Tuesday, April 24, 2007

More Reactions

I'm gradually returning to the world, and as I do I encounter people. And their reactions.

There are so many taboos. As soon as I mention it, people flounder. And their responses bounce back, making me stumble too.

The friends we haven't seen for a while, and me getting drunk, and doing that thing I do, over-enthusiastic, over-talkative on whatever is happening in my life. And the thing that is happening in my life is the miscarriage, and so I talk about it, and people look awkward, and conversation dries up. They don't know how to cope with the way that I'm coping.

Thomas Truax, who we only see every few months, when he plays a gig in Manchester and we put him up for the night. I assume I will tell him, but I don't. He didn't even know I was pregnant. What would be the point?

And the fellow parents. The mother of Felix's schoolfriend, who asks after the pregnancy, so I have to tell her. She is horrified. She wants to know what happened. Who is my doctor? It must be the doctor's fault. The doctor must have done something to me. No, I say. It's normal. It happens all the time. It's nobody's fault. She entreats me to lie down more next time, sit down, take it easy. She doesn't notice the implication: that I caused it. And I know that I didn't make our baby die, but still our exchange rattles me, unsettles me, makes me morose.

And straight from there to a children's party, and all those mothers, and fathers, that I rarely see and barely know. And one of them knows about it, and I don't know whether the others do. And I hate these things anyway, and this one is particularly bad. Felix only knows two children, one of whom is busy fighting every boy he meets, and the other is coy, and she runs away from him when he tries to play. He is lonely and self-conscious. He feels out of place, and so do I. We have nobody to talk to, so we cling to each other. And then he goes off to eat the birthday tea, and I am left with the mums, who have loud conversations that make me feel left out. I want to tell them, for some reason. But I don't want them to ask. Which of course, they don't. I read a discarded tabloid, and try not to cry.

I'm not crying much any more though. I'm feeling a whole lot better.

But I'm back at work on Thursday. More awkward conversations, more taboos.

I bet you know tons of women who have had miscarriages, and you never had a clue. I bet I do, too. I keep looking at all those women, and wondering. What pain are they carrying around, unannounced and unappreciated?

It's sad.

All the Miscarriage Posts

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17 Comments:

hellojed said...

It is sad. It makes sense that you would be upset by what that woman said, but in her position I probably would have said something similar - like 'take it easy next time' just automatically without realising the implication.

9:26 AM  
Debi said...

After my 2nd miscarriage I had someone tell me it was probably caused by rays from the tv! This was at the point I was lying in bed racked in physical and emotional pain trying to distract myself with ... tv (which I don't watch much anyway).

As for those party mums - I bet you feel like a misfit round them most of the time. I know I do. I also bet that the most of the time you're pleased you don't fit in!

Wishing you strength and sunshine.

10:06 AM  
Anxious said...

The feelings of awkwardness you describe are similar to what I feel when I have to explain to people that both my parents died when I was relatively young. End of conversation - people don't know what to say. And I don't know what I want them to say either - do you know what you want people to say?

It's tough...

11:30 AM  
Gordon said...

I tend to reach for a cliche at a time like that, for precisely the reason anxious states. Both parties are stuck, floundering on empty unspoken words.

Then I make a crap jokey comment (my 'nervous' thing) and say "so.. what about that weather, huh?"

And we all move on, having paused to acknowledge the pain. Because that's what we do.. I mean you don't REALLY want to talk about it.. That's not British!

(see, I'm doing it again)

1:09 PM  
Dandelion said...

For me, part of the reason I don't know what to say is because I don't know how the person feels about it, and I don't like to presume either way, so I try to let them define it. I suspect there is a certain amount of minimising that goes on though (most likely more for other people's benefit than the woman's).

And so I don't know whether to say "oh my god that's awful, what happened/how are you coping/do you even want to talk about it at all", or just to offer condolences (?) and move on. And you just can't come out and say "really? how are you feeling about it?"

That you blogged your experience will give me some clue of what's involved, next time it happens to someone I know (or even me).

1:34 PM  
Zinnia Cyclamen said...

