It began, or rather, ended, with a single speck of blood on a wad of tissue. Hours later, my body cramped as my unborn child slipped away. It took a while for my mind to catch up - to realise that the raw sounds of wailing came from me.
Still, I dried my tears, got dressed, and went to work. I wasn’t sure if what had happened was a real tragedy.
Could I justify being so devastated? Losing a bundle of cells did not equate to a death. Or did it?
I realised later that other people were just as unsure as I was.
Though friends and family blanketed me with sympathy and support, I also sensed a hurriedness to move on from it.
Though friends and family blanketed me with sympathy and support, I also sensed a hurriedness to move on from it.
“You’ll have another one,” said a friend, though the thought of replacing my baby so soon felt as heartbreaking as losing him.
“Miscarriage is common,” said another. True words, but said at the wrong time.
“What do you think caused it?”, was asked, as though I could have somehow changed the outcome.
There was praise for not crying, as if grief was better left concealed.
And eventually, a silence settled around the subject, one that I didn't feel strong enough to penetrate.
What else was there to do then but carry on?
And though the last traces of the pregnancy eventually vanished, the grief remained. A greyness hovered over me. I couldn’t concentrate or connect with people, much less muster a real smile. My days were colourless and exhausting.
Seeking solace, I went on leave and found myself meandering the banks of the Lane Cove River.
I hadn't planned on becoming a sobbing, shaking mess, but nature had a cathartic effect. Amidst the solitude, gum trees, and the sound of water, my tightly held grief unclenched itself.
Alone in that safe place, I could finally admit to myself that the baby wasn’t just blood on a tissue; he had been a real person to me from the start.
Alone in that safe place, I could finally admit to myself that the baby wasn’t just blood on a tissue; he had been a real person to me from the start.
He was very much alive inside me, and he had died. He deserved a proper send-off.
As though nature were answering, a lone white flower presented itself to me on the path. It was a sign, the object I needed to honour him.
Holding the flower, I stood by the river.
“It wasn’t your time,” I said out loud to my lost child. “But I will always be your mother. I won’t forget you.”
I also spoke to my body, honouring it for carrying life.
“Thank you,” I said to it. "You did the best you could.”
The tears flowed freely as I said the words again and again, unhurried. When I felt ready, I gave my child a name and released him. I set the flower afloat on the river and stayed until I couldn’t see it anymore.
It was a makeshift funeral but it was the least my baby deserved.
Miscarriage is a grey area. It's a loss of life that is not given the same status as death.
In bereavement, there’s a social machinery that quickly rolls into motion. There are memorial services, cards, flowers, and eulogies. All these norms are in place to help us navigate the chaos of loss, giving us a safe space to confront the reality of death and honour the deceased. By going through the motions of grief in a ritualistic way, we transform our grief into action and enable healing to begin. They also give the community the chance to support the bereaved without the awkwardness of figuring out how.
A plasticine artwork created by the Ala Paredes. Source: Supplied
But with miscarriage, there are no rituals to help us find our way through grief, no social gestures to support the sufferer, and no language to honour the child that was lost. And when society hasn't figured out how to talk about something, it’s simply avoided and considered taboo.
Miscarriage is common, it’s true. So why do so many of us still grieve in secret, wishing we’d be given a bit more than just hesitant words and silence?
Miscarriage is common, it’s true. So why do so many of us still grieve in secret, wishing we’d be given a bit more than just hesitant words and silence?
By sheer serendipity, white flowers made another unexpected appearance on the day I returned to work. A bunch of lilies lay waiting on my desk, next to a punnet of strawberries and a note from a female friend.
"Sorry this is so late,” it read. “Just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you.”
I was speechless. Till then, I didn't think pregnancy loss deserved to be acknowledged so openly, with a gesture and not just whispers.
It also made perfect sense. When people die, we send tokens of sympathy. Why should miscarriage be any different?
Intentions can be powerful when transformed into action. A simple bunch of lilies reminded me that I was not alone, and that my loss had not been forgotten. It gave me the freedom to shed tears without shame.
If this story has raised issues for you or anyone you know needs help, you can contact: (miscarriage, stillbirth and newborn death support) on 1300 072 637 or the on (02) 9557 9070
