Michelle Obama is right - we need to talk about miscarriage
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 — or that’s what I thought, before I read last week that she too was a woman who has experienced the agony of a miscarriage. It’s amazing, really, that it is still so surprising to hear someone in the public eye talking about losing a child like this. It’s something so many women experience, and yet even in 2018, a woman 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 in her mid-thirties. “We sit in our own pain, thinking that somehow we’re broken. I think 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 which stays with your 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 (we discovered we were having a little boy), 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, who we named John after my father, a few days later in hospital. The hospital chaplain was so fantastic, encouraging us to have a funeral for him. In intense physical and emotional pain, I didn’t like the idea at first, thinking it sounded terribly grim. But I’m so glad now that we did it. It was just my partner and I, and 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 anymore.
It’s the terrible irony about miscarriage — millions of women have them, and yet no one talks about it. ‘It’s just part of life,’ goes one of my least favourite platitudes. ‘At least you know you can get pregnant’ is another. Even worse: ‘Ah well, you can try again.’ Yes, I can try again. But I wanted that baby. I’m still grieving for that baby. My partner was brilliant, but it’s different for women. You’re the one who has carried the baby, you have the hormonal changes to deal with, the guilt, the terrible misplaced blame, not to mention the grief.
In my experience, 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. For some time after my first miscarriage (I went on to have another a few years later at eight weeks), reading a story like hers would have been difficult. It was all so raw still. But that doesn’t mean to say I wouldn’t have wanted to read it. Because it would have also reminded me that I am not the first woman to ever experience that pain, and will not be the last.
The corporate atmosphere of City life suddenly felt too hollow after everything that had happened and I quickly left. 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, which I hope will provide some comfort to those in need.
I still think about John often, and wonder what he would have grown up to be. My two daughters (Lilia, 19, and Hana, 16) know about him, and they’ve always been sad not to have had an older brother. I expect he will always be part of me. But I can cope with the loss now, and I don’t feel alone with it anymore.
As told to Eleanor Steafel
