‘Clear your diaries, get the time booked off… I’m not sure how much news this really is, but anyway, it’s April.’ With these wry words the BBC’s Simon McCoy announced the due date of the Duchess of Cambridge’s third child.
April. I took a deep breath. Why did it have to be April? My baby was supposed to be born in April.
I watched the words tick along the breaking news bar on the telly; each one like a nail being hammered into my already splintered, brittle heart. No need to clear my diary, thank you Simon, it’s already conspicuously empty.
Because two months ago I had a miscarriage. My third this year. Just three days before Kensington Palace first announced the Cambridges’ happy news I’d been in hospital for an ERPC (which stands for evacuation of retained products of conception — I’m not sure they could think of a more horrid, clinical term if they tried) essentially, surgery to remove a pregnancy that has failed.
I had been eight weeks pregnant, by all accounts very close to Kate’s dates. But at an early scan no heartbeat could be found, and that was that.
No coy announcement for us, no beautiful, blobby ultrasound pictures to pin to our fridge. Just half-whispered condolences from hospital staff; paperwork to fill in for the op two days later; a consent form for the ‘sensitive disposal of pregnancy remains’. Our baby: annulled to a series of administrative tasks.
I was recuperating at home on the sofa the day the royal baby news broke. I texted my husband Dan a link to the story, accompanied by a two-word message: Bloody typical.
I’m so sorry if this sounds churlish. But deep in the complicated grief that follows a miscarriage, any pregnancy announcement is almost unbearable — let alone one as high profile as the Duchess of Cambridge’s. It’s hard to imagine a gestation that will be more pored over, commented upon, photographed.
It’s bad enough when it’s the baby news of friends, family or colleagues. Even Beyonce and Amal Clooney’s mega-pregnancies earlier in the year seem mere warm-up acts compared to the fanfare of a royal baby. And those hadn’t exactly been easy in the aftermath of my first and second miscarriages, in January and then May.
The thought of watching as one of the most photographed (and beautiful) women in the world hits the pregnancy milestones that should have been mine, almost to the day, is nothing short of psychological torture.
It’s already begun. When I saw the pictures of Kate at her first public engagement since the pregnancy was announced, radiant in baby blue Alice Temperley, I couldn’t help myself — picking over the comparison; unscabbing the fresh wound.
What would my bump have looked like now? (Not as demure as Kate’s, I’d bet) Would I still be so tired? As sick? Would we still be to-ing and fro-ing on whether to find out baby’s gender or not?
Burning away under all these painful questions is, of course, white-hot jealousy. Why isn’t it me? Why not us? I don’t know if that’s an acceptable thing to admit to or not, but then you so rarely hear the unvarnished truth of how people feel after losing a pregnancy.
However, envy is a very common emotion after miscarriage, according to Dr Ana Nikčević, a psychologist at Kingston University with an interest in women’s reproductive health.
‘When you’re no longer pregnant, it can be difficult to see people who still are,’ she says. ‘But it’s natural — you’ve lost something, and someone else is getting that thing you wanted so much.
‘It’s just gone — sometimes in what feels like a mere moment —and it’s quite a painful thing to be reminded of that.’
And it’s compounded, she says, by the fact that women often don’t let on that they were pregnant in the first place.
Despite miscarriage being incredibly common — one in four women will go through it — it is still not the done thing to talk about it openly and for some couples it is, understandably, too hard to share the happy news with the bad in the same breath — that you had been pregnant, but aren’t any more.
Most miscarriages (more than 80 per cent) occur before the 12-week mark, when the first scan is typically done, and tradition has it that no announcement is made before this ‘safe’ point. If you lose a baby it can feel as though you’re expected simply to keep quiet and carry on. Try again. Swallow your sadness.
Certainly, it takes you to some dark places, which can be hard to share with other people.
A 2015 survey by Tommy’s, the baby charity, found that out of 5,500 women, two-thirds felt they couldn’t talk to their best friend about their loss, while more than a third felt unable even to speak to their partner about it. There is so much guilt attached to miscarriage, despite the fact it is almost never down to anything a woman did or didn’t do.
And then there is the fear that people won’t understand.
‘You would expect people to be equally empathetic whenever a pregnancy ends,’ says Professor Jacky Boivin, a health psychologist at Cardiff University, who specialises in fertility and reproductive issues.
‘But they don’t always appreciate how distressing early miscarriage can be. People tend to focus on trying again: “Don’t worry, it happens, at least you got pregnant” is a typical attitude.
‘Anything before 16 weeks is classified as an early miscarriage, but it doesn’t feel early for the person who’s been pregnant for three months. The biology is one thing, the psychology is another. It’s very much their baby.’
