Why Hide Miscarriage?
When we lost the baby, I was glad everyone knew.
by Christine Chitnis
April 30, 2009
Our waitress was all smiles as she came over to our table, tottering along with her bulging belly and overflowing bosom. She radiated the kind of glow that every skin moisturizer promises, but only pregnancy can deliver.
"How far along are you?" my husband Vijay asked.
"Six months," she replied, beaming.
Vijay went on to share that I was also pregnant and I felt myself blush as her eyes focused on my flat stomach. I quickly let her know that I was only six weeks along and as a reply she launched into a story about baby names, and how she'd had the hardest time choosing. I felt a thrill as we shared this "pregnancy moment" and I couldn't stop grinning all through breakfast, although I was feeling the slightest case of belly envy. I had no doubt, however, that my own pregnancy glow and baby bump were only weeks away.
My husband and I were only two weeks pregnant when we decided to start spreading the news. We were like third graders who had just been told a playground secret; we were giddy with our need to share.
"Let's start with close family and friends," Vijay suggested.
I thought about how embarrassing it would be to tell people about our loss.
And so I did, first telling my mom, dad, aunts, grandparents and cousins, followed by friends from college, work and the neighborhood. By the end of that first day, our pregnancy seemed to be making national headlines. Sure, we had heard the warnings, "Don't tell anyone until the start of your second trimester, just to be on the safe side." But we were two young, healthy, newlyweds; what was there to be afraid of?
Six weeks later, I miscarried. Over the course of one heart-wrenching week of cramping and bleeding, we started to accept what was happening. Our tears were endless. We felt helpless and hopeless.
At the end of the week, I had to go in for my D&C, dilation and curettage (or the painful scraping of your uterine lining, to get technical). The surgery went as well as could be expected, but as they brought me out of my anesthesia-induced haze, I cried for a half-hour straight, asking the doctor repeatedly if I'd ever be able to get pregnant again. He held my hand the entire time, until he decided to put me back under with a strong sedative and try the whole wake-up process again later. I remember none of this, and I'm shocked that the sadness so quickly sunk into my subconscious.
My first recollection following surgery was the groggy realization that my miscarriage was official and that people would start finding out. I thought about how embarrassing it would be to tell people about our loss, and I felt a burning sense of shame. My body's failure would be public knowledge. Slowly, though, it occurred to me that this was no more my fault than it is someone's fault for getting breast cancer or Alzheimer's. I couldn't understand society's pressure to keep this thing under wraps.
©2009 Christine Chitnis and Babble Media
About the Author
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Christine Chitnis is a freelance writer and non-profit consultant. She lives with her husband in Providence, RI and blogs at lavenderlimes.blogspot.com. |
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