I have known for months that I would write a post today, the day that I had imagined I would be holding a newborn in my arms, Baby H’s due date.
I had really hoped that by now, I would be writing this post feeling completely healed from this trauma, perhaps I would be writing this post while there was once again life in my womb. But none of those things are true. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve received e-mails and formula samples from companies—all reminders of the fact that I was no longer expecting a baby.
After losing our baby, it took me a month to see my family doctor, ONE MONTH! I finally saw her a few days before her office closed for the holidays. While I waited, I saw (or tried to see) doctors at clinics to send me for necessary testing and dealt with difficult administrative assistants, who didn’t grasp the importance of the files they received.
It is hard to grieve while you’re trying to make sure that your physical body is okay.
The holidays came and went. Finally, I had a window where I felt like I could deal with the hurt and trauma –but soon after my second appointment with my (culturally-sensitive) therapist, we were shutdown due to the pandemic.
Since the miscarriage, I have felt a variety of feelings towards pretty much everyone around me—and many days I could not find comfort or answers to my questions. I was angry at society for having the idea that I should “be over it” or “move on”. I was annoyed with people who assumed that my life had gone back to normal (it hadn’t) and wanted me to socialize at the pace and energy-levels I did before.
Moreover, I was frustrated at myself for feeling stuck and for feeling a strong need to “make lemonade” from the lemons life had given me.
At the same time, I wrestled with the feeling that moving forward would mean forgetting the baby I had dreamt of.
The pandemic has taken away my ability to mourn and memorialize my child the way that I wanted, and it has made me nervous about becoming pregnant again. It has made me worry about the lack or difference in available programs and services for mothers pre- and post- birth that were so key to my physical and mental health when I had my son. This pandemic has also made me hyper-aware of the racial disparities in healthcare that many have felt and questioned but could never confirm due to Canada’s lack of race/ethnicity-based health statistics (including maternal health); data that is now (after extensive pleas) being collected, but only for Covid-19. We cannot address problems related to maternal health and mental health if we refuse to collect and look at the numbers.
I was fortunate that I was able to find a Black therapist who understood my specific cultural background and worked in this area that led to a certain comfort when discussing my miscarriage—but she was one of the very few in my city. There are people who do not have this option. Seeking a mental health professional is a complex and very stigmatized practice in society and is even more so for Black individuals (and POC in general) for a variety of reasons. I believe that being able to seek help from a mental health professional that looks like you and/or has a deep understanding of your culture can be helpful to healing.
Today, my heart hurts for the baby that I lost, but my heart also goes out to all the women who have had miscarriages, who have lost a child shortly after childbirth, those who live with trauma due to substandard health care and/or racial biases and to all those families who have lost someone dear to them during pregnancy and childbirth. I will continue, and encourage others to, advocate for themselves and their children so that these things happen less frequently to us all.
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