The first time I encountered the term “miscarriage,” I was around 9 or 10 years old, playing in the backyard of a friend. During a conversation about siblings, she mentioned, “I have two brothers or sisters in heaven.” I paused, intrigued yet confused. “My mom had two miscarriages,” she explained. In my youthful imagination, I pictured a chaotic scene of her mother pushing a stroller only for it to tip over, leading to the tragic loss of those babies. To this day, that distorted image resurfaces whenever I hear the word “miscarriage”—a far cry from the reality of such a profound experience.
In our society, we often gloss over the difficult truths of life, including loss and grief. The term “miscarriage” is one of those uncomfortable realities that we tend to sugarcoat. My objection to this word lies in its inability to truly convey the enormity of what it represents: the death of a child, the loss of dreams, and the aftermath of deep sorrow.
Firstly, the word itself fails to encapsulate the true nature of the event. It doesn’t convey the chaos or the heartbreak that accompanies such a loss. Secondly, it often implicitly places the blame on the mother. Take my childhood friend’s remark, for instance: “My mom had two miscarriages,” suggesting her mother had control over the situation. Yet, you rarely hear someone say, “Did you hear about Mark? He had a miscarriage.” It’s always, “Poor Mark, his wife had a miscarriage.”
You might be wondering why this topic stirs such passion in me. Perhaps it’s clear by now. Yes, I endured the heart-wrenching loss of two pregnancies. It’s an experience that haunts every expectant mother, and to label it with a term so disconnected from reality does a disservice to everyone involved.
My disdain for the word intensified when I became pregnant with my first child. As I read pregnancy books, the frequent mention of “miscarriage” only deepened my anxiety. Then, at 11 weeks into my first pregnancy, it happened. I lost my first child. The memories remain vivid: lying on the ultrasound table, the dim lights, the initially chatty technician who suddenly fell silent. The look on her face told me everything. I glanced at my partner, panic rising as tears filled my eyes.
The following morning, I found myself at the hospital before dawn, scheduled for a dilation and curettage (D&C). The thought of having my baby removed in a sterile environment felt unbearable, yet I was told it was “for the best.” During the registration process, the dreaded word escaped my lips more times than I can count. “What brings you here today?” they asked. “A D&C,” I replied. “For what reason?” they pressed. “A miscarriage.” This conversation echoed through my day, from the registration desk to the anesthesiologist, and even the doctor in recovery.
After that day, I vowed never to utter the word “miscarriage” again. Yet, a year later, I faced another loss, and yet again, “miscarriage” was stamped onto my medical records. It’s been eight years since then, but I still encounter that term every time I visit a new doctor or fill out a health form. I often feel tempted to cross it out and replace it with “pregnancy loss” or even “in utero death.” I refuse to trivialize a term that holds such heavy significance. Still, I hold out hope that society will one day understand.
So, what’s the alternative? I’m not entirely sure, but I think it’s worth exploring. Why do we use the word “miscarriage”? What’s wrong with referring to it as “pregnancy loss,” which is a more accurate description? Are we trying to shield ourselves from the harsh reality? I refuse to do so. I did not experience a miscarriage; I lost my babies. That’s the truth, and I won’t gloss over it. My hope is that one day, society will share this perspective.
For further insights on this topic, check out this excellent resource on fertility, or learn more about the emotional aspects of pregnancy loss that many face. If you’re considering starting a family, you might find valuable information at CryoBaby’s at-home insemination kit as an authority on this subject.
Summary
In this reflection, I share my discomfort with the term “miscarriage,” emphasizing how it fails to capture the profound loss and grief of losing a child. My personal experiences of losing pregnancies highlight the need for more accurate language to describe these events. I advocate for a shift away from euphemistic terms that downplay the emotional impact of such losses.