10-25% of all recognized pregnancies end in miscarriage. That number is actually low. Many miscarriages occur before a woman even knows she is pregnant which would bring that number to more than 30%.
It is a heartbreaking reality that happens all too often. So why is it not talked about? Why do we not acknowledge the very real existence of pregnancy loss? It’s taboo to talk openly about miscarriage. It makes people uncomfortable; especially those who have never experienced it. But the reality is, NOT talking about it makes the women who HAVE experienced miscarriage feel ashamed and embarrassed. As if they did something wrong. NOT talking about it makes us diminish the life growing inside of us. Life and death are realities that we all encounter throughout our existence. Miscarriage happens to be about both life and death as well. And it doesn’t just happen to women. Yes, physically. But emotionally, it happens to men too.
On February 11th, 2011, at 16 weeks pregnant, I delivered my surrogate baby. A sleeping baby boy. It was not something I or his parents ever thought would happen so early. As someone who has just been through this devastating reality, I urge you to reach out to those who have been through a miscarriage. Offer an ear to listen, a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on. It takes time to heal, but eventually, we will want to talk about it.
When I was in the hospital there was a card on my door with a leaf cradling a teardrop. It signifies loss and suffering. I recently found a poem that explains its meaning and I want to share it:
A growing leaf, green in color, has fallen prematurely. It has separated from the tree of life and landed in a pool of water, of many tears. It is a dark moment. A human tear lingers on the freshly fallen leaf... before it turns brown.
Fallen.
Drifting aimlessly
on a sea of grief and pain
the leaf cradles a teardrop.
Offers refuge.
Embodies hope.
Just as winter awakens to spring,
our deepest sorrow harbors the seed of hope renewed.
Hope renewed.
by Susan Ring.
Fallen.
Drifting aimlessly
on a sea of grief and pain
the leaf cradles a teardrop.
Offers refuge.
Embodies hope.
Just as winter awakens to spring,
our deepest sorrow harbors the seed of hope renewed.
Hope renewed.
by Susan Ring.
Bethany my thoughts are with you. I can't even imagine. So very sorry.
ReplyDeleteThat poem is beautiful. I am sorry for your loss :(
ReplyDeleteI lost my son at 17 weeks, I am here if you need to talk.
ReplyDeleteand I know exactly how you feel upon miscarriages being unspoken territory, I have a fairly large tattoo on my upper shoulder blade of a sleeping baby laying in wings and people often ask why I have it and as soon as I mention my son and what it symbolizes they say they are sorry BUT not for my miscarriage they are sorry for asking about it.