This article has appeared in several magazines. The author gives a true account of miscarriage and the grief and silence which follows.

I’ll be 37 shortly; my husband is twelve years older.  We’ve been married two years.  Neither of us have children.

            When we married we envisioned two lifestyle scenarios: being a loving couple for ‘forever and two days’ or becoming a happy family unit with one or more children.  Neither of us considered the possibility of being pregnant and not having a baby.

            Miscarriage was a rare occurrence as far as we were concerned.  No one speaks about pregnancy failures i.e. miscarriage, stillbirth or infant death, so why consider it?  Besides, the success rate of women giving birth after 35 with today’s medical technology is comparable for women in their childbearing twenties.

            Medical technology notwithstanding, miscarriage does exist for women of all ages; it is simply an unspoken death.

            Eight days ago I learned I miscarried for the fifth time.  Miscarriage too often and for too many is a secret loss; this time I’m talking about it.

            Since speaking about our tragedy more than ten women, including some in my immediate family, have whispered they, too, had miscarried.  Women seem to treat miscarriage as something to be embarrassed about and shamed for, rather than an unfortunate fact of life.

            Miscarriage is a tragic loss.  In order to heal and overcome grief, we need to grieve openly.  As with any loss we need to offer support and understanding in the telling of our stories, not condemnation, ridicule or godly solutions.  I, personally, am weary of grieving alone.

            Our first positive pregnancy test brought joy to our hearts.  Our joy was short lived.  I started spotting at five weeks.  On the advice of doctors I stayed home the weekend with my feet up, to no avail.  I remember standing in the doorway after passing the embryo feeling numb.  I said, “I lost the baby.”

            My husband, Richard, held me in his arms; we literally clung to each other and cried.  We were surprised at the intensity of our grief.

            Outside of my parents and pastor no one knew I miscarried or had been pregnant.  This tragedy became a type of family secret.  Although the grief was all to real, what does one say about this intangible loss?

            The odds of having a baby in a second pregnancy attempt were the same as if I hadn’t lost the first one.  The second pregnancy was discovered while on vacation in Hawaii.  I called my folks with the good news.  The idea of miscarriage was remote, until spotting, pain and cramping became so intense a drive to the hospital ended with an emergency D&C.

            Although we had had only two days to rejoice in the idea of a baby, the grief we experienced was as real and painful as the first.  Only now self-doubt and recriminations about being a child-bearing woman engulfed me.  We were in a strange city, isolated, alone and in physical as well as emotional pain.  Who was there to talk to, to tell of our misfortune?  The same question held the same answer once we were home.

            We only had each other.

            We wanted to know why this was happening to us, so we turned to medicine.  The doctors weren’t much help.  Only when a woman aborts three times, do they look for answers to that intense and painful question, why?

            Two times was enough for me.  I went to the library to research miscarriage.  Although the most common pregnancy failure is miscarriage, I learned no one knows precisely why miscarriage happens.  Miscarriage affects up to 900,000 families a year.  Nearly 75% of all miscarriages occur within the first 12 weeks.  Experts suspect half are due to an abnormality in the embryo or process of implantation.  About 30% of the women who do miscarry, may not even realize they were pregnant.

            I knew pregnancy failures like miscarriage, stillborn or infant death existed, but not with such frequency!  My first funeral as a parish pastor was for a stillborn girl.  The mother wanted me to do the service because I was a woman; she was sure I could understand her loss.  I did the service, but only in the last few years have I begun to comprehend her painful loss.

            When I realized I was pregnant for the third time, I went straight to my obstetrician.  I wanted nothing to happen to this one.  I made it past the fifth week with no problems.  I began “to show” around seven weeks.  At eight weeks I had an ultrasound.  We were hoping for twins, since 23 sets are in my family.

            Instead of twin embryos my extended abdomen was filled with amniotic fluid from a blighted ovum.  Another D&C was necessary.

            I imagine one of the most difficult tasks obstetricians have is informing women they are no longer having a viable birth.  I admire my physician; he entered the exam room with these words, “Do you still feel like a worthwhile human being?”

            No. I didn’t.

            One might think a former Lutheran pastor with a doctorate in counseling could handle all the grief, doubts and anger.  Even though I knew what I was going through psychologically it didn’t take away the tears or pain.  It didn’t remove the emptiness in the pit of my stomach.  It didn’t aid in the embarrassment of self and friends when told there would be no baby.

            Once again I felt as though my body had betrayed me; as a woman and child bearer I was the epitome of failure.  Emotionally, I couldn’t imagine my husband loving me, this woman who gave false promises of a child.

            Biblically, I wondered what God thought about this woman who could only fulfill half the command to be fruitful and multiply.  Theologically, I wondered about a Creator “who knew me in my mother’s (sic) womb”, as Jeremiah wrote, who could allow death to occur so frequently in mine.

            I knew grief was shadowing my sanity and perspective of myself and my marriage, but it didn’t and doesn’t make it any easier.

            Since I was labeled a chronic aborter, the medical community finally offered assistance.  Strangely enough, we passed all the tests and planned for a healthy pregnancy.

