What I Learned From Having a Miscarriage
I got pregnant for the first time in my life at the age of 40. The home pregnancy test I used was expired, because—let’s be real—it was old and so was I. That test had been buried in the bathroom cabinet the same way the hope of a child had been buried in my heart.
Turns out that a woman in her 40s announces a pregnancy differently than a woman in her 20s. Instead of giving my husband some wrapped “you’re-going-to-be-a-dad” gift, I called out to him from the upstairs bathroom, “Uh, Robert? We have a situation.”
Not a bad situation, of course. Just a dreamlike situation. At this point in life, we were focused on a retirement fund, not a college fund. And the thought of having a child felt so fragile and out of reach.
We had tried for years, and we had tried “not trying” for years. In the “trying” years, there had been medicine, doctor visits, a failed attempt at IVF. And then there were all the other things—fertility acupuncture, fertility massage, a meticulous diet, a log of basal body temperature—things that generations of mommas with babies on their hips would have laughed off as unnecessary and frivolous.
Literally since our wedding reception, people had asked us when we were going to have children, and we would always respond that it was in God’s hands, genuinely at peace about whatever would happen. It never made me sad when people asked. But, I will admit, it did make me a little sad when people stopped asking, when everyone seemed to have given up hope.
And, then, when it seemed like we all had given up hope—then I got pregnant.
Loss of Pregnancy, Loss of Hope
The night I realized my body wasn’t going to hold on to the pregnancy, I was away from home, in a hotel room alone. I was scheduled to give a talk the next morning about the importance of staying positive. By the time my husband made it to the hotel, I knew it was over. By early morning, I woke up to the sound of heaving cries, someone screaming and wailing—and I realized it was me. While I cried in bed, my husband called and canceled my presentation about positivity.
I am normally very private—“overly discreet,” as one personality assessment put it. But in the months following the miscarriage, I longed to talk about it. It had been significant, and I didn’t want to act like it hadn’t happened.
For example, not long after the miscarriage, I bumped into a friend at the grocery store. As I told her about it, I started to tear up.
Immediately, she got uneasy and said, “No, no, no! Don’t cry, don’t cry! Don’t be sad.”
But here’s the thing. I was sad. So, either I was going to stand in that grocery store and be sad alone, or she was going to stand there and let me be sad with her—even if it was uncomfortable.
And this is the lesson I learned from having a miscarriage: showing compassion can be an uncomfortable, awkward business—but we should do it anyway. Compassion isn’t always elegant—a lovely gift, a perfect comment. Whenever someone has lost something important to them—a pregnancy, a loved one, a relationship, a job, a dream—we can’t always ease the pain, and we don’t always know what to say. What we can do instead is simply to be there with them when they are sad.
The Bible says this is one of the ways to show genuine love for someone: “Be happy with those who are happy, and be sad with those who are sad” (Romans 12:15, NCV). Some people tried the opposite: to be happy when I was sad. They hoped to make me feel better by saying things like, “Don’t worry: it will happen again. You should be glad, because now you know you can get pregnant! Just watch, you’ll get pregnant again in a few months!” I’m all for cheering people up and cheering people on, but there’s a time that cheerleading doesn’t work. I was sad, not naïve. Promising me another pregnancy just seemed hollow and unfeeling. The Bible also has a word on these well-meaning, but poorly timed, attempts at positivity: “Singing cheerful songs to a person with a heavy heart is like taking someone’s coat in cold weather or pouring vinegar in a wound” (Proverbs 25:20, NLT).
Of course, everyone who tried to stop my tears and sadness was simply trying to show kindness. I've done the same thing when talking to people going through a hard time. I fumble around, trying to make it better and happier.
But when someone is sad, it seems like the first and sweetest act is to slow down and go where they are. Look straight on at the sadness they are in, and say to yourself, This might get messy, but I’m going in. There were people who did that for me—people who grieved with me or sent a text or mailed me chocolate. Being “sad with those who are sad” looks different every time. Sometimes it’s a hug. Sometimes it’s a whispered “I’m so, so sorry.” And sometimes messy, clumsy compassion just stands awkwardly in the cereal aisle of the grocery store and cries with a friend.