• • •
These perspectives would not have arrived without my would-be daughter. I didn’t know trauma firsthand, and heartbreak wasn’t something I knew intimately, until I did. Until that inauspicious day: October 11, 2012. Declared the first International Day of the Girl, this was the day I lost mine. The day when cramping morphed into full-blown labor, and then my pregnancy precipitously ended. And then she was gone.
Invariably, this hit hard. It fractured an imagined dream, and so much more than that. Nothing had prepared me for this. Nothing. Nothing had prepared me for grief’s labyrinthine complexity, its enduring nature, its serpentine permanence. Nothing. Nothing had previously educated me about the fact that grief can’t be bypassed or replaced with platitudes, “positivity,” or psalms. Grief commands attention. Grief demands time. And grief isn’t to be tamed or tampered with. It is to be traveled, investigated, lavished, even. Studied. It doesn’t give us much of a choice in the matter. It didn’t for me, at least. In fact, the enormity of my loss lingers still, sometimes. How could it not? There are particular times of year when I feel that much more beholden to my grief. Or when it beckons. Shades of light, time of day, smells that waft: all things that can transport me back to that poignant period. October, most of all, tends to yield these feelings more than any other month, as the fall light escorts me back into the mood of that momentous experience.
On the anniversary of my loss, no matter the passage of time, every year, my heart burns. It stings to the core as I sift through the unbearable details. On a cellular level, I remember. The trauma of my loss remains palpable. In fact, nearly seven years later, I can still hear the D&C machine, loud with purpose, and the violent tugs that pulled my placenta from my body. I wonder if time will eventually evaporate this scene. I’m not so sure trauma works like that. Time helps ease the piercing intensity, but I don’t necessarily believe that experiences this profound are meant to be forgotten, or that we can expect ourselves to disband grief altogether. Trauma, heartache, grief, and all the various other feelings that come along with these are, instead, integrated and remembered in no uncertain terms. We aren’t necessarily meant to “move on” from these life-altering moments in a linear way. It is in fact normative, natural, and okay—more than okay—to sit in our grief, even when it feels as sharp as the day it first touched us. We aren’t supposed to “move on,” “be positive,” or “push ahead” overnight. Perhaps there is something cathartic about feeling the pain, still—for when we don’t feel it at all, we might worry we’ve lost all connection to that pregnancy. That somehow memory has faded. Perhaps we don’t want to lose touch with this ache altogether because it is the last link to what we’ve lost.
A few months back, on my way home from work, I decided to take a detour, to swing by our first home—that window-clad house of ours tucked high in the Hollywood hills. The place we planned our destination wedding, brought Liev home from the hospital, where he took his first steps, and the place of my miscarriage. Less than a year after our loss, while I was very pregnant with Noa, we moved from the house where I lost Olive. Not because of the loss itself; simply because it was time. We had been searching for a while for a house with a flat yard and a one-level communal living space. This—our first nest—is the place where so much changed in an instant. The creation of life and its demise. And where I hemorrhaged after cutting the umbilical cord, and made a conscious effort to secure my survival. I parked in front of the place where life turned upside down, inside out at four months along. The light was almost exactly as it had been on that mid-October day: golden and decisive. It felt uncannily familiar. I wept briefly as I sank into remembering while looking up past the bamboo trees and into the rectangular window of the bathroom where she was born too soon. Olive. My love and compassion for all you women who feel this ache is fierce and enduring. May we persist in telling our important stories. My Olive, I think of you still. I’ll think of you always.
Epilogue
Dear Miscarriage,
Oh, how you have changed it all.
You give me no choice other than to dedicate much of my heart, energy, and love to you—to change how culture silences you, shrouds you in shame. You deserve serious and pointed attention.
I love you for helping me better understand suffering and resilience.
I’ve opened my heart fully to you.
I loathe you for the droplets of hopelessness interspersed. And the terrorizing anxiety that clung to my subsequent pregnancy.
But here’s the thing, miscarriage: I’ve spent so much time getting to know you and my deepest self, my fundamental strength. I think—or more accurately, I know—it’s time (long overdue, perhaps) that society spotlight you.
Highlight you. In neon.
No more shadowed, isolated grievers. No more mourners wondering if they did something to deserve this. Nope. No more.
Just love.
Tenderness.
Honesty.
Hope.
And the ever-present proof that being human renders us vulnerable.
