5 things never to say to a woman whose baby has died

Tonight, I went to our local chapter of M.E.N.D -- a pregnancy loss support meeting. And you know what? People are saying the same old ignorant, hurtful things to women having a pregnancy loss as they did when I first had mine -- and probably have said since the dawn of time.

I know I can't prevent every single woman out there from having to hear these hurtful comments. But I sure can do my part to spread awareness.

So if you come across any woman who has lost a baby at ANY stage in pregnancy or following birth -- please do the universe a massive favor, and steer clear of saying any of these 5 things. (Or anything that even closely resembles them.)


#5 -- At least you were early.

Maybe you truly feel that you are doing this woman a favor to remind her that her body was unable to carry a baby past 12 weeks, or past her second trimester, or even to term.

But can I let you in on a little secret?

First, there is no "at least" with loss. None. So, umm. Stop saying that.

Second, from the moment that second line appeared, that mom had feelings about that baby. She not only had feelings, but something -- a very big something -- has changed in her life. Forever. No going back. No going back even with a loss. That baby changed everything for her. From the moment she knew it existed.

And losing that baby changed her forever too.

Life and death? It happened. So stop making it sound like it's no big deal.

And third -- sometimes an earlier loss is even HARDER to process. In part because of a lack of support due to their loss being so "early."


#4 -- I know exactly how you feel.

Actually, you don't.  Because I don't even know exactly how I feel.

One moment I think I'm OK. The next moment I'm balling my eyes out because of some silly little thing triggered my grief -- walking past the baby aisle, driving by the hospitals, eating something I last ate the day we lost the baby. And then 10 minutes later, something makes me smile. A sunset. A flower. A text from a friend.

I feel like a kaleidoscope of emotions -- always changing with each turn.

I really don't care if our losses were the same. So you had a miscarriage too? OK. Chances are, the way I felt about my baby differed from you. The way I feel about pregnancy probably differs. And the way I feel about our loss differs.

If you want to relate, if you want to empathize -- by all means do. Just don't tell me that you know exactly how I feel. Unless, you know -- you are God. (And God, if you are reading this, then please chime in.)


#3 -- You could always try again.

*sigh*

I get that if you have a flat tire on your car, it makes sense to go get another one. You lost your coat? Then go shopping for a new one. Outgrow your house? Hit up Zillow or Redfin.

But PEOPLE? People are not replaceable.

And last time I checked, a baby is a people.

So just don't. Ever.

If you ever do say this to a woman, chances are she is screaming in her head at you that she doesn't want another one -- she wants THIS ONE. And could you blame her? Chances are -- you want each of your children too.

(PS -- In saying she should try again, you are making some pretty big assumptions about her fertility. First, that she is capable of trying again. Second, that she wants to. Generally speaking, those are private topics that she should bring up with you if she wants to discuss them.)



#2 -- They are in a better place.

This is something you could probably legitimately say to someone who's had a grandparent die whose life at the end was one of excruciating pain. (Even then, maybe not the MOST supportive.)

But to a mom who has had a baby die?

Last I checked, a baby being born in this world were something to be celebrated. It is the natural order to be born, to live, and then a long long long time after a full life, to die and go to heaven. We all want babies to be born here first, before they die.

Maybe it's just selfish. But I don't want my babies in heaven. Not yet anyway. I want them here, with me, with their cute smiles, and their little piggy toes and their coos and yawns and cuteness. I want them to go through life -- the good and bad -- and fulfill a purpose. I want to meet their children and their children.

I want to live with my children before they die. I want to die first.

Maybe it's selfish. But it's true. I don't want them in a better place. I want them with me.

(PS. This is phrase is also cousin to "It's God's will." If you're curious, I'd steer clear of this one too.)



#1 -- Just be grateful for your living kids.

Can I ask a question? If your parents were in a car accident, and only your mom survived -- how would you feel about people who ignored the fact that your dad just died -- instead focused on how 'grateful' you should be feeling about your mom's survival?

I'm guessing you might feel a little invalidated -- a little miffed. I'm sure you ARE grateful your mom is alive. Maybe even more than you were before. But you just had a parent die. You also deserve to grieve.

In a pregnancy or infant loss, a family has gone through a tragedy. There were survivors. There were others who did not make it.

Moms, dads and kids -- they all deserve the right to grieve the ones that didn't make it.



In case you know have no idea what to say to someone who has lost a baby at any stage of life, I have a really easy suggestion.

