Twenty-six, Pregnant, and Bleeding

In 2004, when I first joined Facebook the status update function looked very different than it does today. Many of you will remember the rigid format, but for those unfamiliar with FB V.1, here’s the Cliffnotes version. Well, actually, any version would be Cliffnotes because explaining how it works only requires one sentence.

And here it is: Username is…[and here is where you would write what you were doing].
Example: Audrey is riding her roller blades to class.

As a result of this structure, for years I would think about my day and important life events in the third person—in “update format.” I’m certain I am not alone in this thinking. A quick look through nine years’ worth of newsfeed is evidence of this.*

Not alone in wanting to share the details of my day to day.
*Derrill is obsessed with this new Halo.
*Erykah is embarrassed to admit she loves Fifty Shades of Grey.

Not alone in figuring out how to share my vacation musings, my new job news, or my thoughts on the politics of the moment.
*Bella is LOVING this vacation. The beach is SOOOO beautiful!
*Erik is a 2005 Kansas City Teach For America corps member!!!!
*Wayne is moving to Canada if Hilary becomes President.

Not alone in pouring over the ways to profess my love for another, announce the engagement, share my excitement about the wedding.
*Ava is so love with Harry. She thanks God every day for him and prays he always loves her.
*Mabel is GETTING MARRIED! She said “YES!!!!”
*John is so blessed. Today, he gets to marry the woman of his dreams.

Not alone in contemplating the best way to announce the pregnancy (I mean, come on, it has to be creative, unique, and hilarious!)
*Amanda is PREGNANT! No, for real this time, she’s pregnant.
*[insert photo of sonogram] Robert is going to be a DAD!!!!!!!
*[insert photo of pregnancy test] Michael is aware that shit just got real.

Not alone in announcing the loss of a baby

*Audrey is having a miscarriage.

Oh wait, no. Completely alone.

From the beginning of our pregnancy, my husband and I decided we were going to embrace the vulnerability work we’d both been doing in our lives and share the news right away. After all, telling our parents and closest friends about the pregnancy would not make me any more likely to miscarry. To date, I’ve yet to find a study that correlates feeling—really feeling—the joy of pregnancy and an increased risk of miscarriage. Plus, if something did go wrong, we knew we’d need a support system. Just in case, you know.

And then the blood came.
Followed by the fear.
The sadness.
The rage.
The loneliness.

The disappointment of having to tell an expectant set of grandparents that your body failed. The shame of watching your friends and people like Snooki carry babies to term, and knowing you didn’t. You couldn’t this time.

The imminent anxiety of next time. Already. Of lying in a hot shower, begging the painful cramps to end, and panicking about this happening again. Already.

And finally: this call to compassion.

The luxury we have this lifetime, this go ‘round, is our ability to connect in real time (see Facebook anecdotes above) with those who need to know they’re not alone, when they need to know it most. That is, in fact, what drives us all in the end--connection. To know we’re not alone. Loving Halo, moving to Canada, roller blading. We just want to know someone else gets it.

Particularly, when the shame, fear, and vulnerability washes over us. We just want to know that we’re still enough. Still worthy of love and belonging. Compassion does that for us. Compassion is the verb that not only celebrates the weddings, the love, the awesome meal posted to Facebook and Instagram, BUT also comforts the pain and sorrow. Compassion lets us know it’s just as safe to feel scared as it is to experience the joy you get from that kickass engagement ring he designed himself.

It’s a privilege to wrap our arms around each other and be there. When it’s tough. When it’s no longer the bride, wearing white, and dancing, but the twenty-six year old, pregnant, and bleeding.

It will not be comfortable, and you will not know what to say, and that’s okay. Let me help you.

Say:
I’m so sorry. I’m here for you.

Do not say:
It will be okay. It happens to 1 out of every 3 first pregnancies, and 1 out of 5 additional pregnancies.

Here’s why:
Rationalizing pain minimizes it. Trust me, from the moment the first drop of blood appeared until the doctor confirmed the loss, I was on the internet searching for answers, statistics, and hope. I know how common it is thanks to anonymous women on pregnancy message boards and Wikipedia. I don’t need to know how common it is from you. I need to hear you say that you connect with me on some level. “I’m so sorry” tells me that you understand pain, even if you can’t comprehend the situation.

Say:
It’s not your fault. You are allowed to feel devastated, but you don’t deserve to feel ashamed.

Do Not Say:
Don’t feel bad. It’ll happen when the time is right.

Here’s why:
It’s not my fault. Period. I didn't jinx it by telling people. I make it happen by worrying too much. It's not karma because I'm pro-choice. See rationale above-I’m an internet message board expert at this point-I understand biologically why it happened (chromosomal abnormality, most likely). I don’t need you telling me not to feel bad. I’m allowed to feel disappointed, heartbroken, sad, angry, etc... but, I don’t DESERVE to feel ashamed. And, that is where it gets tricky. Shame thrives in silence, and unless we start talking about the loss in our lives, I’ll forever feel alone. Inept compared to Snooki. Unless you’ve been there, you don’t know what it’s like to call your family and share the happiest news of your life, only to call them 8 days later with the most devastating. Joy is no longer untainted, it’s embarrassing to have been so unabashedly euphoric, only to have it not work out. Especially when it feels like your fault. Remind me it’s not my fault, protect me from shame, and then let me feel whatever I want to feel, goddamn it.


Say:
Take as much time as you need.

Do No Say:
You’re young. You can try again. You’ll have a baby soon.

Here’s why:
I’m terrified. What if this happens again? Once, I can rationalize as being normal. Twice, there must be something wrong with me. I can't even think about trying again yet. What if I have to break my parents’ hearts again? They shouldn’t have to worry about me. My sister shouldn’t make my sadness her burden. I need time to process this all. The nine month processing period between pregnant and baby is there for a reason. The overnight pregnant to not, is far more jarring. Don’t tell me I’m young and I can try again soon. To be honest, that just makes it worse. Miscarriage doesn’t happen to twenty-six year olds. Let me rephrase that, twenty-six year olds don’t talk about their miscarriages. In my mind, that means it doesn't happen to anyone else. I’m scared I’m the only one. The defective one—and I’m not. I need to know it's okay to take some time to make sense of it all.


Today, I challenge you to acknowledge the culture of silence and shame is not okay. Women and their partners deserve to know that they’re safe during what is quite possibly the most vulnerable time in their lives. Gone should be the days when women and their partners talk about their loss only once they’ve carried a healthy baby to term; as if miscarriage is a failure only to be spoken of after reveling in success. The truth is, to be entirely present, to be vulnerable, and to trust that others can and will support you not just in joy, but in sorrow, is a right belonging to all those willing to show up and accept it.

To be alive today is to be afforded a unique opportunity in history to broaden your reach of compassion, don’t let fear silence you. Reach out to those willing to be vulnerable with the world, share your sorrow, and trust that others will be there when you need them. I will be.

I’m so sorry. You’re not alone. Take as much time as you need.


*real status updates, names have been changed.