What not to say

In my previous post I mentioned many things that my family had said to me when they learned of the miscarriage. First of all, I want to say that I truly understand that these things were said innocently or with well-meaning intentions. But they still hurt. So with the post, I just want to educate. Not to criticize, but to cause you to think about the things that you may want to say or do differently if your friend or family/member experiences a miscarriage.

My perspective on my pregnancy is that this was a child. It was as real to me as yours are to you, be they two years old, seven years old, or eighteen years old. So many of these comments made me scratch my head simply because of the perspective that I had on it.

• "It's nature's way of taking care of something that couldn't survive." Really? Heavenly Father just zaps a life out of you because it couldn't survive? Then explain to me why there are so many children born into this world who have terminal diseases from the moment they are born or even later on into life. In the end, none of us survive. Whether we live until we are 20 years or 100 years old, we don't survive. We are mortal, and that's just a fact. So please don't tell me that the mortality that lived inside of me wasn't valid. If your two-year old becomes ill with cancer and dies, is it just natures way? Maybe so, but I hardly doubt you would want me to say that to you.
• "It just wasn't the right time." So, my body, or the Lord, whichever one, had better knowledge into when the right time would be to conceive? I had the timing wrong so let's kill the baby? This is so illogical and cruel that it is almost funny. How about all of those teenagers and drug addicts who get pregnant. I guess it must be the right time for them.
• "You're just cleaning the pipes." Wow, I was so dumbfounded when I heard that one. I still have no response to that one.
• "It's just a mass of cells, not a real baby at that point." While the baby may not have taken on much of a physical form at this time, it is far more than a lump of cells. I will do a further post on this particular subject so I won't go much further into detail here. But, even if physically there isn't much to an 8 week old fetus, emotionally to me I had already imagined this child growing up and getting married. This was a baby, no matter how far along.
• "That's why we waited until we were at least three months along to tell anyone." So I should just go through this alone? If I had stayed quiet this wouldn't have happened? I am not really sure why this comment even gets brought up, but it is told to me repeatedly, even now, four miscarriages and six years later.
• "At least you weren't further along." Let's just say that I am VERY opinionated about that particular comment. However many weeks gestation a fetus is doesn't give a mother more of a right to grieve than another. An 8 week old fetus is a baby just the same as a 39 week stillborn is. It would be like me saying to someone whose small child died that at least the child wasn't older because that would be a more difficult loss.
• "At least you know you can get pregnant." How is this supposed to be a condolence? I just lost a child! If you lost one of your living children, would that be a condolence to you? It is not good news that I can get pregnant. It will be good news when I can sustain a pregnancy and hold a baby in my arms.
• "You'll be pregnant again soon with another one." But I wanted this one. I already loved this one. If you lost a living child, how would you feel if I said you could soon get pregnant with another? It doesn't change the fact that this one did in fact die and there is a great feeling of loss over it.

So, what do you say? How about just a simple, "I'm so sorry for your loss." Acknowledge that a loss occurred and don't try to somehow explain away that it didn't in order to make the person feel better. It just makes it hurt worse that no one understands. So even if you don't understand and you feel like a miscarriage isn't a loss, just keep that to yourself and offer a shoulder to cry on.