A simple "I'm sorry for your loss" would suffice.

And then be available to listen, to grieve with them, and to offer any support you can by way of chocolate, food, time away, or clean dishes, or childcare. I promise a million times over, those acts of service will provide more comfort than any cliché ever could.

Ali's Story: Abuse results in a miscarriage and a grief gap with her husband

Ali, I just can't imagine at all what you have been through. I'm so so so sorry. I am thankful that Ryan's story has helped you understand your husband better. That grief gap is so very hard. Much love, Rachel




I recently read your wife's story when a friend posted it on Facebook. I related to it so much that words cannot really explain. At the end of her blog, there was a link to your story. I then read it. It connected to my heart like nothing I've ever read before. 

My husband and I suffered a miscarriage in the very beginning of our marriage. I was very young, 17 years old, in fact. He was 21, and in his first year of enlistment in the Marine Corps. We had gotten married on his 10-day leave after boot camp. And we were IN LOVE! I had never had much of a strong family. But once I took him into my heart fully and completely, I felt like I had finally found that family I had been longing for my whole life. 

He left to M.O.S. school (job training for the Marine Corps.). He was only allowed to come home for a short period during Christmas of 2004. I had originally thought that was the time that we conceived our first child. However, it must have been on our wedding night. ;) I found out I was expecting on New Year's Day (January 1st, 2005). 

I felt so terribly guilty after a night of partying to find out that I had a little life growing inside of me... I was also afraid to tell my new husband. Because we had never discussed having children. We knew we both wanted them one day. But this seemed a bit early in our young marriage for this to be happening. I knew I didn't have much of a choice though. He had left to go back to M.O.S. school already, so I had to tell him over the phone. His initial reaction was "OH S#$&!"... Which didn't offer much comfort to me at that time! (I was eventually able to laugh about it.) 

Over the next few weeks, he grew used to the fact that we were going to have a child. He even seemed to be becoming excited. Everything was going great, all most too great. I wasn't sick, felt great... I even had more energy than I usually did. I went to the doctor, who figured I was somewhere between 8-12 weeks along....(I figured about 9, because I know when my husband had been home!) a few more weeks past with no incident... I forgot to mention that I was still living with my Mother and Step-Father, (both of who were involved in drugs at the time and weren't very stable) but I didn't have much of a choice. I was only staying there until my husband got stationed somewhere and we could get an apartment to move into. 

One day, I came home to my parents in an argument.. A pretty heated one at that. I slipped into my room at the back of the house. A few moments after I shut my door, my mother burst in, crying uncontrollably. She told me to pack a bag that my Step-Father no longer wanted me in the house. The way he seen it, I was a married adult and I did not belong at home with my mother. I had been paying rent, working a full-time job as a carhop at Sonic... All while I was finishing my senior year of high school. This was absolutely and totally unexpected. I was blind-sighted by this. I had no place to go... I had no clue what I was going to do. 

So I left my room to try to reason with my Step-Father about this. I was going to try to get another month to stay in their home. I would have been leaving Oklahoma to go to North Carolina within the next month and a half. So I figured if I could squeeze a month out of him. I'd be able to figure the last 2 weeks out. My Step-Father was obviously not his normal self. He was visible shaking, angry does not even begin to describe it. I should have known better than to approach him while he was in this kind of mood. But hindsight is 20/20.... 

What I thought would be a civil conversation turned into a screaming match between the two of us. I told him I would leave, quickly packed a small bag of clothes, toiletries, etc... I grabbed the keys to my car and headed out the door. (Let me say this before I tell you what happened next) my parents had bought my car for me on my 16th birthday. But only under the agreement that I paid them back... Which I did.. And in full. This was the reason I was working a full time job on top of school. I had just put new tires on my car also. But the car was in my parent's names because I was still under the age of 18. When my Step-Father noticed that I was leaving...in a car that was in his name. He immediately got even more upset. He stood in the door way, not allowing me to pass through to the outside unless I handed over the keys...I felt trapped.

 I didn't know what to do. No place to live, no car, no family around to help me figure this situation out... I was scared. And when a teenager is scared, they freak out. And freak out I did. I screamed and yelled and tried to shove my way through the door with keys in hand. He was not going to allow this. The way he seen things, this was his car, it was in his name, and they could sell it to make money... (Most likely for their drug of choice, Meth).... So in an attempt to get the keys from me, he shoved me down the front steps of our house. Which was about 5-6 steps, if I remember correctly... It could have been more. 