Accordingly, she says, a miscarriage can bring with it all the feelings you would expect with any death: grief, anger, fear and loss of control.
And then there is envy. Broiling, molten, complicated envy. It’s not dog-in-the-manger syndrome; it’s not that you can’t have something, so therefore no one can. It’s not even that you can’t be happy for someone else, at least on some level. It’s just that you so, so wish it was you.
Dealing with other people’s pregnancies has, for me, been one of the hardest things about my miscarriages — especially when their dates mirror yours; when someone is due around when you would have been. Should have been.
Because those dates and what-could-have-beens stick with you — the pregnancy maths as ingrained in your mind as your times tables. Unlike generations ago, when you might not have known for certain you were pregnant until you’d missed a couple of periods, the accuracy of modern home pregnancy tests means they can be done the second your period is late — and you are given a due date at your first appointment with the doctor after that.
Dr Nikčević agrees. ‘It’s difficult for women to deal with, both in the immediate aftermath and many months down the line, especially around significant dates, such as the due date,’ she says.
‘These feelings can also lie dormant for a while and then emerge much later around any relevant dates.’
We have three phantom due dates now; ghost birthdays scattered across our calendar. Right now I could have been on maternity leave with my three month old; or I could have been nearly eight months pregnant; or, like the Cambridges, we could have just announced an April due date, cautiously planning for our spring baby.
Although I have never dared have this conversation in real life, I do at least know I am not alone. Online forums are full of women grappling with losses like ours — and the green-eyed monster that comes along for the ride.
A typical post reads: ‘Sister-in-law was complaining again about how awful pregnancy is. I can’t stand it. They are due just before we were supposed to be and I hate how jealous I feel.
‘I know it sounds mad, but I feel like they are getting OUR baby.’
Or: ‘First day back at work after miscarriage, colleague announces she’s expecting. Feel like I’ve been run over.’
Pregnancy announcements like this have their own nick-name among women who’ve lost babies, or who are desperately, fruitlessly trying to conceive: baby bombs. It’s apt, because you do feel blown to pieces afterwards.
Social media is a particular minefield. You can feel perfectly fine for the first time in ages, only to be blind-sided by a scan photo posted by the idiot who used to sit three rows behind you in double maths, who you haven’t spoken to in 15 years. ‘Introducing the newest member of Family Maths Idiot… can’t wait to meet you little one!’
It doesn’t have to be someone you know, either. Sometimes just the sight of a pregnant woman — on TV, in the street — tenderly stroking her bump is enough to turn my insides to oil.
Last week, I gave up my seat for a lady on the Tube; she was only just starting to show, a ‘baby on board’ badge pinned proudly to her coat. As I stood up — to my embarrassment — tears pricked in my eyes and too much oxygen hammered in my chest. I quickly turned away, so the poor, unsuspecting woman wouldn’t see. I stood with my back to her for the rest of the journey.
I should say, at this point, it’s not only women who feel this way. Although it’s even less common to hear how they feel after losing a pregnancy, men go through it, too. Just the other day, my husband came home from work grim-faced at news that a colleague was expecting twins. Unplanned. We just stood and hugged by the dishwasher, the unfairness of it all filling the space around us.
Other people’s pregnancies present an unavoidable, physical reminder. The hole in your heart made flesh. A little unwanted glimpse of Alternative Universe You.
I realise that there is no logical reason to feel jealous of other people. It’s not as if there’s only one vacancy for the role of parent, and someone else got it, so you’re out on your ear. And I certainly wouldn’t wish what has happened to us on anyone else.
Rationally, I know that other people successfully having babies, left, right and centre (as it can sometimes feel) doesn’t lessen our chances. And I know that even after three miscarriages in a row — the point at which it is officially known as recurrent miscarriage, affecting around one in 100 women — the odds are still in our favour, even if no medical explanation can be found.
Unfortunately, it seems, sometimes it really is just a case of try, try, try again… Even so, it is hard to quell that rising panic that you are being left behind. That our child has already come and gone.
You try to get on with things, of course you do. But other people’s pregnancies present an unavoidable, physical reminder. The hole in your heart made flesh. A little unwanted glimpse of Alternative Universe You.
It can make life uncomfortable even with close friends, especially as the number of couples we know without children is dwindling rapidly. What should be shared happy occasions can feel sour for us — baby showers, Christenings, children’s parties… I am painfully aware that friends who started trying to conceive around the same time as us have just celebrated first birthdays.
Several are on their second or even third children. We’ve been lapped before we’re even off the starting blocks.
And even the most brilliant, understanding of friends can inadvertently rub salt in the wound. ‘Oh, I really hope I’m not in labour on my birthday’. ‘He’s going to be a summer baby… not ideal — we’d been hoping for September.’ What can I say to that? How can we possibly relate?
