Life can be unpredictable, and sometimes you find yourself wishing you could just turn back the clock and escape to a more comfortable place. Whether it’s the temptation to sneak in an extra hour of sleep or the urge to hide away in a dark movie theater, we usually talk ourselves back into facing the day.
But there are moments when leaving work feels justified, yet you choose to stay. You know there are tasks to tackle, and the thought of returning to a mountain of work the next day is daunting. So, you pop a cough drop or sip your coffee, pushing through until the clock strikes five.
For me, that day was different. I walked down the hall, passing the receptionist, feeling my dreams of a December baby slip away. I rushed to the restroom, only to discover the remnants of my pregnancy in my underwear. Flushing it down the toilet felt wrong, but what was the proper way to handle such a loss? I hesitated, wondering if I should take a photo as proof for my doctor. Deep down, I knew what had happened, and I had to let go of both the physical and emotional aspects of this experience. After cleaning myself up and wrapping the remnants in toilet paper, I returned to my desk to tackle my to-do list, emails waiting for my attention.
As the hours dragged on, I felt tears threatening to spill over, but I internally reprimanded myself. Crying would lead to questions and pity, and I didn’t want my male coworkers to notice that something was wrong. So, I kept my composure, typing away, smiling when someone walked by, and ignoring the emptiness that threatened to overwhelm me.
I tried to focus on the positives. At least I had a pad to manage the physical aftermath and Tylenol to dull the pain. I reminded myself that, at just eight weeks, I hadn’t lost a fully formed baby. No names had been chosen, and no nursery was waiting for its occupant. I clung to this mindset throughout the day. There was no one to confide in, and I doubted anyone could offer words of comfort. I had already shed tears earlier when my doctor said this was “not a normal pregnancy,” managing to convince everyone else that I was simply battling a bad cold.
I was informed of surgical options, but I wasn’t ready for a medically assisted procedure. I knew waiting would be tough, but facing the reality of it was even harder. With a toddler waiting for me at home, I was determined to be the super mom he needed. Despite my exhaustion, I pushed through the day, telling myself that my coworkers needed me. Women are expected to be resilient, to carry on despite life’s challenges, and I was no exception.
But how healthy is that mindset? Just because women have a history of enduring pain, heartache, and the demands of both work and home doesn’t mean we should ignore our emotional wounds. The fact that I felt compelled to stay at my desk after experiencing a miscarriage fills me with regret. The biological material that represented what could have been was disposed of in minutes, unnoticed by anyone around me. I wondered about those stories of teenagers giving birth in bathrooms and returning to the dance floor. Why was my experience any different?
That night, as I rocked my son to sleep, I let the tears fall. I grieved for the loss I had experienced while also feeling grateful that my living son was in my arms. I finally allowed myself to acknowledge the pain.
I cried not just for the loss, but also for the solitude. The last time I experienced prolonged bleeding had been following my C-section, and I had family around to support me. This time, I was alone, with no one to hold me or check in on my well-being. I had to carry on with my responsibilities at home and work without any assistance. It’s disheartening to think that, as a woman, I felt I had to endure this alone. Even my husband went about his routine that weekend without asking how I was coping. If the roles were reversed, I would have been expected to leap into action without question.
Months later, I kept my miscarriage a secret from my coworkers until someone in HR inadvertently informed my supervisor. I felt I had no right to complain about my privacy being invaded, so I remained silent. I pushed through my responsibilities instead of allowing myself the time to grieve and accept that my winter baby would not arrive. I kept my needs hidden because life continues, and I had many obligations. Isn’t that what we’re conditioned to do as women?
That day, I learned a profound lesson about womanhood. It isn’t merely about motherhood, domesticity, or being a supportive partner. It’s about fulfilling expectations even when life throws you a devastating curveball and enduring silently while feeling like you’re crumbling inside because that’s what your child might need from you.
While I advocate for self-care, I found the strength to keep it together during a time when I couldn’t take a break. My mother had done the same when my father left, and it took years for me to realize the depth of her hidden pain. Many women do this daily, and they are nothing short of heroes.
I hope for a future where we don’t have to choose between strength and vulnerability; where taking time for ourselves is seen as an act of bravery.
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In summary, the experience of a miscarriage can be profoundly isolating, especially in a work environment where emotional support may be lacking. Women often feel compelled to maintain a facade of strength, even while grappling with deep loss. It’s crucial to acknowledge our feelings and allow ourselves the grace to grieve, without fear of judgment or stigma.