I landed face down in the yard. That also meant I had landed on my stomach. I immediately felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. Which made me cry out for my Mother. My Step-Father, who was obviously high on something, seen my Mother rushing to my side, and he apparently did not like that she was taking my side (at least that's how he viewed her actions)... He shoved my Mother out of the way, hauled his leg back, and kicked me right in my stomach. All I can remember is the Steel Toed Boot that he wore making contact with my body. I didn't feel much pain, everything went blurry... I'm still not sure how long I laid on the ground in my parents from yard, bawling uncontrollably.... Once my Mother could get to me without causing my Step-Father to become anymore angry or upset, she came and laid down beside me. I couldn't move. I could feel a wetness on my legs,back, and lower stomach... I had started to bleed. And it was a lot of blood.... 

By this time, my Step-Father had gone. But before he left, he disconnected the batteries and some other parts of the cars in the drive. My Mother called one of her friends to come get us so we could go to the hospital. Once I got to the ER, they immediately got me to the back to see the doctor... They took blood... But I didn't need a blood test to know. To know that I had lost a child that I had not yet had the joy of holding, the joy of seeing for the first time on an ultra-sound. I had heard the precious heart beat. But only once... I wasn't sure how I was going to tell my husband... I was scared... I decided to wait until the doctors could confirm what I already knew in my heart. I made the decision to not tell my husband right away due to the fact that he was already under a huge amount of stress from the military job and training... 

I returned to the hospital 3 days later to have more blood taken... The results revealed what I already knew. I had lost my sweet child. All at the hands of another person. A person that was supposed to protect me as his own. A person that to this day has still not apologized (10 years later)... That night when my husband called, I broke the news to him. He didn't say much, that he was sorry that I had lost the baby..I remember so clearly what he said..."I'm sorry you had to go through that...but at least you weren't very far along... We can have another."

 He was very angry about how my parents had treated me. But it didn't seem like losing the baby was the biggest loss in the situation to him. We hung up after a very short conversation. About a week and a half later I flew to Fort Knox to celebrate the first Valentine's Day as husband and wife.... I was met at the airport by a taxi service that my husband had arranged for me. After the 45-minute drive to the Base where I would see him for the first time since it happened, our eyes met, I immediately felt better... But it was short-lived. He looked different, worn down and tired. But seemed his normal self all at the same time. His attitude and demeanor seemed to be the same as always. He was loving and kind. And had a lovely, romantic weekend planned for us... I tried my hardest to enjoy it. 

But in the back of my mind, I was angry! No... I was outraged! Outraged that he didn't seem to even remember that we had just lost our first child. Outraged that he didn't offer any condolences for what I had just gone through... The last night I was with him that weekend, we laid in bed talking about the future... And how he thought we should start to try for another baby. This made me even more furious! How could he just get over it so quickly? Did it bother him at all? How could he want to have another child so soon? It felt like the life I was still mourning, didn't have any meaning to him at all.... I never said anything about how angry it made me or how badly it hurt my feelings.... 

The next year we were blessed with a daughter. A perfect, beautiful, and healthy little miracle.. She was what pulled me out of my funk. A funk that I feared would never go away. I am not saying that she took the place of the child that I had lost only a short time before. But she definitely filled a void. And I was grateful. Our family had begun. 

But I never understood how my husband could be so cold about my miscarriage.? He never talked about it on his own. And when I brought it up, he would cut the conversation off as soon as he could.... 10 years have passed since that terrible day. The day I lost a child, a part of me that will never be replaced or healed. Its a scar on my heart that will forever remain. My husband left the Marine Corps., we had our second child (third in my eyes), our son, who is more wild and wonderful then I could have ever dreamed him to be! 

He and I started our careers, bought 2 houses, started a business... we have continued to live our lives as we planned... I never understood why my husband could have been so rash about my miscarriage. But after reading your story Ryan, I began to understand why he may have been so withdrawn. And now I see. He was mourning the loss of our child too. It was just in a different way than I did....

Losing a child is never an easy thing. Whether it be a miscarriage or abortion before the child is physically on this earth, or if a child is lost many years too early. I am glad to share my story with the world. Maybe my experience will help someone else as you and your wife's story helped me. It helped me to understand a man I have know for 12 years and married for 10. I thought I know everything about him. But men are as much of a mystery as anything I guess.

