Guest monologue: Whatever you say, please don’t say ‘at least’

A guest post by Isla, @izzymatt

At least…..’ ‘At leastis a phrase Ive heard so often in our journey through secondary infertility and, in truth, I imagine its probably the most used phrase tossed towards anyone who has suffered through loss.

Its so terribly British. Our stiff upper lip sensibilities draw us immediately to this default pattern of always trying to find the silver lining, always trying to wrap up any conversation we find uncomfortable. Wed much rather get back to discussing the important stuff, like complaining about the weather and the ever-diminishing volume of crisps in a bag of Walkers.

Processed with VSCO with c1 preset

 I dont say this in attack of anybody, its simply the socially acceptable response. Im guilty of it myself. I know I said it years ago to someone who was walking the same path I now find myself on. But for one reason or another, whenever I hear it now, I hear this negative, accusatory tone behind it: ‘Pull your socks up’ and ‘just be thankful for what you’ve got’.

At least it was early.

At least you werent showing.

At least you hadnt told anybody.

At least you have your daughter.

I especially cant bear that  last one.

It makes our daughter sound like some sort of fairground consolation prize, or, worse still, that people think we need reminding of just how lucky we are. As if wanting another baby meant that we didnt adore the one we already had. I will forever be thankful that we had her first, that we were able to experience pregnancy without fear just once. It is not a luxury we will get again, no matter how our story ends. She is simply magical. Not to brag, but she can also drop a well-timed Ferris Bueller Chicka chickowupon exiting a room and that for me is the hallmark of an exceptional human.

In five years, I have been pregnant four times. We had no reason to suspect after our daughter’s arrival that my body would fail me so spectacularly when we tried again. Its why we waited until she was three. We had no clue there was a clock ticking and part of what has made this so hard is that we were, in all honesty, so blindsided by it. And then again… And then once more…

I’ve been pregnant so many times I know the symptoms by heart. My last pregnancy I predicted well over a week before we could even test. But that skill sadly now applies to the symptoms of miscarriage too. Occasionally, Ill find myself in an Instagram hole and a video will pop up of some elaborately planned reveal of a positive pregnancy test, and it floors me. I just no longer have that kind of unbridled joy at seeing the blue line appear. My last positive test, I took alone in the bathroom. I opened the door and looked at my husband and nodded, and he nodded back, like two battle-weary soldiers. No words were spoken, we know better than to raise our hopes.

The danger of the At least…’ conversation is it feels like everybody is telling you to take a seat, especially if you are already a parent. You know you are lucky. You know there are others who arent and you dont want to take up their space. So you stay quiet and those At least…’ conversations, they become internal. You dont raise your hand and ask for help and you begin to berate yourself, to pick yourself apart for feeling how you feel. I know, because Ive been there. Loss is loss, you cant control the circumstance of yours.

Parenting through loss has been difficult. We feel our daughter is too young to be told, and so the harder, emotional moments have had to be concealed.

Our second miscarriage was particularly devastating. Having believed that the odds on having a second loss were minuscule, we really thought we were living our happy, Hollywood ending. Im not sure I will ever be able to appropriately thank my husband for managing to swallow all of his emotion enough to form a human blockade at our bathroom door. Half in our bedroom making our little girl laugh as she danced on the bed to Peppa Pig and half trying to hold his devastated wife together on the bathroom floor, as she tried to silence her heartbroken cries.

We lived for a long time in a land of limbo. One room in our house was slowly filling with the nursery furniture and toys our daughter no longer required, but that we felt sure would soon be back in use. Over the years, it slowly became a dusty mausoleum to the ones who never arrived. She now asks me, regularly, why she doesnt have a sibling (as do some adults), and whether or not I have a baby in my tummy. I have had to become well versed in distracting from what we dont have and trying to divert attention to what we do.

After our last miscarriage, almost 18 months ago, we realised we had to make some changes. The mental load was too much and we needed help. We needed support. We had clinics and scans and tests to get through. We needed to try to visualise what our life might be, just the three of us. We cleared the sad room. I couldnt bear to let go of things just yet, weve still not made the decision to give up, weve just pressed pause. (And I simply dont go in the garage, which is like a disused Mothercare warehouse… Full of prams, a cot, crates of toys and piles of vac-packed clothes, all just waiting for a purpose).

The room upstairs has become an office for me, for a job opportunity I would never have accepted had things turned out differently. Life these days is all about living in the now and not holding off on moments or experiences just in case. We take the trips we talk about, we support each other to pursue different dreams and we focus on making everything count.

The biggest step? For the first time we talked, openly. To each other, to our family and friends. I no longer hide it away, berating myself for having bad days. If it comes up, I acknowledge it. For the first time we fully trusted people. We let them into one of the hardest experiences we would ever go through, unvarnished. It was difficult and scary, but those people never failed us, never faltered. They showed up, they listened and the at leasts…’ stopped. Our parents went back to parenting us for a while so that we in turn could parent our daughter. Our friends and family showed up time and time again and gently pieced us back together. They packaged up and sent books they knew would be a distraction, not a trigger. They drove miles to take me out to dinner to make sure I ate (get yourself the kind of mates who will order every single starter on the menu because they know eventually your food envy will beat your heartbreak). They poured the wine and listened to the harsh unedited realities of miscarriage because they knew I needed to get them out of my head.

It is because of all these things, the big and the small , that this time I feel like Im actually starting to recover. That the colour has started to come back in.

I dont have all the answers, I still have bad days and I dont know how our story will end. I do know that its hard in an age of social media comparison to stick your hand up and say ‘I’m strugglingbecause you worry somebody else is more entitled to the help. Heres the thing though, no story is the same as yours, the circumstances vary, but the trauma of loss remains the same. It is a lonely and isolating place but sometimes you just have to trust that you can open up a little and somebody will say ‘I’ve lived through that too’ or ‘I’m here for youand suddenly youll gain strength from a shared understanding that you are not alone.

And that is not the least of anything.

2 Comments

  1. This came up for me again this week. Slight twist to it (which is always interesting), but I was in my college counsellor training course, tutor talking about empathy and she plays Brene Brown’s Empathy vs Sympathy animation. It gets to the part when BB uses miscarriage as an example of the ‘at least’ phrase…and 2-3 people in the room laugh. They laugh. WTAF? Sure, they were probably uncomfortable or maybe even surprised that someone who has had a miscarriage would be met with ‘at least…’, but they LAUGHED. Giggled even. That’s not okay, and if the college doesn’t get closed because of coronavirus, I’ll be saying so in next weeks class.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.