It’s tough to say I love you, but I will say this: I love who you’ve helped me become.
With fortitude and a dedication to changing the dialogue around you,
Jessica
(a.k.a. @IHadaMiscarriage)
PS I’m sticking around. Don’t think I’m going anywhere when it comes to you, miscarriage. You indelibly changed my emotional landscape, so you better believe I’m gonna do my best to evolve you, too.
Notes
1. Katherine Hobson, “People Have Misconceptions about Miscarriage, and That Can Hurt,” NPR, May 8, 2015, https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2015/05/08/404913568/people-have-misconceptions-about-miscarriage-and-that-hurts.
2. Rebecca J. Mercier, Katherine Senter, Rachel Webster, and Amy Henderson Riley, “Instagram Users’ Experiences of Miscarriage,” Obstetrics & Gynecology 135, no. 1 (2020): 166–73, https://doi.org/10.1097/AOG.0000000000003621.
3. Jessica Farren, Maria Jalmbrant, Lieveke Ameye, et al., “Post-Traumatic Stress, Anxiety and Depression following Miscarriage or Ectopic Pregnancy: A Prospective Cohort Study,” BMJ Open 6, no. 11 (2016), https://doi.org/10.1136/bmjopen-2016-011864.
4. Peter J. Fashing, Nga Nguyen, Tyler S. Barry, et al., “Death among Geladas (Theropithecus Gelada): A Broader Perspective on Mummified Infants and Primate Thanatology,” American Journal of Primatology 73 no. 5 (2011): 405–409, https://doi.org/10.1002/ajp.20902.
5. Jessica Pierce, “Do Animals Experience Grief?” Smithsonian Magazine, August 24, 2018, https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/do-animals-experience-grief-180970124/; Barbara J. King, “When Animals Mourn: Seeing That Grief Is Not Uniquely Human,” NPR, April 11, 2013, https://www.npr.org/sections/13.7/2013/04/11/176620943/when-animals-mourn-seeing-that-grief-is-not-uniquely-human; Carl Safina, “The Depths of Animal Grief,” PBS, July 8, 2015, https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/article/animal-grief/.
6. Jerrold S. Meyer and Amanda F. Hamel, “Models of Stress in Nonhuman Primates and Their Relevance for Human Psychopathology and Endocrine Dysfunction,” ILAR Journal 55 no. 2 (2014): 347–60, https://doi.org/10.1093/ilar/ilu023.
7. Rosanne Cecil, ed., The Anthropology of Pregnancy Loss: Comparative Studies in Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Neo-natal Death (Oxford, UK: Berg Publishers, 1996).
8. Cecil, The Anthropology of Pregnancy Loss.
9. Shannon Withycombe, “Happy Miscarriages: An Emotional History of Pregnancy Loss,” Nursing Clio, November 12, 2015, https://nursingclio.org/2015/11/12/happy-miscarriages-an-emotional-history-of-pregnancy-loss/.
10. Shannon Withycombe, Lost: Miscarriage in Nineteenth-Century America (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2018).
11. Leslie J. Reagan, “From Hazard to Blessing to Tragedy: Representations of Miscarriage in Twentieth-Century America,” Feminist Studies 29, no. 2 (2003): 356–78, https://www.jstor.org/stable/3178514.
12. Daniela Blei, “The History of Talking about Miscarr
iage,” The Cut, April 23, 2018, https://www.thecut.com/2018/04/the-history-of-talking-about-miscarriage.html.
13. Jonah Bardos, Daniel Hercz, Jenna Friedenthal, et al., “A National Survey on Public Perceptions of Miscarriage,” Obstetrics & Gynecology 125, no. 6 (2015): 1313–20, https://doi.org/10.1097/aog.0000000000000859.
14. Bardos, Hercz, Friedenthal, et al., “A National Survey on Public Perceptions of Miscarriage,” 1313–20.
15. Raj Rai and Lesley Regan, “Recurrent Miscarriage,” The Lancet 368, no. 9535 (2006): 601–11, https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(06)69204-0.
16. Bardos, Hercz, Friedenthal, et al., “A National Survey on Public Perceptions of Miscarriage,” 1313–20.
17. Lynn Okura, “Brené Brown on Shame: ‘It Cannot Survive Empathy,’” HuffPost, August 26, 2013, https://www.huffpost.com/entry/brene-brown-shame_n_3807115.
