Losing our baby: The emotional impact of miscarriage

“I’m pregnant.” As soon as she said these words, my wife and I started to imagine a new future. Hand-holding, potty-training, first day of school. We imagined the day when our child would be old enough to understand Mummy’s joy, when she learned she was having a baby.

“And Daddy?”

“Daddy was more . . . cautiously optimistic”.

We quickly agreed on a gender-neutral code name to refer to our future firstborn: Micro.

“How is Micro doing today?”

“How soon do we get to meet Micro?”

It was utterly jarring, a few weeks later, to discover that this tiny creature, who we were so excited to meet, wasn’t coming. Ten weeks into her pregnancy, my wife started having a miscarriage. I say “started having” because it went on for five days. After which she needed an operation.

You’ve probably heard trendy couples gushing, “WE’RE pregnant!”

I’ve got to tell you, that phrase feels pretty empty when your partner is going through an emergency medical procedure, in a foreign hospital, and you’re sitting in the waiting room, physically untouched. “We” were not having a miscarriage.

Traumatic

At the hospital, the doctor informed us that our little Micro had never even started to develop. We were comforted to know that no tiny creature had experienced pain. But we also had nowhere to place all the love and hope we’d been building up for two months.

That’s what our national debate too often feels like. Two sides, hurling the personal tragedies of individual women at each other. . Almost every couple we subsequently “came out” to, revealed that they, or close friends, had survived something similar. I’m sure you, or someone close to you, has as well.

At times of stress, my usual survival strategy is to seek solace in logic and reason. But losing Micro, and then being told that Micro had never existed, was too much. I found myself resorting to magical thinking.

I imagined Micro playing a pre-natal practical joke on us, by switching arrival date. While we fretted, our little hell-raiser was merrily wreaking bureaucratic havoc in the spirit realm. I pictured Micro having a good old laugh at us hopeless, aspiring parents, while taking a relaxed break in some cosmic creche in the sky.

Rationally, I know that sounds deluded. The logical part of my brain fully understands that the above scenario categorically did not happen. But emotionally, that vision helped me to process the powerful, conflicting feelings that I was struggling to digest.

All of this has been on my mind as our country gears itself up for another potential referendum on abortion. On TV, radio and in print, we inevitably try to apply logic, reason and universal principles to this issue. But I believe it’s an issue we process emotionally.

When you hear about a woman seeking an abortion, who do you most strongly identify with? The woman? Or the unborn?

It’s a question most of us answer instinctively.

It’s perfectly reasonable to identify with the woman – a thinking, feeling, fellow human with whom you have much in common.

It’s also perfectly reasonable to identity with the unborn – at a fragile, utterly dependent stage of development.

Whether you see yourself as the defender of women in crises, or the defender of the vulnerable unborn, it is easy to believe you’re on the side of the angels. And from there, it can be a short jump to demonising anyone who disagrees with you.

Weaponising women

But the truth is that there are kind, compassionate, reasonable people on both sides of this issue. We don’t have to vilify those we differ with. It should be possible for everyone to empathise with a young woman, facing a crisis pregnancy. And we were all, at some point in our development, unborn embryos.

Unfortunately, in the media, this question is too often turned into an ideological bun fight: pro-choice v pro-life. Is anyone anti-choice? Or anti-life?

A couple of years ago, I wrote a sketch for Irish Pictorial Weekly, in which Ireland's abortion debate was depicted as the Battle of the Somme. Two bitterly entrenched armies were locked in stalemate over a small, muddy scrap of the moral high ground. Both sides bombarded the other relentlessly and then carefully reloaded their cannons with pregnant women.

That’s what our national debate too often feels like. Two sides, hurling the personal tragedies of individual women at each other. The sensitivity appropriate to such personal pain is stripped away, and each woman becomes a soundbite or an anecdote, weaponised for maximum impact.

Part of the problem is the ruling that – in any referendum question – equal airtime must be given to both sides. It’s well intentioned and fair, in theory.

In practice, it means that TV and radio studios are filled with equal numbers of ideological advocates. There’s little space to explore the endless human complexities and contradictions of crisis pregnancy.

There are more than two perspectives on abortion. There are people who are passionately against abortion, but feel uncomfortable imposing their morals on everyone else. There are some who are pro-choice, but nonetheless feel uncomfortable with abortion being “normalised”. There are people who intensely dislike abortion, but see it as the least awful option in cases of rape. And there are some who have very strong feelings on the subject . . . until it directly affects them in a way they hadn’t envisaged.

Deeper, more heartfelt and emotional discussion is possible. We’ve all witnessed the bitterness and division that are rampant in Brexit Britain and Trump’s America. If we want to avoid a similar fate, we need to get better at listening to each other, and understanding the motives of people who disagree with us. It’s the only chance we have to build a better society.

I hope we get there. Because Micro has finally decided to join us, and plans to arrive in May.