The first time I encountered the term “miscarriage,” I was around 9 or 10 years old, playing in my friend’s backyard. When the topic of siblings emerged, she mentioned, “I have two brothers or sisters in heaven.” This caught my attention, and she went on to explain, “My mom had two miscarriages.” Instantly, my young mind visualized a tragic scene of her mother pushing a stroller, which suddenly tipped over, causing the baby to fall out and die. Even today, that distorted image resurfaces whenever I hear the word “miscarriage”—a far cry from the actual experience.
In our society, we often gloss over uncomfortable realities like death, grief, and loss. “Miscarriage” fits into this category of euphemistic language. My issue with this term is that it sugarcoats a deeply painful reality, one that is far too bitter to sweeten.
Firstly, the term fails to encapsulate the true nature of the experience: a death, a profound loss, and the subsequent grief. It overlooks the chaos it brings and the hopes and dreams that are shattered in an instant. Secondly, it tends to place undue blame on the mother. For instance, when my young friend spoke of her mother’s losses, it was as if her mother had a choice in the matter. You rarely hear someone say, “Did you hear about John? He had a miscarriage.” Instead, it’s usually, “Poor John, his wife had a miscarriage.”
You may be wondering why I feel so strongly about this. Perhaps you’ve already guessed: I’ve experienced the loss of two babies during pregnancy. It’s every expectant mother’s worst nightmare, and to reduce it to the term “miscarriage” feels dismissive and inaccurate.
My aversion to the word intensified when I became pregnant with my first child. As I read through pregnancy books that repeatedly mentioned “miscarriage,” it only heightened my anxiety. Then, at just 11 weeks into my first pregnancy, I faced the devastating reality of losing my child. I still vividly recall lying on the ultrasound table, the room dimly lit, and the technician’s demeanor shifting from casual to serious in a matter of moments. The black-and-white image projected before me told a story I wasn’t ready to hear.
The following morning, I arrived at the hospital before dawn for a D&C (dilation and curettage). I dreaded the procedure, but was told it was necessary. When asked why I was there, I reluctantly uttered the word “miscarriage”—a term that echoed throughout my hospital experience, from registration to recovery.
After enduring that loss, I never wanted to utter the word “miscarriage” again. Unfortunately, I faced another loss a year later, and once again, “miscarriage” was stamped in my medical records. Eight years have passed since then, and every time I visit a new doctor or fill out a form, that term resurfaces. I often feel inclined to cross it out and write “pregnancy loss” or “death in utero.” I refuse to diminish the gravity of a word that carries so much weight.
So, what would be a more fitting term? I don’t have a definitive answer, but I believe it’s a conversation worth having. Why do we cling to the term “miscarriage”? Why not “pregnancy loss,” which more accurately conveys the reality of the situation? Are we attempting to shield ourselves from confronting the truth of what happens?
I refuse to accept that. I didn’t have a miscarriage; I lost my babies. That is the unvarnished truth, and I will not sugarcoat it. I hope that someday society will share this perspective.
If you’re interested in learning more about the emotional aspects of pregnancy loss, check out this insightful post on intracervical insemination. Additionally, for those navigating their fertility journey, Make a Mom offers reliable at-home insemination kits, while Johns Hopkins Fertility Center provides excellent resources for pregnancy and home insemination.
In conclusion, language matters. It shapes our understanding and our experiences. As we discuss pregnancy loss, let’s strive for terms that honor the reality of what many endure.
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