What Not to Say

[This post was written in mid-December]

I have a friend who had a miscarriage at 12 weeks and a subsequent D&C. It happened a few months ago, and I was devastated for her. She said she needed to lay low for a while, so I didn’t call. I didn’t write. I thought I was respecting her wishes. But I also didn’t know what to tell her. I finally composed a note to her. I think I struggled for hours figuring out what to say. I wanted to be supportive but also sensitive. I didn’t want to tell her things that weren’t true or things that I didn’t know. Now that I have gone through this myself, I really wanted to find this note to see what I said. To make sure that I didn’t say something stupid and something hurtful. I am glad I didn’t--at least, from my perspective I didn't. Only being on the other side of it can you find the right thing to say. Or maybe it’s that you know what not to say, even if the “right thing” escapes you because it is different for everyone. So here is my list of what not to say when your friend has a miscarriage.

Don’t tell me it is nature’s way of taking care of a nonviable pregnancy. I know that. It doesn’t make me feel any better though. I lost my baby, and the nature is just too fucking cruel.

Don’t tell me that this is common, that the percentage of miscarriages is quite high. I know that, too. I read the books. I knew my odds. But just as you would, I didn’t think it would happen to me. A person going through divorce doesn’t hear, “Well, there is a 50% rate of divorce in this country, so you didn’t have much of a chance anyway.” So don’t give me the statistics. I lost a child.

Don’t tell me that I will get pregnant again. If you are not God, you don’t know. And most likely, you don’t know what a long and painful road it’s been to get to this pregnancy.

Similarly, don’t tell me everything will be OK. Seriously, what the fuck? How is this going to be OK?

Don’t tell me, “at least you already have a child.” I know I do. I love him more than you can imagine. But that doesn’t diminish my loss. I wanted another baby—and I lost it. You wouldn’t tell someone who lost a parent, “Well, at least your other parent is still alive.” So don’t tell me that because I already have a child, I shouldn’t grieve the loss of another.

Don’t imply that there was something I did to make this happen. I have looked at every scenario. I have blamed myself for many things. Over and over, I have retraced my every step and wondered what I may have done. You have no fucking idea how much I wanted this baby, so don’t you dare to suggest that I did something to jeopardize his or her well-being.

Don’t tell me not to be sad, not to look back or look only toward the future. I have the full right to be sad. I lost my baby. I will be sad, and I will keep looking back, and I will fear the future. Let me have my time to grieve. Let me be sad. Let me fall apart. Don’t ask me why I have tears in my eyes. You know why. Yes, I am still sad. No, I will not get over it in one week. And yes, I will fall apart unexpectedly. You are not in my head, and you don’t know that seeing a maternity store or going to a Christmas party where I expected to be “hiding” my pregnancy breaks my heart. Let me be.

If you do know what I have been through, don’t pretend like nothing happened. Ask me how I am. If you are afraid to hear the answer, then just tell me you are sorry. I already feel like I am living in my own, very lonely world, the world where everyone’s lives go on while mine stands still. So don’t make my loss a secret when it is just you and me. I have already been robbed of the chance to grieve publicly, so I count on you to be my shoulder.

P.S.: I just came across this wonderful resource on helping someone with miscarriage on another blog. It relates a lot to my rant, so I wanted to add it to this post.