Before I had miscarried myself, I could certainly empathize with women. I imagined that it would be heartbreaking to lose a baby. However, I couldn’t know all of what a woman goes through, having never personally experienced it.

Then, just a week and a half after finding out that I was pregnant with our fourth child, I woke up bleeding. My husband was 400 miles away, and I was losing our baby. I was “only” 7 weeks pregnant, but you see, in my mind I had already envisioned my baby. I had dreamed about the birth. About both the joys and frustrations that came with breastfeeding. About cloth diapering for the first time. I had already made a list in my mind for the types of diaper covers and slings I wanted to make. A week into knowing that I was pregnant, and just a few days before I lost my baby, I even went out and bought a serger to be able to make all of these baby items I was planning. It’s been three and a half months since I lost my baby, and I still haven’t been able to bring the darn thing out yet. I haven’t used it once, because I haven’t been able to. There were other things that I had no control over facing – such as my first period back after the miscarriage. But this, I have control over. I can decide to bring it out when I’m ready. So far, I’m not there yet. And it’s just a sewing machine.

In some circles, I feel like a freak. You see, I lost the baby just 3 days before moving out of state, to where I knew only one person. She happened to be my closest friend, and she happened to have gotten pregnant just three weeks after me. Talk about sucking. I went from being 400 miles away, to having a front row seat to watch my friend go through the pregnancy that I should have been going through as well…speaking of the timing. It hurt more than I thought it ever could. The only people that I have met here so far, have been through her. Talk about awkward. She hasn’t known how to “handle” me, as she has never lost a baby. It was hurtful to have a close friend be weird with me. I needed to be able to talk to her, and I couldn’t. Not about this. It was painful to go to the playgroup, as most moms were either pregnant or had a new baby in arms. Slowly, I stopped going. It became a move of self-preservation. My husband didn’t know what to do with me, and still doesn’t, on my bad days. I think I went through a period of denial when we first moved. It was easy to try to ignore my feelings, even though I was still bleeding heavily, and having pain. I was busy trying to get our new house in order, and afore mentioned friend ended up in the hospital for a non-pregnancy related illness. I visited with her, and tried to comfort her, when I was just 4 days out from my loss. It was easier to do, than to slow down and think. This ended up being a mistake, because it resulted in a major emotional crash. I went through severe depression once everything slowed. I was forced to face what had happened, and deal with my emotions. I was a wreck. I felt like I was supposed to be okay, that people expected me to be “better”, because it had been 2 weeks, and I was only 7 weeks when it happened. I wasn’t better. I wasn’t even okay. I felt like there was a huge black hole, and that I was the butt of an extremely cruel joke. In circles of women who have had losses, I was normal. Unfortunately, the number of those who actually talk about it, is small. So that feeling of normalcy was rarely felt. I wanted, and still want at times, to talk about the morning of my miscarriage. Not necessarily to dwell on it, but to talk about it. And few would ask me. I’m not sure if it was because they didn’t want to upset me, or if it was too odd for them to ask. Either way, it felt like people were ignoring what happened.

When someone loses a parent, a sister, a loved one … people around ask how you’re doing, they ask what they can do. People ask to hear about what happened. When people lose a loved one, they are given plenty of room to grieve, and are given complete understanding if they are depressed for weeks and months, and if they have bad emotional days.

Women who miscarry, particularly those who miscarry early in the pregnancy, seem to be expected to be over it soon. It sucks. It’s not fair, and it sucks. Much to my frustration, there is no manual of how to grieve a miscarriage. Whether you’re 7 weeks, or 7 months, you’ve still lost a baby. And if you’re anything like me, that baby was loved and planned for from the moment that second line appeared. For me, there hasn’t seemed to be a control button where jealousy is concerned, nor immense sorrow that leaves you feeling like you were run over by a bus. I wish that women could feel free to speak about their losses, and have it not make people feel awkward. And not just within assigned communities or groups.

I also wish that people would refrain from possibly well-meaning, yet incredibly hurtful comments. Some of the top comments that shouldn’t ever be said to a woman who lost her baby : “Well, at least you have ___ children. Be grateful for those that you have.” Nobody ever said that we cease to be grateful for the children we do have. But why does that negate the grieving that we will do for those that we lose? Why is this acceptable, but it would be unacceptable to say “Well, at least you have another grandmother. Be grateful for that.” To someone who just lost a grandmother? “This is for the better. Something was probably wrong with the baby.” Yes. This makes us feel better. It obviously gives us the opportunity to focus our attention on what could have been wrong with the baby. Much better! “You’ve gotten pregnant before, you can get pregnant again!” I understand the sentiment behind this one is well-meaning. However, why do people believe that babies are replaceable? If one is lost, just create another? Does no one give a thought to what women go through as different stages of the would-be pregnancy pass, particularly the due date? It doesn’t matter if another baby is conceived, there was a baby - a very specific baby – that was lost. A baby isn’t a sweater or a cell phone. And a comment that was so incredibly insensitive that a new friend told me that she received: “Well at least you finally got your VBAC.” Nice. Because that was the highlight of losing her baby. At least the baby came out of her vagina instead of an incision in her abdomen.

There are some things that are helpful to say to a woman who has lost her baby.One of the most meaningful things that a dear friend said to me was, “I’m so sorry you lost your baby.” Seems simple, right? When most people say things like, “I’m sorry about the miscarriage”, it removes any personal aspect from it. When one says “I’m so sorry you lost your baby”, you are specifically acknowledging that she lost a baby. She didn’t just have a “miscarriage”, she lost her baby. Acknowledge that. It shows her that you care. If she wants to talk about it, listen. Ask her if she wants to talk about it, and be sincere. Ask her if she needs anything. If she has other children, it might be difficult for her to get things done around the house depending on the severity of her depression. I know that I neglected things at times, because all I could do was stare straight ahead and breathe at times. Ask if there’s anything special she’d like to do to remember her baby on her due date. She may not want to, but she may also be really touched that someone else has given a thought to this. It’s been three and a half months, and sometimes things still suck. I end up raw and emotional at odd and often inconvenient times. I’ve lost a friendship due to my inability to cope with her pregnancy updates ( gotta love the internet! ) and her lack of empathy and understanding. All around, things have just sucked. And that may sound repetitive, but that was pretty much my mantra when all of this started. It was the one thing that seemed to encompass all of what I was feeling – from the sorrow, to the bitterness, and the jealousy in between. And you know what? One thing that I’ve learned is that it’s okay to say “This sucks”. When people ask how you’re doing, it’s okay to say “Not well. This really sucks.” You have every right to do so. And eventually, it will start sucking less. I don’t think the pain will ever go away completely. But I do know that after a time, it has to dull at least some. It just has to.