‘Well, I’d just like to give birth to a live baby, never mind the date, hahaha!’ isn’t really acceptable brunch conversation. Or fair, for that matter. We can’t expect people to walk on (unfertilised) eggshells whenever we’re around.
Nor would I want them to. Some friends have been so incredibly, conscientiously sensitive it makes me feel not only jealous, but guilty, too. I don’t want them to have to hide their pregnancy from me — I hate the idea that I’m taking away even a tiny bit of their happiness.
‘Envy is a taboo emotion,’ says Dr Nikčević. ‘It’s difficult to admit it to other people — it’s not socially acceptable, in a way, even though we all feel it sometimes. And with miscarriage, it is also difficult to admit to yourself — women can think it’s something they’re not supposed to feel, because, of course, you feel you should be happy for other people.’
This, in my experience, can lead to intense guilt — especially with friends. As if the spectre of my jealousy is an evil omen. That by being so caught up in my selfish envy, I’m willing something bad to happen. After all, when you know so intimately what can go wrong in a pregnancy, it’s never far from your mind.
There is one thing that helps. And that is remembering that you never know what someone has gone through before they got their bundle of joy.
And since I started writing about our miscarriages — first in a newspaper article back in April, and later on this blog — quite a few people we know have got in touch to say it happened to them, too. Or that they’d actually been trying to conceive for years. Or had been through IVF.
The same people I’d previously envied for having it easy. This is just about the one thing that placates the green-eyed beast. The knowledge that we are not alone; that we will get there. In a word, hope.
Something I will just have to remind myself of every time I see yet another picture of Kate in bloom. That, or take Simon McCoy’s advice and book a very long holiday.
A version of this post was first published for the Mail.
I just wanted to say I’m really grateful for you being brave enough to lay out your feelings and say it exactly how it is. We just experienced our first miscarriage a month ago, and feel utterly broken. It’s frustrating it’s not talked about, it’s frustrating the people I need don’t fully understand how we feel because they’ve never experienced it. Reading this makes me realise I’m not just a bitter cow I’m just normal. Today I even got jealous a friend said she was trying and am left feeling guilty at my first thoughts. So just thank you, and carry on, your rainbow will come!
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Hi Rachel, I’m so sorry for your loss. It’s definitely normal! I still get a lurch in my stomach if I think a friend is trying, or thinking about trying. Obviously you’re happy for them, but it is hard not to feel left behind. Hope you are doing OK, sending you lots of love and luck for next time. Jennie x
Hi there, me again just to say every word of yours echos my thoughts so accurately, I just find myself nodding away all the way through. The jealousy is crippling, it really is. The colleagues, the beautifully glowing pregnant woman on the train on the way to work, baby on board badge proudly displayed on her chest, she is sleeping and has a slight smile – to me it’s not a smile, it is smugness. Then I feel guilt because why shouldn’t she be happy?
It’s been 21 months since our first miscarriage and we won’t be trying ever again – my partner’s choice. I feel like this escalates my jealousy because I will never get that feeling ever again, Never. I’ve been passed from pillar to post trying to find the right therapy to help me overcome this excruciating desire to hold my baby in my arms again. No one can help me.
The jealousy is killing me. The desire is so overwhelming that I feel like I’m being suffocated.
I wish I knew the magic that would help babyloss sufferers. All I know is a ‘rainbow baby ‘ seems to be the answer, but I will never have that. What a mess.
Thanks again for sharing your words, it makes me feel like less of a freak xx
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Hello again! So sorry you’re having such a hard time. I can’t imagine the pain of deciding to stop – it has been hard enough taking a break for testing. That said, it has been nice to try to reclaim little pieces of how my life was pre-ttc, pre-pregnancy and pre-miscarriage. Running, planning grown-up things, etc. I hope you can find solace in something similar.
I wish there was a piece of magic I could share with you to make it all go away. I think the best I can come up with is this, which I can’t remember where I heard it: It doesn’t get easier, you just get better at it.
Lots of love – you will get through this. xxx
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I just found your blog through Tommy’s and having just returned from being told we have misscarried our 4th baby – believe me reading your intelligent, heart felt honest words has helped me so much. We have a 3 yearold and are trying to add to our family, I am eternally grateful for her but somehow sometimes people feel that we shouldn’t be too upset as we have her. Don’t get me wrong it does help, I feel incredibly lucky but a pregnancy loss is still so devastatingly sad irrespective of how many children you do or don’t have. I get jealous of others even with a child, its a horrible emotion that then leaves you feeling incredibly guilty too.
