The first time I encountered the word “miscarriage,” I was merely a child, around 9 or 10 years old. I was playing in a neighbor’s yard when the topic of siblings arose. “I have two brothers or sisters in heaven,” she shared. My playful cartwheels came to an abrupt halt. “My mom had two miscarriages,” she explained, and I was left with a haunting image of her mother pushing a stroller only to have it topple over, causing the baby to fall out. This distorted perception has lingered with me ever since; it bears no resemblance to the painful reality of loss.
In our society, we often gloss over the harsh truths of life, including death, grief, and loss—“miscarriage” being one of them. My issue with this term is that it sugarcoats an experience that is far too painful to trivialize.
Firstly, the word itself fails to capture the essence of what it truly signifies: a death, a profound loss, and the aftermath of grief. It overlooks the turmoil it creates and the aspirations it shatters. Secondly, the term often unfairly places the burden of blame on the mother. For instance, when my young friend recounted her mother’s experience, it was phrased as if her mother had a choice in the matter. “My mom had two miscarriages.” This narrative implicitly suggests fault. You never hear someone say, “Did you hear about Tom? He had a miscarriage.” Instead, it’s always, “Poor Tom, his wife had a miscarriage.”
You may wonder why I feel so strongly about this. Yes, I lost two babies during pregnancy. It’s an absolute nightmare—every expectant mother’s worst fear. To label such a devastating experience with a term as misleading as “miscarriage” does no one any favors.
My aversion to the word intensified when I first became pregnant. As I read through pregnancy books that frequently mentioned the term “miscarriage,” it added to my growing anxiety. Then, at 11 weeks into my first pregnancy, I experienced the loss. I can vividly recall that day—lying on the ultrasound table, the atmosphere suddenly heavy with silence. The technician’s demeanor shifted from casual to grave, and I knew something was amiss. My husband held my hand tightly as tears welled in my eyes.
The next morning, I found myself at the hospital before dawn, scheduled for a dilation and curettage (D&C). Although I despised the idea of having my baby removed in a sterile hospital setting, I was told it was necessary.
Regrettably, I found myself uttering the word “miscarriage” more times than I would have liked. From registration to pre-op discussions, each mention felt like a weight on my heart. After enduring the painful procedure, I resolved never to say that word again.
Unfortunately, I faced another loss a year later, and once again the term “miscarriage” was recorded in my medical file. Even now, eight years later, every time I visit a new doctor or fill out a health form, that word reappears. I often feel the urge to cross it out and replace it with “pregnancy loss” or even “death in utero.” I refuse to downplay the gravity of a word that carries such emotional weight. Nonetheless, I am willing to be patient as society slowly shifts its perspective—but I will not remain silent.
What, then, is the appropriate term? I don’t have a definitive answer, but I believe it’s a conversation worth having. Why use the term “miscarriage” when “pregnancy loss” is a more accurate descriptor? Are we merely protecting ourselves by using a phrase that detracts from the reality of the situation? I choose to confront the truth—I did not have a miscarriage; I lost my babies. That is the reality, and I refuse to sugarcoat it. I hope one day society will come to share this understanding.
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Summary
In summary, the term “miscarriage” fails to accurately represent the profound grief associated with pregnancy loss. It often places unjust blame on mothers and minimizes the emotional turmoil experienced by families. There is a pressing need for society to adopt more accurate language that reflects the reality of loss, allowing for more meaningful discussions and support.