Spoiler alert: I’m not pregnant. But I was, a mere couple of days ago. After a brutal Saturday night in the ER, searing pain, ongoing bleeding, threatened ectopic pregnancy, and an emotional roller coaster of rising and falling hCG levels, it was finally confirmed that I was having a miscarriage.
This post isn’t to elicit sympathy. It’s partially to recognize the women out there who endure pregnancy — and pregnancy loss — with far fewer resources than I have. It’s also to make yet another plea — as countless women before me have — for pre- and post-natal practices that better address the emotional, physical, and financial needs of women.
I have two children and work full time from home through my own business. I have a supportive husband who earns an excellent income, and we have great health insurance. My in-laws have been staying with us, and my own parents are a 45-minute drive away. Being able to climb into bed, cry, and take time to recover is a luxury that is not lost on me, and yet even I feel overwhelmed by this experience. And then I think of all the women out there who are essential workers, or working two jobs to make ends meet. Single mothers. Mothers and would-be mothers without health insurance. I picture them going through this and feel so very, very angry at the way our society has failed them.
I received news of my miscarriage from an unconcerned triage nurse at UCSD, a medical system I had previously viewed as one of the best (it’s also my alma mater so perhaps I was biased). Not one shred of empathy or care was shown, nor any helpful information shared about resources that might be available to me to process my grief, or steps I should take to recover physically. It was yet another example of how we treat women in their greatest times of need. I was never contacted by my doctor or even the nurse practitioner.
Last night, I went through a gut-wrenching Instagram thread on @scarymommy about the immense pressure on mothers to breastfeed and the concept of the “baby-friendly” hospital, which prioritizes the “breast is best” philosophy and encourages newborn rooming in with mothers during recovery, implying that choosing to formula feed, or requesting a night to rest while your baby is safe and cared for in the hospital nursery (as generations before us did) means that you are baby unfriendly. Hospitals never fail to remind us that they are a business first. Women openly shared the struggles throughout this thread, laying out their frustrations, and the trauma of their birth experiences, noting how judged and unsupported they felt in their needs and decisions. Reading through other women’s comments felt at once liberating and depressing.
Processing and recovering from a miscarriage is no different. Life goes on, and the woman is expected to act accordingly. Even the medical diagnosis I received in the ER — it’s actually “threatened abortion,” not miscarriage — almost implies some level of choice in the matter. We are told not to blame ourselves, but how can we not?
This morning, on an emotional feminist rampage, I made the mistake of reading a Wall Street Journal article entitled, “How Women Can Ditch the Guilt When Juggling Careers and Family,” attempting to offer so-called “power moms” advice on giving up feelings of guilt and inadequacy while at the top of the corporate ladder. A woman in HR shared it as great advice for working mothers. I sometimes like to think of myself as a power mom, but never has something resonated so poorly with me. It was the very height of a first world problem article, suggesting women just… ignore or dismiss those feelings of guilt for choosing (or perhaps having) to work, or practice self care in times of overwhelm, rather than addressing the very forces which cause women as opposed to men to experience these feelings in the first place. Oh no, it’s not the pressures of a patriarchal society. We just need to adjust our mindset. Once again, it’s our fault.
Women need and deserve more. This piece could easily turn into a 20-page thesis on the innumerable systemic failures to support women in their careers, pregnancies, post-partum journeys, and parenting. It would be added to the growing pile of similar articles, resulting in little change. But I will leave my plea at this:
Normalize talking openly about miscarriage.
Normalize formula feeding.
Normalize open discussions of the physical impact and trauma of childbirth.
Consider ways we can better support women in their prenatal and postnatal experiences.
Stop rushing recovery.
And, for the love of whatever god you believe in, let’s change the meaning of “baby-friendly” to include support of whatever the mother needs to get through one of the most emotionally and physically challenging experiences of her life so that she can be better equipped to take on the next, equally daunting challenge — being a mother today.