Er, why can't you say 'how are you feeling about it', exactly? That seems to me the no. 1 most obvious thing TO say, to anyone who is grieving. Because otherwise, how can you know whether they're up or down, wanting to concentrate or unable to think straight, furious or miserable or numb? Grief is such an unpredictable process that if you don't ask, you really won't know. So I would ask them straight out, and then take my cue from their answer as to what they need from me next. Because of course I won't know what to say if I don't know how they're feeling, so I need to find out at the outset. But then I've had a lot of experience in dealing with grief in my job, so maybe that makes a difference. (And I'm incurably nosy, so maybe that does too!)

5:35 AM  
Clare said...

Interesting stuff here.

In fact, I DO know what I want people to say, and Zinnia has it spot on: I just want them to be calm and matter of fact and ask me how I'm feeling, and not go all awkward on me if I start talking about it. That's the biggest problem: I feel like a leper for talking about it at all. People want you to stay quiet. But I do understand why.

I think a lot of it has to do with incompatibilities between people's different way of coping, and people's fear of the acknowledgement of pain.

There's a whole other blog post in here.

The woman who suggested I should take it easy next time wouldn't have upset/annoyed me half as much if she hadn't also tried to blame my doctor. She was simply desperate to find someone or something to blame, and wouldn't believe me when I told her these things just happen.

It's true about the party mums though - I always hate those events!

9:05 AM  
katy newton said...

When my father died people kept saying "He must have had warning signs beforehand" and just couldn't deal with the idea that perhaps, just perhaps, his heart attack wasn't preventable. It's much easier to believe that a miscarriage could be prevented if someone had done something differently than to accept that no one has any control over whether or not a baby is carried to term. People are very keen on being in control of stuff, you see.

9:53 AM  
Ariel said...

At least you CAN talk about it, so do. It's good to confront taboos, and it's thanks to people like you that it happens. Pouring your heart out on the blog is a good thing, it forces readers to think very hard, and sometimes to revisit parts of their personal life they had rather forget. So thanks for that.

12:25 PM  
pierre l said...

I hope things go well on your first day back at work tomorrow, and that your colleagues will be understanding and say and do the right things. If only they read your blog!

4:39 PM  
Peach said...

Good luck tomorrow Mrs Pencil XXX

4:58 PM  
Urban Chick said...

i'm an occasional lurker but wanted to delurk to say how sorry i was to hear of your miscarriage and to thank you for being so honest about your experience, because it IS a taboo and i appreciate knowing what it feels like, physically and emotionally, to go through it

my own 'leprosy' was, for a few years, infertility and people were equally nonplussed in their dealings with me

i had the over-optimstic (oh, i'm SURE it'll JUST HAPPEN! *wink wink*) right through to the male work colleague who, having waxed lyrical about his recent fatherhood, switched to: 'actually, having kids isn't all THAT great...actually it's pretty stressful a lot of the time etc. etc.' (yeah, great, thanks)

hope the return to work goes ok

UC

5:31 PM  
jonathan said...

Clare I'm really sorry to hear about what happened and hope the return to work goes OK.

Oh and that children's party sounds like it would have been awful to cope with in any event... I think you did well to get through it without just picking Felix up and running screaming out of the room...

12:37 AM  
Guyana-Gyal said...

One of my cousins had a miscarriage years ago, she said she cried for weeks. Then my sister-in-law had a miscarriage, and she told me she would just sit and cry for no reason. I told her what my cousin said. She said my brother cried too. They said it's like death, and as with all grief, the healing takes time. 'One day, one day,' as we say Clare...one day at a time, and the healing will come. I learnt this after my father died.

1:40 AM  
Sally Lomax said...

It's difficult knowing who to tell and who not to tell. The first time i ahd a miscarriage i ahdn't told people that i was pregnant, and tehn I had to tell everyone that I had been pregnant and that I had miscarried..........

Good luck back at work Clare. It may turn out to be good therapy sort of.......... even though it probably doesn't seem so now...

Take care!
S

12:02 PM  
Sally Lomax said...

Great post btw!!

12:05 PM  
Clare said...

Thanks for all your thoughts.

UC, you're right - it is a taboo. But one that I'm just as guilty of falling foul of when other people have suffered, including friends with fertility problems.

It's particularly knowing what to say with someone who has fertility issues when you yourself have kids - you feel sure that every time you mention your kids, they must feel like you're rubbing their nose in it.

4:14 PM  
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