Elysha had a miscarriage between the births of our daughter, Clara, and our son, Charlie.
It was a difficult time for us. She was only pregnant for a few weeks, but we had already begun to think of that tiny collection of cells inside her womb as a new member of our family. Not an hour passed that I did not think about the new child we would be adding to our family.
Then the possibility of that child was gone. It felt ridiculous to mourn the loss of possibility, but we did.
Then Elysha got pregnant again, and Charlie was born.
We were so very lucky.
But during the time that we spent in that reproductive no-man’s land – the emotionally fraught period between a miscarriage and the time when you can begin trying to get pregnant again – two people asked me when Elysha and I were going to have another baby.
One asked me when we would finally give our daughter a sibling, insisting that two kids are better than one.
Another sought assurances that we wouldn’t stop after just one child since the first was turning out so well.
Neither question was asked with any level of gravitas. Both were posed amid an otherwise busy workday, probably because the atmospheric phenomenon of the day was not compelling enough to warrant a comment. They were little more than conversation fillers, as these types of questions often are, but both hit me hard and served as unnecessary reminders of what my wife and I were still enduring following the miscarriage.
Each time, I wanted to say:
“Well, Elysha just had a miscarriage, so we have to wait a while before trying again. Not to mention that we are still getting over the loss of what we thought would be our next child. But thanks so much for asking about our reproductive plans, jackass, because it’s definitely your business.”
Instead, I lied. I said that we were still debating when to have the next baby.
But both conversations left me angry and sad, but they also got me thinking. Since our miscarriage, I have learned something surprising:
Everyone has had a miscarriage.
Not technically everyone, but enough to make it feel like everyone. As soon as Elysha divulged our news to friends, she discovered that many, if not most, of her female friends had experienced similar circumstances.
Miscarriages happen all the time.
Five times in my life, I have stepped offstage after telling a story and been approached by a stranger who wanted to share the story of her miscarriage with me. In all five instances, I hadn’t told a story about pregnancy, fertility, or even parenthood. I had allowed myself to be vulnerable onstage, which had allowed these five women to be vulnerable with me.
In each case, I was the only person she had ever spoken to about her miscarriage.
Even today, speaking about a miscarriage remains at least slightly taboo.
Armed with an understanding of the frequency of miscarriages and the emotionality attached to them, I would like to make the following suggestion:
Let’s eliminate the “So when are you guys going to have a baby?” question from the litany of inane comments that are made on a daily basis.
Nothing good can come from this question. At best, you’ll gain a bit of meaningless information that serves no useful purpose. At worst, you will run into someone like me, who wishes he could share news of his wife’s pregnancy but is instead dealing with an unexpected loss.
And we were fortunate in many regards. Elysha got pregnant again relatively quickly. We have friends who have suffered through multiple miscarriages over months and years. Some of these miscarriages occurred considerably further along in their pregnancies. I remember hearing a colleague once ask one of my friends when she was going to “finally have another child.”
Knowing the struggles that she and her husband had already endured, I cannot imagine how the question must have made him feel.
Then there are the couples struggling with infertility, yet I cannot tell you the number of times I have heard one of these couples asked about when they are going to “finally start having kids.” I have friends who have spent tens of thousands of dollars to have a child, and the last thing they needed was a coworker or nosy neighbor inquiring about their reproductive plans.
“Yeah, it turns out my husband’s impotent, and we’re thinking about using his brother’s semen. Thanks so much for asking.”
Is that really what you want to hear?
There are also couples for whom deciding to have a child (or another child) is a source of conflict in their marriage. Asking these people when they will have a child only serves to rub salt into an already exposed wound.
“I want five kids, but my wife can barely handle the one we have. We can’t discuss the subject without fighting, so we’re in counseling now. I appreciate you bringing it up while we stand here at the photocopier.”
Somehow the “When are you guys going to make a baby?” question became as utilitarian as “What are you doing this weekend?” and “Did you hear about the snow we’re supposed to get?”
But it’s not.
So let’s stop asking it. Okay?