I will continue to find comfort in your writing now that I have found you, so thank you so much for putting you and your husbands feelings out there for all of us. I really hope with all my heart that you are successful at some point. R xxxx
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Hi Rachel – thank you, that’s so kind of you to say. I can’t speak from experience, but I can’t imagine it’s any less heartbreaking losing a baby just because you already have children. But I do think people assume it doesn’t matter as much, which is horrible. I really do feel for you. Sending lots of love, Jennie x
I really relate Rachel. We also have a living child and 6 losses since. My daughter cries whenever we have to leave a baby cousin or playmate — she asks for a sibling. This desperation to have another living child has become as much about me as her now, and that makes it both harder and easier in some ways.
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Thank you for sharing YOUR story. I have gone through 5 miscarriages and years of infertility. Now choosing to speak about it. Please consider following me as I am following you so that we can get the message out to help others. Hugs today.
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I’m so sorry to hear that… I will have a look now. Sending you lots of love and strength. Jennie x
Thank you for writing this so raw and unapologetic. I’ve been through two miscarriages and am in the bitterly envious stage as my sister just announced her pregnancy exactly one year after I lost my last one.
Most articles out there leave out these terrible feelings which lead to my guilt, self hate, and anger… This made me feel like I’m not the only person who is handling it this way.
Oh believe me, every bad, angry, jealous thought you’ve had… I’ve had it too. It does get a little easier though, I promise. Passing what should have been my due dates never exactly leaves me feeling good, but one side-effect is that some of the burning jealousy does dissipate at that point, I think. Sending lots of love and luck your way. Jennie xxx
nice story.. thanks for sharing
Thank you for writing just what is going on in my head. The envy feels so irrational and bitter but you just can’t help it. Plus, I had to contend with Harry and Megan’s pregnancy and then baby everywhere when I knew my due date was two weeks later. A high profile baby story is torture when you’re still grieving and thinking what if, that should be me etc I’m sorry you had three of those in such a short time.
Your honest writing really helps and makes me feel less alone. Thank you x
Thank you for this. Every sentence produced a new tear. This is every ounce of how I’ve felt for the past 3 months put into words. I keep trying to make sense of these feelings of jealousy, guilt and self-hate; telling myself it’s just the hormones still. But your piece made me realize it’s the emotional aftermath of a horrible loss, and that I am normal.
I googled “Miscarriage Jealousy” after a friend had a gender reveal yesterday and then texted me today to gleefully announce her baby girl is the size of a mango, to which I replied, “aww! she’s a little tropical fruit just like her momma!” as I cried privately on the other end of the phone, while feeling guilty for not being excited. Mine only made it to the size of a ladybug, but…no one wants to hear about that. It just feels like a constant lying of emotions, to them and to myself.
The part where you say that most women feel they cannot talk to their best friend or partner about their lasting pain resonated so much with me. My best friend brought me dinner the night of my surgery, and we’ve never spoken about it again. I don’t ever bring it up because I know she won’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry”. Not that there is a proper thing to say, but…you know what I mean. I imagine most people in my life, with the exception of a close friend who experienced her miscarriage 2 weeks before mine and my fiancee who patiently talks me through emotional break downs once a month, think that I am okay and that I’ve moved on. And after reading your piece, I think I am okay with that. I feel a lot less alone after reading this, knowing that my feelings are normal. They still totally suck, but at least they are valid.
Looking at the date of your post, it has been a few years. I hope you’ve found some light in your pain since writing this, and some peace knowing that you are really helping a lot of women by sharing your beautiful thoughts.
Thank you so much ❤ Sending you love!
I know this is old but I needed this. I just had a ‘Baby Bomb’ that a coworker is expecting. She is due right around what should be my due date. I lost my baby at ten weeks MMC two weeks ago. I want to be happy for her but I don’t know how. I’m dreading a daily reminder of where I should be and what should be my life. She was so kind and gentle in telling me because she knows what i’ve been going through. I’m just hurting.
Hello, I just wanted to say, I’m so very sorry you are going through this. (And I’m glad you found this post and that it helped in some small way – the piece is old, but I’m still here, writing about this kind of thing, and reading the comments). Pregnancy announcements like your co-worker’s are so difficult to deal with, however sensitively they break the news (I wrote something else about this, after a flurry of announcements from friends when I was feeling pretty low – you can read it here, if you’d like: https://uterusmonologues.com/2018/12/20/comfort-and-joy-pregnancy-announcements-a-how-to/). After our first miscarriage there was someone else in my office at the time, whose dates were painfully similar to ours. It’s such a complicated mixture of emotions, and I don’t think there are any easy answers, but I hope your workplace continue to be kind to you and that better days find you soon! Thank you so much for reading, Jennie xx