Words I never expected to say: "I am 1 in 4," a look at pregnancy and infant loss
It was the Instagram Post that made us all gasp and brought that tingle behind our eyes.
When Chrissy Teigen laid bare the devastating grief and pain of the loss of her child in 2020, it seemed every mother had an immediate and visceral reaction. Chrissy and John, like so many others, had experienced one of our worst nightmares, and in a fateful twist, that announcement came on the first day of October, also known as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. If you have not personally experienced a loss, chances are you know parents who have felt the devastation of not welcoming that much-loved child into the world.
1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage, and 1 in 160 ends in stillbirth.
Despite the frequency of miscarriage, there is a societal taboo against talking about it. In fact, many parents wait until after the first trimester when it's 'safe' to tell people about their pregnancy. Slowly, more people are sharing their stories, putting their voices and experiences out there to help others, educate, or simply heal. Some ask why Chrissy shared so much about her pregnancy loss, but why shouldn't she? Her post didn't attract the attention of millions because she experienced something unusual, but rather because she experienced something that happens every day, yet is muffled by silence. Choosing to speak about your loss - or not - is OK. Celebrating the news of your pregnancy at 4 weeks, 12 weeks, or 40 weeks is OK. Sharing pictures of your stillborn child is OK. Every way you need to honor your pregnancy, your child, and your experience is the right way. This month, we honor the mothers and fathers who have experienced pregnancy and infant loss and are holding space for those who wish to share their stories. To the remarkable women who loaned their voices to this important issue - thank you.
Talking for my lost child - Abby Mounts
I lost our first child at just five weeks and six days in February of 2017. Something I wish more people understood about miscarriage is I don’t talk about my experience to make anyone uncomfortable or bring down the mood. I talk about it because that’s all I have of my child. My memories with this child are so finite. The associations I made with them, the heartbreak I felt at the time of loss, the brief joy of learning of their existence....it’s all I will ever have to remember this person I love so deeply but never got to meet. And so I talk about that when I am reminded of my baby. I talk about them when I hear a certain song or see a poppy flower. I talk about them when I see other moms with three kids and am feeling sad I couldn’t have all three of mine together. I talk about the few days of joy we had knowing I was pregnant because that was the small window of time we were given to love on my baby. It’s important to me that I keep that connection alive because I love my baby just as much as my other two children. And I talk to others about this experience so they can have a connection to this wonderful baby of mine too.
I had a miscarriage, and all I got was a pamphlet and a pat on the hand - Ashley Pifer
After more than a year of trying to conceive a child, here I was. Sitting on a hospital bed in stirrups with two doctors doing a transvaginal ultrasound to confirm what we already knew. My husband holding my hand and standing watch by my side. My baby was gone. At 10 weeks. Nobody could tell me why. I was offered a pamphlet on grief and a pat on the hand. I felt shame. This was the biggest marker of being a “woman” and I couldn’t do it. My body failed me. And I didn’t know why. I had lost my baby. What had I done to deserve this? My husband was desperately trying to comfort me but there was nothing he could say. There was nothing anyone could say. My baby was gone. And the only thing I left the hospital with was a paper bag with a phone number to call.
The loss of my pregnancy was just as valid - Meghan Tetter
A chemical pregnancy, that's what they called it. I barely had a moment to come to terms with the sweet little miracle inside me before she vanished. We had been trying and each month I eagerly took a pregnancy test. For the first time, I saw those two pink lines, dark lines. I screamed and cheered. Finally, it was my turn! I was in such disbelief I took more tests and my little pink lines began fading in the following days. I argued with the tests, didn't they know I was already pregnant? They can't take it back! Then, when my period was several days past due, it came. My doctor said it was a chemical pregnancy, the embryo never implanted resulting in both the positive tests and the arrival of my period. He said “These things happen," assured me I was healthy, not to worry, and sent me on my way. I cried for days. My partner tried to be supportive, but couldn't understand why I was so upset over a baby that never was. When I confided in friends, they were sympathetic, but I could hear in their words that the loss of my pregnancy was not the same. It was barely even something to lose, nothing to get that upset about. That baby, I will never know her. I don't even know if she was a “her,” but that's how I think of her. She was real to me. And my pregnancy was real. And my miscarriage was real. And it deserved to be honored and grieved as any other loss.
My arms are still empty - Anonymous
You've seen the posts - "I am 1 in 4" - educating the public about the frequency of pregnancy loss. But it is misleading. It is not 1 in 4 women, it is 1 in 4 pregnancies. Some of us experience loss over and over again. Most days, I feel like I am 4 in 4. It has been years of unexplained losses and my arms are still empty. I am angry. Angry at my body, at science, even my partner. I am angry at every swollen belly I see. I've excelled at everything in my life, but this. I avoid baby showers and kids' birthday parties. The pain is too great. I find myself drifting away from friends to avoid the inevitable talk about kids. I want to say to my friends, “Not everyone's lives revolve around children. Can you tone down the kid chat and find something else for us to talk about while we grab a coffee?” No, I don't expect you to pretend your children don't exist, I know they do. But, rather, can we talk about them less so I don't have to fight back tears and pain when I see you? And when I talk about my losses, don't tell me it will happen someday, because I don't know if that is something I can believe in anymore.
