Jewish girls in the Midwest where I grew up are instructed to wait until the second trimester before announcing their pregnancy. We would be magically protected from loss at twelve weeks. After passing that point, having a live baby seemed assured.
I believed I had earned the right to show my partner and two dogs an early ultrasound photo once I had passed the 12th week of my first pregnancy. I was looking forward to receiving a ton of diapers, support, and guidance. I adhered to this unwritten rule and never once had cause to doubt it, but everything changed when I subsequently miscarried a pregnancy.
In 2021, the day before Thanksgiving, I No pregnant parent wants to hear those five words: “Your baby has no heartbeat.” I lay on the table, eight months pregnant and unable to move or breathe, after three agonizing ultrasounds to confirm death.
Can we finally have a conversation about guys and miscarriage grief?
It took all of my energy to phone my husband, who was spending an unusually warm day at a park with my kid. He had no idea that a grief this intense and all-consuming would suddenly also affect his life. My OB advised me to spend Thanksgiving with my family and let labor begin naturally, but the thought of having a dead baby inside of me for even a minute brought me rushing to the hospital.
I discovered that day that mothers of stillborn children must deliver their dozing infants and leave the hospital holding nothing. Never in a million years would I be my son’s mother. Devastating didn’t seem to adequately express the depth of the anguish.
Only a small group of individuals, including my immediate family, close friends, and the yoga students who had watched me becoming rounder and slower with each passing month, were aware that I was pregnant at the time. Because the pregnancy followed immediately on the heels of a missed miscarriage 10 months earlier, I had made the difficult decision not to disclose it early (it’s difficult to do so).
