The Silence of Suffering
Trigger Warning. Read with an open heart and mind.
I really didn’t think that this would be the newsletter I wrote this week. I was planning to write about procrastination (it would have been vaguely interesting, promise!) but as I was reading Farrah Storr’s excellent newsletter Things Worth Knowing (if you haven’t already - do give it a read - she is fantastic) I was directed to an article by the brilliant Hadley Freeman for The Guardian. Women aren't meant to talk about miscarriage
So here I am, writing about something I rarely talk about, for many different and mostly illogical reasons. I’ve recently written a piece on the culture of silencing women, and in the spirit of this newsletter, I’m going to continue to be the change I want to see and talk about it openly.
A few years ago, I was on holiday with my husband and my two young children. They were rowing on an idyllic lake in the Austrian Alps, I was lunching on one of the most amazing salads I have ever eaten and life was good. As I finished my meal, I felt a familiar twinge and a rush of pressure between my legs. I felt as though my heart stopped and time froze as I calmly stood up and made my way to the bathroom.
Reader, it was as I had expected. I felt numb as I returned to the restaurant, smiling politely at people as I made my way back to the table, as if my whole world hadn’t just been changed forever. I quietly called my husband and told him to collect the children, please could we go back to the hotel? Thinking it was simply time to leave, he coralled the reluctant twosome into our rental car and I began to drive.
I can’t even remember how or when I told him I was losing our baby. We couldn’t discuss it in front of the children - even though they were probably too little to understand, it just didn’t feel right. So all we managed were hushed snippets and an explanation that Mummy just needed to lie down for a little while.
Later on, it became clear I needed to go to hospital. I had to go without my husband, as he was looking after our children, but my parents, who were also with us, took me. I waited in a foreign hospital, understanding none of what I was being told other that the sympathetic looks from the doctors. To this day I wish I had known more about what had happened, but I was too shell-shocked to ask any questions and my German A level didn’t really cover miscarriage. So I didn’t ask.
We carried on pretty much as normal until we flew home a few days later. We still hadn’t really talked about what was happening, and it was clear no one really knew what to say to me. I remember wearing a pair of comfortable White Company leggings for days in a row - leggings I can no longer look at. My miscarriage leggings.
The day after we got home, my husband returned to work as if nothing had happened. I unpacked the suitcases, amused the children, did the mountains of washing and took them to the park. All while bleeding and cramping and wondering if I was going to see my baby every time I went to the toilet. Or had I already passed the baby, flushed away in some Austrian hotel. This may be too much information, but I checked religiously for any sign of him/her each time before I flushed. I couldn’t bear it.
Life moved on. The bleeding subsided, and we still didn’t really talk about it. I felt completely and utterly empty. My parents - the only people who knew - tried to offer some words of comfort but just seemed to get it wrong. My next door neighbour had delivered her beautiful baby boy whilst we were away and I popped round for cuddles. I’ve still never told her.
Each year, on the anniversary of what would have been my due date, I think briefly about the tiny life that would have been. On the anniversary of the lake day, I feel sad, and heavy. I don’t feel I have any right to feel this way. I know so, so many women have been through the same thing, and much worse. But somehow being a statistic isn’t hugely comforting.
I hate seeing the photos from that holiday. I’ve charity-shopped the clothes I was wearing. I have a gorgeous, longed-for third child, so no reason to feel sad, right? And when I do feel a little pang, I quickly override it with thoughts that I have no reason, no right to feel sad. In the words of Anna Delvey (Inventing Anna - watch it - it’s fascinating!), I know I’m not special. Millions of women have experienced what I experienced.
But, if we keep justifying our silence, we can’t really start to change. I’d hate my daughter to feel as empty, sad and alone as I felt. Everyone has their way of dealing with loss, but my grief was punctuated and defined by the expectations of others.
Writing this has helped me set the record straight. I had a miscarriage. I was really sad. Sometimes I’m still sad. And that’s ok.