I Had a Miscarriage Jessica Zucker (top 100 books to read txt) 📖

again. What could I have done differently? How did I let this happen? What if I had done X instead of Y, Y instead of Z? Should I have felt this way instead? And unfortunately, positioning a pregnancy loss as a moral or personal failing is something I hear about all too often in the context of both my work and my online community. This sentiment is prevalent in research as well.16

If we believe it is standard to get pregnant and stay pregnant, we are more apt to experience shame, as we believe our experience is somehow outside of the norm. If we believe there is one response to the loss of a pregnancy, and we do not embody that response, we are also more apt to experience shame, as we assume those we express our feelings to will judge us for not living up to society’s expectations. Shame isn’t just the logical conclusion, then, but actually serves to reignite silence and stigma. It encourages a sense that we, alone, are feeling this way. Why share it with others? Why reveal ourselves to be vulnerable in that way? And so, the cycle begins anew.

If shame is where the trifecta regenerates, it’s also the best entry point to begin to break the cycle apart. As Brené Brown aptly put it, the antidote to shame is empathy.17 Miscarriage means many things to many people; I wouldn’t posit that there is any one defining feeling of a pregnancy-loss experience. But the best way to make room for all those experiences, for all those individual stories, is by speaking them aloud. Free from the all-too-pervasive trifecta. We may, for example, witness a sea change if we rebel against the notion that we should keep pregnancies “secret” until the second trimester, when we are “out of the woods.” That way, we may begin to see loss as “normal” (or at least common), and in doing so, break down those often-reported feelings of alienation and isolation.18 If we know we’re not alone, suddenly we’re not so stigmatized. If we know we’re not alone, we can begin to chip away at that shame, letting it wriggle out of the isolating confines of our psyches, eventually fizzling out entirely as it languishes without a host to prey on. And if we could manage to do that, to squash shame when it threatens to overtake us, we can aim to ensure that future generations will be self-possessed when it comes to this topic. That they will know—and deeply believe—that their losses have absolutely nothing to do with something they did or didn’t do. They will not hate on themselves. Period. That’s the world I want to live in. That’s the world I’m humbly hoping to help create.

4

“I was understanding grief from a corporeal—not simply a theoretical—perspective.”

Four years before my miscarriage, Penelope sat across from me in my sunlit office, shadowed in grief. She’d been trying to get pregnant for years, and had been coming to see me for nearly all of those. Her hair changed from one radical style to another, with alternating showstopping color combos. She liked change, or at least the kind that can be expressed externally. I saw her through it all. After three miscarriages and two unsuccessful IVFs, she spoke softly of her strained marriage, wringing her hands in her lap. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, listening intently; she shifted her eyes toward the window. But no amount of diversion could hide what sat between us: my unmistakably pregnant belly.

Understandably, my patients wanted to know about my pregnancy with Liev; a third entity had entered the consultation room, altering the therapeutic dynamic. They peppered our sessions with questions like, “How do you feel?” (especially during the first trimester, when I glowed olive green) and, “Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?” (I didn’t). They wondered aloud how my impending motherhood would affect my work life. Some expressed concern I might not return to work. And even if I did, would I be able to see them, would I keep a similar schedule, work into the evenings like I had been? Others shared their complex and diverging feelings about returning to see me once I became a mother myself. They worried that my foray into motherhood might trigger their own loss histories so much that starting anew with another therapist might just be a less fraught route. I listened. I empathized.

My first pregnancy had come fast and was a remarkably simple time. I had no real concerns, no preoccupations. My husband and I traveled internationally, prepared our home to accommodate a third family member, and readied our careers the best we knew how. I called upon friends and family for tidbits of wisdom, hoping they would paint a candid picture of what was in store. For whatever reason, I wasn’t overly concerned about the birth, breastfeeding, or even the inevitable sleep deprivation. Until those moments actually happened, I was in a hearty state of denial about the upcoming transformation and what it might do to my lifestyle.

Before pregnancy and throughout it, I worked long days seeing patients. I love my work, and my body seemed on board with maintaining this schedule as the pregnancy progressed. Folding motherhood into my already busy clinical and writing life felt initially daunting, especially as I began to map out my maternity leave. The closer it got, however, the clearer I became about how I ideally wanted to divide my time: three very full days at work, two days at home.

And so, in that session, I was feeling strong, confident. But Penelope, in her usual thoughtful tone, expressed concern that I would lose the pregnancy and pressed me for details about my status and symptoms. “Thank you for checking in,” I’d respond. “I feel okay.” Then I’d turn the focus back to her. Together we explored the feelings my pregnant belly evoked for her: her envy of my seemingly easy go of