We need more women to open up about miscarriage
It helps when people like the former first lady open up, says miscarriage mentor Jo Tocher
She is unquestionably one of the most powerful women in the world – strong, authoritative, wonderful mother, supportive wife, world-class lawyer and dedicated campaigner. Even before she was first lady, Michelle Obama was probably all of those things. The idea that her glamorous international life could bear any resemblance to mine seemed doubtful – until I read last week that she, too, experienced the agony of a miscarriage. It is still so surprising to hear a someone in the public eye talking about losing a child like this. It’s something so many women experience, and yet even in 2018, one who suffers a miscarriage often won’t know that two of her dearest friends have been through that same trauma.
“I felt lost and alone, and I felt like I failed because I didn’t know how common miscarriages were, because we don’t talk about them,” said Obama, who also went through IVF prior to conceiving her two daughters. “We sit in our own pain, thinking that somehow we’re broken. It’s the worst thing that we do to each other as women, not share the truth about our bodies and how they work, and how they don’t work.”
I’m inclined to agree. I know from personal experience how devastatingly isolating it can feel, however supportive your partner is. I know how it is a particular kind of pain that stays with you for years after everyone else in your life has forgotten it ever happened.
I had my first miscarriage at 36. It was my first pregnancy, and as
I was considered an older mother, it was recommended I have an amniocentesis, a test to check for abnormalities. At 23 weeks, a scan revealed that there was amniotic fluid inside the baby’s tummy and not enough in the amniotic sack. We were told we had two choices: that it was very unlikely our baby would make it to full term, and if he did he’d be severely mentally and physically damaged. “Think about it over the weekend,” the consultant said. “And decide if you want to have a termination or let nature take its course.”
I chose the latter, too devastated to make the decision to terminate. But it wasn’t long before I started feeling pains in my abdomen, and another trip to the consultant confirmed that my baby had died. I was induced and gave birth to the baby, whom we named John after my father, a few days later in hospital. The hospital chaplain was
Grieving a muchwanted baby stays with you for life – it never goes away
so fantastic, encouraging us to have a funeral for him. In intense physical and emotional pain, I didn’t like the idea at first. But I’m so glad now that we did it. Though it was harrowing, of course, it made things more real.
After that, I was given a leaflet for counselling and sent home to heal. Within a couple of weeks I was back at work in the City, trying to do what everyone tells you to do – get on with life. But I wasn’t the same person. It’s the terrible irony about miscarriage – millions of women have them, and yet no one talks about it. In my experience, the grieving for a much-wanted baby doesn’t happen within a neat window of time – it stays with you your entire life. It never goes away. But you learn to live with it and release the emotions which at first threaten to engulf you by talking about it. By doing little things to ensure you don’t feel so alone.
That’s why it’s so important that women in the public eye talk about these experiences. I hope that hearing Obama’s words – discussed in a televised interview about her new memoir, Becoming – reaches someone who is now going through what I did more than 20 years ago. After my first miscarriage (I went on to have another a few years later, at eight weeks), reading a story like hers has reminded me that I am not the first woman to experience that pain, and will not be the last.
Now, I run a series of programmes helping women to heal after miscarriage and have just written a book, Life After Miscarriage: Your Guide to Healing from Pregnancy Loss.
I still think about John often. My daughters (Lilia, 19, and Hana, 16) know about him, and they’ve always been sad not to have had an older brother. He will always be a part of me. But I can cope with the loss now and I don’t feel alone with it any more.