Supporting a Friend Through Pregnancy Loss

BY MELISSA GILLESPIE

Melissa Gillespie is a high school counselor with a background in bereavement, Harry Potter marathons, and tutu dance parties, with an affinity for all things pizza and Disneyland. She lives in Los Angeles, CA with her husband and can be found online at gillespiemelissa.com or on Twitter @themelgillespie.

One week after joyfully holding onto a stick covered in hCG, I went to the bathroom and saw

blood. Only a little, but it felt like waves since I expected to see none.I stayed awake until after

2:00 am, reading every page of What to Expect that mentioned blood or spotting, and every

article that popped up when I asked my phone, “how much blood is normal?” It was Father’s

Day.

I woke up the next morning having bled through a liner. Then I bled through another within an

hour. When I sat down, blood dripped out of me. My lower abdomen was cramping. None of

these things were deemed normal by the internet.

As pads continued to fill up, I knew what it meant. I would zone out, cocooned in my blanket and

held together by bike shorts. I alternated between sobbing and then feeling numb. Sob then

numb. Numb, then remember, then sob. I called the doctor’s office and was fine on hold, but the

moment someone picked up I couldn’t speak, so my husband had to take the phone and talk to

them. The woman heard what was going on and said someone would call me. I got an email

instead saying that some bleeding and cramping was normal, but that I could go to OB Triage

before 4:00 pm if I was concerned. It was 4:30.

The next day, we drove to the doctor’s office, hand in hand as I stared straight ahead in my

comfy jeans, Phenomenal Woman t-shirt, and glowing yellow shoes so that I would have

something bright to look at. Due to COVID, he couldn’t come inside with me and had to wait in

the car, but not before I told him that if it was bad, we were getting pastrami sandwiches on the

way home.

I went upstairs. I was fine.

I filled out the paperwork. I was fine.

I was taken back to a room and told the process for the exam. I was fine.

I had an intravaginal ultrasound and saw nothing on the screen. They told me that was likely,

since it was early, so I was fine.

They wanted to do a urine test as a backup. I peed in the cup and sat back in the room, and I

was fine.

Then the doctor came back in, gave me a look, and told me it wasn’t my fault.

And then I was no longer fine.

It makes sense though, that in the situation where it really is outside of my control, that guilt

would implode. I would hear her say that 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and know that

rate is insane, and still feel it was my fault. That I would walk out of her office, throwing blame

over my shoulder with my purse, knowing that she probably has to have that conversation more

than she would like to. 

When I walked outside and back into cell phone reception, I texted my husband, “I’m walking back. We’re getting pastrami.”

I can’t really describe how it feels to have your body let you down so intimately. To have dreams

and a future and a plan for our February 17th baby no longer exist. And then, on top of it all,

coming home to have the What to Expect book mock me on my side table, and have to tell apps

on my phone to stop giving me baby updates, because there was no more baby.

It’s strange how isolating something can be when 1 in 5 women who get pregnant will also

experience it. To know how not alone I am and still feel my brown couch is an island no one can

get to. Instead of telling friends they were going to be aunties, I had to tell them I needed love.

Instead of telling my mom she was going to be a grammy, I had to tell her that she was not. Not

Yet.

At the time, my doctor told me that mother nature sometimes has different plans than we do, but

that most women go on from miscarriages to have healthy, beautiful babies. In hindsight, I can

say I am one of the lucky women for whom that was true. In that moment, however, I inhaled

and exhaled statistics, ate raw cookie dough (because I could), and ate the whole darn pastrami

sandwich in one sitting.

I can’t speak for other women, but I do want to share some things that truly helped me grieve.

So here’s a non-exhaustive list of how you can show up for a friend who has experienced

pregnancy loss (or how to ask your friends to show up for you):

● Send the food. Don’t tell them to reach out if they need anything. They are grieving, so

likely they won’t reach out because it feels like their grief is imposing. Tell them you want

to send them lunch/dinner/ice cream, and ask them to pick what they want from the

menu. I had pizza on my doorstep at noon the next day for when I was ready to eat it. A

few days later, another friend dropped off a care box with all my favorite snacks and a

hug.

● Respect their wishes. I texted four of my friends and told them I wasn’t ready to talk about

it out loud to anyone, but that I had experienced a miscarriage that morning and needed

them to send love my way. I told them I’d reach out when I was ready to talk using actual

voices but in the meantime, connection through text would be really helpful. Those

memes got me through.

● A major cry fest. I let myself feel it. I told other people to let me feel it and support me

through it. Tell your friend (or yourself) that every feeling they might be having is ok and

normal, to feel what they need to feel at their own pace, and know that some days might

be harder than others. When I was finally ready to talk to my friends about it in person,

they let me go in and out of my feelings with grace, love, and kindness.

● All the hugs. If they want them. And they’re ready for them. Ask first.

● If you’re someone who has also gone through it (and feel comfortable), talk about

it. One of the 4 friends I reached out to had experienced a miscarriage the year prior.

Talking to her about it validated my feelings and made me feel less alone. Since then,

any time I see someone I know mention pregnancy loss, I always tell them I’ve

experienced it too. It heals you both just a little bit and reduces some of the isolation they

might be carrying.

● Avoid the “at least...” Please do not look at someone who has experienced pregnancy

loss and start a sentence with “at least.” “At least it was early.” “At least you already have

a baby.” “At least you’re still young.” It is demeaning and devaluing of their experience.

They have experienced a loss—of a baby, of a complete future they have thought in their

head, and a pregnancy that has not made it to birth.

● Keep reaching out. Don’t assume that just because your friend has stopped talking

about it, that they have stopped thinking about it. If they share the due date with you,

mark it in your calendar to reach out. I promise that they won’t forget the date, and it

helps to know someone is in your corner and thinking of you on that day too.