            In late October an immobile and unbearable gas pain in my left side turned out to be a ruptured tubular pregnancy.

            I now had four miscarriages behind me.  Every pregnancy offered hope.  Each became a chance to remove the agony of the ‘lost one(s)’.  Habitual miscarriages mean repeated physical and mental trauma.  With each pregnancy failure feelings become more magnified and intense.

            During my two months of recuperation Richard and I talked about our attempts to have children.  The ectopic, although threatening, actually brought us hope; if the embryo had been in the uterus it should have grown to full term.  Now we had a 50% chance of getting pregnant, a 10% chance of another ectopic.  We decided to let nature take its course.

            This time, I knew the morning after.  The doctor knew two weeks later.  We weren’t taking any chances, we hired someone to care for the llamas on our farm and clean the house I didn’t lift anything over seven pounds.  We elected to keep the news to ourselves and a few close friends for prayer and emotional support to wait out the beginning weeks.

            In the next six weeks I crocheted four Christmas presents, began a baby blanket, learned to spin llama wool and read ten books.  I did the prescribed exercises; ate the right foods; took prenatal vitamins.  I never felt so healthy.  A minor problem, spotting, occurred at six weeks.  After the first miscarriage I learned from my female family members this was a normal occurrence.  A blood test six days later confirmed I was still pregnant.  I hadn’t miscarried.

            As I write this it is now two weeks later and the sad news is, I did.  Once again I find myself in the pathos of grief.

            I was rather stoic after hearing the news.  It wasn’t until midnight, as I was lying in bed, all the emptiness, anger and grief overwhelmed me.  Silent tears flowed down my cheeks.  I needed to be alone.  I left the bedroom for another – the one that would have been for a newborn baby.  I laid across the guest bed and sobbed for a good forty minutes.  I relived every miscarriage.  I grieved for the ectopic embryo, our promise that a living being can exist inside me.

            Guilt drove me to review the past week, what I hadn’t walked a 1.5 miles or gone shopping, would there have been a baby?

            I screamed silently at God, where are you?  Why did you let this happen again?

            I remembered being a hospital chaplain and listening to a woman say much the same things, grieving for her baby who had died invitro at eight months.  She, too, was “older’; this was to be her first child.  I listened to her pain, anger and disbelief at the turning of this blessed event into one of tragedy. Now, I understand in part her feelings of emptiness and the anxious waiting to be rid of this “thing”; for I too, must wait another ten days for my body to dispel what remains of a now foreign organism.

            As with any loss I am grieving at my own pace fluctuating between the stages of shock, denial, sadness, despair, guilt and anger.  I hope for what Dr. Kubler-Ross terms resolution and reorganization.

            I’m over the shock.  Currently denial and despair trip over each other in my psyche as I clean house with fervor, prune the grapes and apple trees and feed our pregnant llamas.

            I am surprised at the deep sadness, which comes upon me suddenly causing tears to flow uncontrollably.  Anger sends me to the store for pizza, cookies and M&M’s to punish my body for another failure.

            The only positive plan is to finish the baby blanket.  I will give it to my pastor, who is six months pregnant.  It will be for her new daughter.

            I am lucky.  Richard and I talk.  We’ve only begun to communicate our feelings about this final loss.  We agree it’s too soon to discuss future possibilities; we need to deal with the present grief.

            I need to talk about this miscarriage and not just with my husband.  There is no reason why friends and the Christian community cannot share in the grief or support me or others like me during this time.  The Lutheran church has recognized this loss through a special liturgy yet, how often is it spoken or offered for the bereaved, when few ever admit it happened?

            Miscarriage does not have to be an unspoken death; a loss to be experienced alone.

            I recognize the hardship for friends and family to understand what kind of emotional support is needed for this special grief.

            They need to know my isolation and feelings of being alone are only enhanced with statements like, “At least you never knew this child … It could have been worse.. You’ll have another … Something must have been wrong with it .. This is nature’s way of sparing you an imperfect baby…It’s all for the best.”

            For all these well-intentioned comments, silence or a simple “I’m sorry” or “I’ll listen if you want to talk about it” would be far more appropriate and beneficial.  I am grateful for the friends, who listen to the pain; who offer no platitudes or solutions, simply touch or hug when the tears suddenly appear.

            I am no longer with child.  When I began to write this article I was.  I wanted to conclude on a positive note – miscarriage is not an end in and of itself.

            We, the public must recognize miscarriage as a traumatic physical and mental reality, even though we can’t always see the loss.  Miscarriage is an unfortunate fact of life that must be dealt with and treated like any other death.

            I wanted to advise those who miscarry: don’t bottle up the pain, the deprecating self-image, and the feelings of yet another failure.  Miscarriage has been an unspoken death, too long.  Only through the sharing of our stories can one experience the grace of renewal, the love of God and the healing powers in community.

            Little did I know when I began this article I would be writing these words for me, as well.

Author’s Note: Since the article was written Dr. Beattie has born a girl and adopted a wonderful son.  She continues to help others verbalize their grief and life’s journey in her interactive workbook, Becoming Me: A Journey Towards Self-Discovery for the child, Adolescent and Adult.