Thanks for offering a safe haven for people to share stories like this one. It means more to me than words could ever express.

Janet's Story: Grief during another generation

Janet, thank you so much for sharing your story. I am so sorry that your family did not support you in your grief. So much has changed in 20 years, and, while not perfect,  I'm so glad that people are finally getting some support in their losses. Thanks for opening up. Rachel

Oh, how I wish your blog had been available 18 & 19 years ago! 

I was 22 when we miscarried our first baby. I was told that most women miscarry their first and never know it. Their period is just a little late and they never know the difference. I wasn't very far along, but I knew the difference in my body, hormones and emotions. 

I had to have a D&C August 25, 1995. 

We were told we wouldn't get pregnant again any time soon without fertility drugs so I took them for 1 month. We got pregnant with twins. We were scared, but incredibly happy. We were having a boy and a girl. 

At approximately 18 weeks, we found out that our baby girl was no longer alive. I miscarried both of them at 20 weeks. I named our son, Nicolas James. Our daughter had re-absorbed and I was convinced that she wasn't a baby anymore. In my heart I knew differently.  I really wish I had named her also. 

I ran an obituary/memorial notice in the paper for both of them - Nicolas James & Baby Emmanuel. I had a memorial service for them. Our families thought it was ridiculous and uncalled for. None of our friends came either.

I gave birth to them exactly 1 year, to the date, of having my D&C from our first pregnancy, on August 25th. My grandma died 5 days later. Not only did I lose 2 more babies, but I almost lost my life to suicide. My dad even went as far as to tell my husband he would understand if he wanted to divorce me. Nobody, but me, recognized the fact that I was a mom. 

My babies were in heaven, but I was still a mom! Friends and family eventually said they didn't know what to really say or do so they just ignored it. I know my husband was upset also, but to this day, I have NO idea as to his real feelings. 

We now have an amazing 15 year old son, Andrew. I will never forget our other babies. It wasn't possible for your thoughts and feelings to help me then, but I am ecstatic to find out that my feelings have finally been validated. It was like you were talking about me. 

Hopefully your blog will also help family and friends of those with losses know to help, what support to give, and what to say. Thank you for understanding that I am a mama with 4 children and not just 1.

Of idols and name tags

The other day, a dear friend sat me down to coffee.

You have heard of this momma friend -- she was Leyla's foster mom.

Well, God had put something on her heart and she needed to share with me.


"When I first met you," she started, "you shared about your story with Olivia. And then I began reading your blogs. And as much as I liked you, I felt like I didn't really who Rachel really was. What did she like? What makes her tick?  It was like grief and loss and infertility were all that you could see, like a name tag you wore. As time has gone on, I've watched you transition out of grief and loss and have started moving forward with life. And it's really neat to see and to get to know you."

[Ok, well, Deanna, if you're reading this, you probably are thinking, "I'm not sure those were my exact words." But this is at least what I can remember of what you said, and what has stuck with me.]

She had more to say, which is probably food for another blog . . . but these particular words have been mulling around in my brain.



You know, she's right. I think back to the last 3ish years, and I just feel like they are a total and complete fog. I think having a loss every 9 months on average for a few years does something to you. Well, at least it did to me.

But I think even before the recurrent loss, just with Olivia, I lost myself. I lost myself in grief, and longing, and despair.

I didn't know who I was anymore. The priorities I had in my life before my ectopic just suddenly seemed shallow. I couldn't relate to someone who had not experienced deep pain. Life -- everything in life -- seemed to be a painful reminder of what I didn't have.

Even though I was mom, I stayed the heck away from mom's groups. Or play groups. Or anything that might remind me that I had lost a little baby. (Oh, thank God I didn't know at that time that there would not be a rainbow baby at the end of my story. I don't even want to know what would have become of me had I seen the whole next few years laid out in front of me.)

I became the girl who runs out of church crying because someone announced a pregnancy.

I became the girl who (true story) runs out of church crying, slams her phone into the dash of the car, cusses up a storm, and then cries like crazy because someone was having a gender-reveal party.

I became the girl who (also true story) told her husband to stay home one night just to make sure she stayed safe. Safe from herself.

I became the girl who tried, tried, tried, tried to deal with my sorrow in a healthy, Christ-like way. I blogged, I cried out to God, I went to a Christian counselor. But that did not stop the anxiety. Oh, the crazy, horrid anxiety that clawed at me. It did not stop the images that kept showing themselves uninvited of me sitting on my kitchen floor, bleeding out from freshly cut arms.