18. Hobson, “People Have Misconceptions about Miscarriage, and That Can Hurt.”
19. Merriam-Webster Online, s.v. “karma,” https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/karma.
20. National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA), “People of Color and Eating Disorders,” accessed July 8, 2020, https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/people-color-and-eating-disorders.
21. Hobson, “People Have Misconceptions about Miscarriage, and That Can Hurt”; Bardos, Hercz, Friedenthal, et al., “A National Survey on Public Perceptions of Miscarriage,” 1313–20; Joshua Johnson, “What Does It Mean to Lose a Pregnancy?” June 5, 2019, in 1A, produced by Paige Osburn, podcast, MP3 audio, https://www.npr.org/2019/06/05/730018199/what-does-it-mean-to-lose-a-pregnancy.
22. American Psychological Association, What Is Postpartum Depression & Anxiety? 2008, https://www.apa.org/pi/women/resources/reports/postpartum-depression.
23. Lexico, s.v. “healing,” https://www.lexico.com/en/definition/healing.
24. Wikipedia, s.v. “Healing,” accessed April 23, 2019, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Healing.
Acknowledgments
This book project came to fruition as a result of many dedicated, extraordinary people who believe in the transformative nature of storytelling. I am in awe of the unyielding support I received from my team throughout the process.
I am deeply grateful to my literary agent, Kate Johnson, for her unflinching belief in my voice. Ever since we connected, Kate’s confidence in me has acted as a guiding light. Bringing rigor and levity to the process, her authenticity served as an ongoing reminder that the topic of pregnancy loss does in fact deserve to be normalized and deftly integrated into the zeitgeist.
Jamia Wilson and Lauren Rosemary Hook brought editorial brilliance and incisive wisdom to every aspect of the book-writing process. Their perspectives elevated the way I approached memoir writing and encouraged nuance and moxie as I made my way through the manifesto elements of the book as well. The Feminist Press team as a whole, especially Jisu Kim, Lucia Brown, and Rachel Page, have brought this book to life with passion, and to each and every one of them, I am thankful.
Sara Gaynes Levy’s editorial cogency and insight helped shepherd me through this process. Editor turned friend, Sara was at once a cheerleader and a devoted editorial wizard. To her, I am thankful beyond measure. I also owe gratitude to Kay Friedman Holland and Laura Norkin for their ingenious acumen. They helped bring this book to new heights.
I credit Jessica Schneider, my obstetrician and dear friend, with providing exemplary medical care. Had she not walked me through what to do and how to do it over the phone that day, I likely would’ve been transported in an ambulance to the emergency room, flush with strangers, while giving birth to death. Instead, her professional prowess and astute emotional awareness allowed me to endure the loss of my daughter with dignity.
Valerie is a touchstone. An arbiter of compassion and revelatory understanding, she reminds me of my capacities and my humanity. I am humbled to know her.
My life partner and best friend, Jason, is the one who witnessed my unfolding and stood by me all the while. It is in the context of this relationship—and the trauma we endured—that I have come to understand that love can morph into even deeper iterations after surviving the unimaginable.
Thank you to my sweet Liev and Noa for making me a mother. Thank you for loving with abandon, for being teachers, and for redefining the word “love.” Thank you for your sensitivity, sense of humor, soulfulness, and creativity. Thank you for being. Thank you for being you.
And to Olive, for making me a mother, too. For cracking me open and for requiring me to reconfigure emotionally in the deepest possible way—looking directly into the eyes of sheer vulnerability. For introducing me to the people and community I only met because I lost you. You are loved and remembered, not only by our family, but by countless women around the world who know our story and understand it too well.
I am grateful to my parents, and for the support of my sister and brother, for helping to lay the groundwork for becoming a storyteller. For instilling courage, an inner compass, and a joie de vivre.
Finally, thank you to all the people courageously sharing their stories and to those who opt to remain private about them.
About the Author
DR. JESSICA ZUCKER is a Los Angeles–based psychologist specializing in reproductive and maternal mental health. She is the creator of the #IHadaMiscarriage campaign. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, the Washington Post, New York Magazine, and Vogue, among other publications. Dr. Zucker holds a master’s degree in public health and a doctorate in clinical psychology.
About the Feminist Press
The Feminist Press publishes books that ignite movements and social transformation. Celebrating our legacy, we lift up insurgent and marginalized voices from around the world to build a more just future.
See our complete list of books at feministpress.org
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