‘We suffer in silence’: five women share their miscarriage stories
Up to one in five known pregnancies end in miscarriage, but despite its ubiquity, the details of the experience are rarely discussed.
In September 2023, an Ohio woman who miscarried in the toilet at 22 weeks was turned in to police when she sought medical attention. A grand jury declined to indict Brittany Watts for “abuse of corpse” last week, but the charges sparked outrage on social media, prompting many women around the country to recount their own miscarriage stories.
Our recent callout asked readers about having a miscarriage in the US and was answered by over 100 people. Almost all indicated that understanding the statistical frequency of miscarriages – they occur in 10%-20% of known pregnancies – didn’t lessen the trauma they felt in the aftermath. In terms of treatment and support, respondents described a spectrum of experiences: doctors who were coldly indifferent or made them feel like criminals; surprise at the realization that many around them had also gone through pregnancy loss; and callous reactions from people who didn’t understand the physical or emotional process of miscarriage.
Many also wanted to emphasize that there is no control over where a miscarriage might occur: at the gym, during a board meeting, at church – and most commonly while on the toilet.
We selected five of those testimonies. Each entry has been vetted, but last names have been withheld to protect the women’s privacy.
‘There was no empathy; rather, the opposite’ – Libby, in Montana, where abortion is banned at fetal viability, generally 24– 26 weeks
About 11 years ago, when I was near the end of graduate school, my husband and I decided to try to get pregnant. Seven weeks into the pregnancy, my gynecologist confirmed the heartbeat. Less than a week later, I started to get really painful cramping, so painful I was light-headed and could barely walk.
My husband wanted to take me to the hospital that specialized in childbirth, but I was in so much pain that I insisted on going to the nearest emergency room. During the intake, they told me my blood pressure was low. Once I was admitted to the room and asked to describe my symptoms and why I came in, the male emergency room tech actually told me, in front of my husband, that miscarriages are normal and don’t hurt much and that my pain was a result of my emotions around losing a pregnancy. This was before I even knew I had lost the pregnancy.
Then the male emergency room doctor examined me. He made a disgusted face and tossed something across the room into the metal bin, saying he believed he had just seen some “fetal material”. There was no empathy, rather the opposite. My husband was tearing up and asked to excuse himself for air. When he left, the male tech commented: “We usually don’t see the husbands get upset like this. It’s usually the women.”
My memory of our treatment in that room has haunted me for years, especially as I hear women being charged for their miscarriages. While I don’t necessarily attribute some of our treatment to racism, I will note that my husband was Black and I am white.
‘It’s a tragedy for most of us’ – Heather, in Illinois, where abortion is banned at fetal viability
Pregnant women who miscarry cannot control whether we lose our pregnancy or not. It’s a tragedy for most of us. We wonder what we could have done differently even though we know we have no control.
It’s magical thinking to imagine ourselves able to prevent our own miscarriages, and we need help not to blame ourselves for losing what we wanted most, a child. The new legal trend to police and persecute women who miscarry is as barbaric as it is ignorant of the most basic knowledge of how pregnancy works. The idea that women can be held criminally responsible for miscarriage is a misogynist fantasy, divorced from the reality of miscarriage.
‘What I needed was shoulders to cry on’ – Britta, in Washington, where abortion is banned at fetal viability
The way we’re brought up, the way health teachers in school talk, you’d think you could get pregnant looking at someone the wrong way. Getting pregnant is hard. Getting pregnant is an emotional and physical rollercoaster. And if you miscarry, you, the birthing parent, can be left with a lot of physical and mental trauma. You blame yourself. You blame your body. You develop an unshakable fear about what might happen if you get pregnant again. And if you think too hard about what’s going on as it’s happening, you can’t shake the reality that there is a life that has ended inside of you. Your body is a vessel for a failed life. You are walking around the world knowing that, visualizing that, unable to take your mind off of that.
Yet, somehow, you are supposed to get up and go to work. Somehow, you are supposed to go to the grocery store, and pay the bills, and just keep going.
Women suffer through the experience in silence, either because it is too devastating to talk about, or because they don’t feel like it’s something people talk about. What I needed was shoulders to cry on, endless hugs, and compassion for my inability to operate like my normal self for a while. I wished the world had given me permission to not be OK, and to take a step back.
‘It’s not Brittany Watts’ fault’ – Lisa, in New Jersey, where abortion is not restricted based on gestational duration
Miscarriage happens all the time. It’s not [Brittany Watts’] fault. No matter whether she wanted the pregnancy or not, it’s traumatic. Plus, you have all this crazy hormonal stuff going on. I totally understand how this went the way it did for the Ohio woman.
If you aren’t getting anywhere with the medical staff and you’re just sitting around while you cramp and bleed, I’d also think it’s just as good as not to deal with this at home as at the hospital. The fact that the state is trying to prosecute her for not properly dealing with the remains of a nonviable pregnancy, all while she knew she actually needed medical care, is insane.
‘I wanted a more compassionate experience’ – Kristi, in Wisconsin, where abortion is banned after 22 weeks
We were excited to see our baby. During the ultrasound, the source of the bleeding was found. I had placenta previa, which often corrects itself. The tech also wanted to show us the baby and look at its heartbeat.
I remember the room going absolutely silent as she looked and looked and found no movement. No heartbeat. And her words, “I know this is not what you were expecting,” broke the silence like they were far away. I panicked. She brought in a very kind OB-GYN who went over options with us. I could wait to see if my body would “abort” the baby on its own or schedule a D and C right away. I decided to wait. I guess I wasn’t ready to let go. I didn’t have any support outside of my husband and was so scared. A missed miscarriage or missed abortion were the terms used. I hated the words. My baby had died. I wanted less medical terminology used and a more compassionate experience.
After two weeks went by, I scheduled a D and C. I found it to be miserable. My anxiety was overriding sedation and it was painful. I wanted to take the “products of conception” home for burial, but they had to go to the lab first. We collected them, wrapped in a brown lunch bag, a couple of days later. We eventually had a ritual to say goodbye to our first baby, named Izzy.
Now, at 56 years old, I realize how fortunate I was for the compassionate care I received. How much privilege I had during my treatment and care. I’m working for that kind of care for all moms.