“It takes a village” – this is a phrase I commonly hear (and commonly use) when discussing the challenges that arise while raising children. We often say it as an encouragement, a reminder that you don’t have to do this alone. We need community, and motherhood provides profound opportunities to ask for help and lean on each other.
It’s also vulnerable - if we are truly a village, then we are seeing the tantrums, the mess, the frustrations and limitations. One day we might be feeling our lowest, and the next day we might be the one providing support. And sometimes, we might question how to best support someone. I think this comes up a lot regarding miscarriage.
Two years ago I experienced a miscarriage of sorts – an ectopic pregnancy, discovered around 6 weeks. From quite early on I had a strange feeling that something was off, so when I went in for an early ultrasound because of some symptoms, it felt like my fears were confirmed. The ultrasound showed there was no heartbeat, and that the baby had grown in an unusual spot – instead of implanting in the uterus, the fetus was attached to my ovary. Because it was so early on, I had to be monitored to see if my body would have a ‘natural miscarriage’ , or absorb the leftover tissue, or if I needed a medication to start the process. I was terrified of the whole idea, and I was also mourning the loss of the baby. I felt like my body had failed me, and it was one of the hardest weeks of my life, waiting to see what would happen.
A week after the diagnosis, I had my second ultrasound and it was confirmed that while the baby was no longer viable, my body wasn’t releasing him (I say ‘him’ because I had such a strong sense that the baby was a boy). The danger with an ectopic pregnancy is that because the fetus isn’t located in the uterus, the tissue that continues to grow can result in rupture of the ovary or fallopian tube. I was told that my best chance of protecting my body and finding healing was to have an injection to start the process of a miscarriage. I would still have to be monitored to ensure that the medication worked, because if it didn’t, then I would have to go in for surgery.
I agreed to have the injection, and for several weeks after I bled and mourned and waited for healing. This entire time I felt so disconnected from my body, and I shifted between anger, guilt, sorrow, and hope. The doctors eventually confirmed that everything was ‘back to normal’, but really, nothing was normal. I watched as other women got pregnant and felt guilty at my bitterness. I tried to remind myself that it was such an early loss, that it barely counted, but then I would find myself crying in the shower and allowing myself to mourn my child that barely had a chance.
Slowly I shifted through emotions and became more honest with myself. My counsellor pointed out a gem of truth to me - while I stated that I couldn’t trust my body, she gently disagreed. She reminded me of all the things I had already told her - that from the beginning I was in tune with my body, knowing that something was off. My body was working with me, and that I could listen to my symptoms and trust that my body was telling me something - it wasn’t deceiving me, it was suffering with me. And while that knowledge settled in, I felt like I could forgive myself, and forgive my body.
The grief continued through waves and stages, as grief does, but the other thing that seemed to help was hearing stories, and sharing my story. I felt comforted when women listened, and honoured when women shared their own stories of loss or grief. These stories became a balm around my heart, reminding me that I wasn’t alone, that I didn’t have to hide my loss, and that my child was loved and missed by more than just me.
Each person’s experience with pregnancy and infant loss is different. Each person grieves differently. But we still need a village – we still need each other to share our stories, to acknowledge a loss, and to find a way to mourn together. Perhaps we stop ourselves from reaching out because we think someone needs space to grieve, or we don’t know what to say. And maybe a card or an email is a better way to reach out – but no matter what the method, we still need to offer the words. We need to think like a village – to share stories, to mourn, and to remind the other person that they don’t have to do this alone. It takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to heal.