not sure I'd be able to get through this experience again or at such a late stage. Although the pain is not quite as raw as it was last month, the loss is still constantly on my mind, and I still have several sleepless nights a week -- tonight being one.
We knew from the start that the pregnancy was high-risk; I have a rare blood incompatibility with Mr. Reedpipe, similar to the Rh factor but with no Rhogam shot to fix it because of its rarity; both my boys were born prematurely; and I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. We felt we had the best high-risk OB team possible, who monitored and tested and supported us from very early on. When we had our first ultrasound at seven weeks and saw the miraculous little heartbeat, we were prepared for every possible difficulty in bringing our third child into the world.
Except this one.
Considering how common miscarriages are -- I've read estimates ranging from 15 to 30 percent of all pregnancies -- it baffles me why miscarriage isn't talked about more often, and when it does get discussed, it's talked about in whispers and hushed tones as if it's a guilty secret. Since I've told others about my miscarriage, I've found out about so many other women I know and love who have had similar losses, and they have been marvelously supportive of me. But I think that having no real way to acknowledge the loss, except for these almost-whispered discussions, hampers the healing process. I've read about a Japanese custom of bringing gifts to little statues of babies after a miscarriage, and while the author of that article found the garden of statues a little creepy, she also found some comfort in being able publicly to memorialize the child she carried and lost.
The Christian Church does have a few rites and liturgies that can be celebrated after miscarriage, but the forms are rarely used and the ones we looked at didn't seem adequate -- mostly because the sentiment that "this was God's will" is never helpful in times like this. This was not God's will. It is not God's will to take babies from their mothers. It is not God's will that we should live a life of grief.
Mr. Reedpipe, who is a liturgical scholar, put together a liturgy using various sources, primarily Methodist, Lutheran and Roman Catholic. The pastor at our (Roman Catholic) parish agreed to celebrate the liturgy with us privately, and it went a long way in fulfilling my own need to deal with my grief, and say how sorry I was to my unborn baby -- not for anything I did, but for the potential of a life we would never know.
And I do know, intellectually, that there's nothing I could have done to prevent my miscarriage. But guilt is an insidious thing, and sometimes, on nights like tonight, I go through a catalog of every possibly harmful thing I ate, drank or did during the short time I was pregnant: that mug of green tea, that cup of Starbucks, that file box I shouldn't have lifted. I know it's ridiculous, truly I do. But still, for some reason, thoughts like these keep me up at night.
I will be fine, eventually.