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Less than one in 10,000.  Those were the odds of us losing our unborn baby after our last doctor's visit. Those were the odds when I went into premature labor, and battled through twelve hours of painful contractions. And those were the odds when our baby girl was born at home, in the most undignified way possible, with no chance of surviving, but fully formed and sucking her thumb.

It was a girl.  We hadn't known that yet, because I was just 4 1/2 months along. She was one in 10,000.  If she was anything like her big sister, she was probably more like one in a million.  We can't know any of that though, because we never got to meet her. 

Over the last few weeks, we learned a lot.  We learned how much it is possible to cry in a single day. We learned about funeral costs for stillborn babies,  the developmental psychology of breaking the news of a miscarriage to our toddler, and how our awesome neighbors will deliver no less than 3 whole cooked chickens to our house in crisis situations.   I learned to loathe the word "Miscarriage," and that my husband just might be an actual superhero. I learned a lot about "complications," after weeks of scary nights trying to determine exactly how much blood I could lose without having to drive to the ER. I had three surgeries.  I had four blood transfusions.  I developed a new appreciation for the amazing people (most of them teenagers by the way) who are dedicated to donating blood in our community.

I learned more about how I feel about Millie. Wow.

Millie--- one day, when you are old enough, I will tell you about how you saved us on that awful day.  How your two adult parents leaned on you for support. How it felt to take you in our arms and to feel your warm heart beating.  One day I will tell you how your smiling, loving face did more than a million shots of morphine could, although admittedly, I was also on a lot of morphine when I saw you.

I don't know why I feel compelled to share the worst experience of my life in such a public way except a.) I was 4 1/2 months in-- so everyone knew already I was pregnant, and we never really had the option of anonymity. And, b.) The most overwhelming part of this to us has been how many families are affected by this.  So many women have sidled up to me and said, "Welcome to the club--- it's the super secret club that nobody want's to join, but you'll be amazed how many people are in it." 

So here I am.  Talking about it. The club. The secret super awful club. Please don't feel like you need to read any of this. But, it's my guess that a lot more women than most of us realize have been forever changed by a similar loss. It's so messed up--- in a society where we have ACTUAL COMMERCIALS ABOUT BONER PILLS, there is a taboo about speaking out about the death of the children we are carrying with us?  The parents of the 15% of confirmed pregnancies that end in miscarriage each year are expected to go to work the next day, pretending everything is fine.

Even the word "miscarriage" is insultingly tidy.  It sounds like something from a Jane Austen Novel. "....And then, Baron Boatright handed the Viscountess into her miscarriage and she drove towards her lodgings on Chambers street."

Ugh. Please don't say that to a woman: "I'm sorry to hear about your miscarriage." Instead, be a real human and acknowledge her experience.  First of all, acknowledge the fact that, most likely, there was a birth along with that death, and that what she went through was probably not clean or painless.  Second, acknowledge that a life she was looking forward to is lost from the world.  Say to her, "I'm sorry that this tiny person, who you were hoping to hold, and tickle, and put on restriction, and fight with about politics, is gone from the world.  Or, "I'm sorry that this person you were hoping to watch quietly as you slipped into your elderly years--- this person whose visits and photographs would occupy your aging mind-- this person who may even be there with you when you pass--- this person is gone now, and never will be." Say that. Or-- better yet--- don't say anything. Except "I'm sorry," or "I love you," or, "I'm here for you when you need me."

I had a woman (a hospital employee no less) say to me recently-- "I guess it wasn't meant to be."

Don't say that ever.

And women, please talk about this to your families.  Tell your daughters.  Tell your sons.  Tell your employees so they know that they can approach you if they come into a similar situation.

When I was a little girl, I learned all about my grandmother's family history. I  learned about her childhood as the daughter of german immigrants. I learned about the death of her younger sister, Jacqueline-- who was hit by a train.  I heard the story of her two dogs-- Dixie and Dolly- who rolled in some dead shark over a camping trip at the beach.  (I heard that story probably 1,000 times.)  Guess what story I never heard, not until recently?

Until recently, I never heard the story of the child she lost at 18 weeks--exactly the same as me. I never heard how she went into labor far too early and experienced the horror of giving birth to a baby who could not live.  She was in bed for two months.  She almost wasn't brave enough to try again, but-- thankfully for me-- she did and had my father.

I'm not trying to criticize my grandmother or other women who keep these things quiet.  What I am trying to say is that the societal taboos that make us feel like we have to keep these things quiet are unhelpful.  At least in my case, I'm choosing to tell my daughter a different story.

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For more information on why we chose to present this information to Millie in this way click here.
We are still battling through post-partum and other emotions, but for an update on how we are doing, click here.
For information on the service we had, along with a list of bible verses, click here.