Oh, dear friends. This is the horrible, horrible truth of how bad I was.

I have friends who have had losses. They have had later losses. or more traumatic ones, and they did not plunge into the darkness as I did.

Why did I respond how I did?

Honestly, I can't tell you that anymore than I can explain why God picked the color blue for the ocean, and green for land.

However it happened -- I became a new person. And yes, I wore that name tag.

"Hi I'm Rachel. Habitual aborter. Infertile mom. Nice to meet you."

And then last March, almost a year ago now, we had the last (oh please, dear God, let it be the last) of the miscarriages.

And I went just numb. Numb to pretty much everything. I threw myself into Leyla's adoption because that was the only joy I could find. The rest of my life was just meh. Could do with it, could do without it.

When I lost the ability to care about my life -- it was time (OH, way past time) to make a serious change.

We called it. No more trying to conceive for a year.

And now that we are ending that year, I'm really leaning toward calling it quits for good.




Today at our mom's group (see how far I have come!!!), we talked about loving the gift more than the Giver. We talked about what takes up all our thoughts, our emotions, our time, our energy, our money and how those things become our idols.

And it just hit me.

For so long, I placed the value of getting a healthy baby from a healthy pregnancy above the Giver of Life Himself. I wanted a baby. Not the creator of life.


This is not something I want to admit. Oh, do I not want to admit it. Because you know, I'm just a girl that tried her best. I managed loss, and life changes, and adoption, and infertility, and health scares, and the loss of all control as best as I could.

I just was surviving. Surviving from day to day. Trigger to trigger. Loss to loss.

Just trying to make it through alive, and (hopefully) with a live baby to show for it.


It is humbling to admit that maybe I had survived wrong. That if I had changed my focus to the Giver instead of the gift, I may have made it through so much easier. To admit that I placed my babies before God himself feels like such failure.

I recently watched the movie Wild with a friend. It's about a woman who went to some serious extremes in order to deal with grief. And at the end, she admits that maybe she isn't so sorry she had sex with a ton of men, or became a druggie. Because somehow that turned her into who she is today.

And maybe I also feel a little like that. I do have some regrets about how I acted the last few years. I maybe wish that I could've trusted God more than I did. Maybe crave HIM more than I craved a baby.

But all that has led me to where I am today.

It's now part of my journey, part of my story . . . part of my PAST.

I have slowly been able to peel off that name tag, that identity as an infertile woman. Take off the label of the woman whose body kills her babies. Take off the label of bereaved. (Even as the grief will never fully be gone.)

Triggers come and go. So do the tears. But more days than not, I am excited about where I'm at and where I'm headed.

I've learned to see that as wonderful as a baby and a healthy pregnancy are, my life has more purpose and more to it than just that.

I have learned, as was mentioned in our group today, "Good things can be bad gods."

Fertility and healthy babies are GOOD THINGS! But they make bad gods.


And so as I set out each new day, I'm learning to put on a new name tag.

"Hi, I'm Rachel. I've stumbled, and I've fallen, and parts of me are scarred. But I'm learning, and I'm growing, and I'm covered in grace. I have a purpose, and a plan, and a God that's bigger than me.

It's nice to meet you."

If you wouldn't say it to a pregnant woman, don't say it to a bereaved one

 

When your loved one has a miscarriage -- knowing what to say, how to say it and when to say it can be tricky. On the one hand, you want to support her in her grief. On the other hand, you want to offer something that will comfort her.

Unfortunately, so many of the things people say are meant with the best of heart, and come out all wrong.

So I wanted to make a quick and easy rule for you.

If you wouldn't say it to a pregnant woman,

don't say it to a bereaved one.

Why?

Because the value of a live baby is just the same as the value of a dead baby.

Because the experience of a miscarriage is just as valid as the experience of a continuing pregnancy.

Because a mom's love and devotion for her kid doesn't go away when the baby dies.





So let's play my little rule out.

 

So what happens when you respond to a pregnancy announcement at 6 weeks in the same way you would to a miscarriage announcement at 6 weeks?

 

 

 

 

Not terribly supportive. Let's try this again . . .

 

 

 

 

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And my personal favorite:

 

Of course, there is always an exception to every rule.

 

 

 

 

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However we are supporting our friend, let's make sure we use words that affirm her baby and her experience.