I hear the heartbreaking news in so many different ways. “She lost the baby,” someone will say. Sometimes it’s the father delivering the news, or even a close friend. She quietly confides in important people, letting the weight of her sadness settle in their laps. Other times, it’s shared with a tone of gossip: “Did you hear about her?” Sometimes my husband learns it from someone else, becoming the messenger of loss. She lost the baby. Bleeding began and didn’t stop. The doctors were unsure of the cause; they advised her to take it easy.
But I never hear it directly from the mother. She’s either at home, resting, or trying to navigate daily life while avoiding reminders of her pregnancy—her zygote, her embryo, her fetus, the painful terms that medical professionals use.
I was fortunate to share the joy of Sarah’s pregnancy. I was 12 weeks along with my daughter when I spotted her at the grocery store. “I’m expecting!” she exclaimed over the noise of carts and chatter. I rushed over, overwhelmed with joy, and embraced her, imagining our babies growing up together, just weeks apart.
We talked about due dates and the excitement of winter babies (she didn’t have enough warm clothes). We compared baby gear, discussed hospitals, and what her daughter might think of a new sibling. Every time I saw her, I asked the usual question: “How are you feeling?” It was an invitation for her to share the wonders and challenges of her changing body. We laughed over baby names and the little quirks of pregnancy. In my mind, I was already picturing Sarah’s child.
Pregnancy is filled with endless possibilities. We joke about our babies growing up to be anything from doctors to astronauts. I envisioned Sarah’s little one moving through our lives, a best friend for my daughter, who would be just a few weeks older.
And then it all changed. Her husband informed us that Sarah needed a D&C; she was far enough along for it to be a significant loss. I curled around my growing belly and wept. She had lost her baby, and my daughter lost a potential friend. The dreams of shared playdates and sleepy afternoons vanished.
While my grief doesn’t overshadow Sarah’s, it’s essential for mothers who have experienced miscarriage to know: we are grateful for the joy you brought into our lives. You are part of our stories, and we, too, feel the loss. This grief is a testament to the bond we share, a burden we carry together, a precious gift.
There’s a photograph from my daughter’s baptism. In it, I hold my tiny girl, while Laura cradles her baby bump and another friend, Michelle, gently touches her flat belly. Michelle, after years of trying, was finally pregnant. She shared her news with excitement and trepidation, aware of the challenges ahead. But in those moments, she was a mother, embracing a dream she thought was lost forever.
They named their baby Lily, and although they were aware of the risks, they celebrated every precious moment as a family. We joked about baby names and shared in the joy. But then, tragically, she was gone.
We all knew the harsh reality, but our mourning was as deep as our joy had been. Because they had opened their hearts, their community rallied around them, providing love and support. I worried that my daughter, just a few months old, might serve as a painful reminder of their loss. I had to release my dreams of Lily and the playdates that would never be.
I still think about those babies. Sarah was able to conceive again, but her son is now months younger than my daughter. While they will be in the same grade, I can’t help but feel the bond that could have been. I miss him for my daughter, for the connection that will never be.
Laura and Michelle keep their ultrasound photo of Lily on their fridge, proudly claiming her as their daughter. When I see it, I imagine her running around with my kids, picking flowers, laughing. I make it a point to tell Michelle, “We remember her.”
“Thank you,” she replies, “We do too.”
This experience teaches us the strength of community and the importance of acknowledging loss. For those navigating similar paths, resources like Progyny can provide valuable support, while Make a Mom offers insights into boosting fertility. If you’re interested in further reading, check out this blog post for additional information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, we share in the joy of new life, but we also carry the weight of loss. The connections we forge through pregnancy extend beyond our own experiences; they intertwine with the stories of others, reminding us of the beauty and fragility of existence.