The first time I encountered the term “miscarriage,” I was just a kid, about 9 or 10 years old. I was at my neighbor’s house, flipping around in the backyard when the topic of siblings came up. “I have two brothers or sisters in heaven,” she said. My cartwheels came to an abrupt halt. “My mom had two miscarriages,” she explained.
The image that popped into my mind was bizarre: a mother casually pushing a stroller, only for it to tip over and for the baby to fall out. To this day, that’s the mental picture I conjure whenever I hear the word “miscarriage”—which is so far removed from the actual experience.
The truth is that we often gloss over life’s harsh realities, such as death and loss. “Miscarriage” is one of those uncomfortable terms that sugarcoats something that is deeply painful.
For starters, the word itself fails to capture the gravity of what it truly represents: a death, a profound loss, and the aftermath of grief. It minimizes the chaos that ensues and the dreams that are shattered.
Moreover, there’s an unfortunate tendency for the term to place blame on the mother. Take my childhood friend, for instance. “My mom had two miscarriages,” she said, as if her mother had any control over it. You never hear, “Did you hear about Tom? He had a miscarriage.” Instead, it’s always, “Poor Tom, his wife had a miscarriage.”
You might be wondering why I feel so strongly about this. You may have already guessed—I’ve experienced the heart-wrenching loss of two babies during pregnancy. It’s a woman’s worst nightmare, and labeling it as “miscarriage” to spare feelings does no one any favors.
My aversion to the term deepened when I became pregnant with my first child. As I read pregnancy books discussing loss, the word “miscarriage” seemed to leap off the pages, adding to my anxiety. Then, at 11 weeks into my first pregnancy, it happened. I lost my first child. The memories are still fresh: lying on the ultrasound table, the technician’s chatty demeanor turning to silence. I glanced at the monitor, confusion washing over me. Within moments, her expression told me that something was wrong. Tears filled my eyes as I looked at my husband, who held my hand tightly.
The next morning, I found myself at the hospital before dawn for a D&C—dilation and curettage. I didn’t want to go through with it, having my baby removed in a cold hospital room, but I was told it was necessary.
Then came the moment I dreaded. “What brings you in today?” I was asked during registration. “A D&C,” I replied. “For what reason?” they pressed. “A miscarriage.” This exchange repeated itself throughout the day—from the insurance rep to the anesthesiologist—until I felt utterly drained.
After that hospital visit, having lost my first child, I vowed never to utter the word “miscarriage” again. Sadly, I found myself facing another loss a year later. Once again, my medical records bore the term “miscarriage.”
It’s been eight years since those losses, and every time I visit a new doctor or fill out a health form, there it is again: that word. I often feel like crossing it out and replacing it with “pregnancy loss” or “deaths in utero.” I refuse to trivialize a term that carries immense weight. But I’m willing to give society some grace; I’ll be patient, but I won’t remain silent.
So what should we call it instead? I’m not entirely sure. It’s a question worth discussing. Why “miscarriage”? Why not “pregnancy loss,” which is more accurate? Whom are we protecting by using a term that doesn’t even reflect reality? Ourselves? It’s easier to sidestep the truth than confront it head-on.
I refuse to do that. I didn’t experience a miscarriage. I lost my babies. That’s the truth, and I won’t sugarcoat it. I hope that one day, society will come to the same realization.
For more insights on this topic, you might find helpful resources, such as this one for pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re curious about at-home insemination options, check out Cryobaby’s home insemination kit as a reliable resource. And for further reading, don’t miss our post on intracervical insemination.
Summary
The author expresses strong feelings against the term “miscarriage,” highlighting its inadequacy in conveying the true nature of pregnancy loss. Through personal anecdotes, the article critiques how society handles the topic and calls for a more honest discussion around pregnancy loss.