He opened the bathroom door and didn’t even ask if I was okay. But he could tell by my face: I was very much not okay. I’d never experienced such a violent and sudden sickness, and as I attempted to contort my shivering body onto the mat in our bathroom, I didn’t know how I would ever be “Okay.”
A few weeks before that fateful day in August, we had been briefly pregnant thanks to egg donor IVF. Then, in an instant, the child we had planned and prayed for was gone. I’d assumed the process of losing a pregnancy could be painful. But I guess I’d also thought that since it was so early in the gestation, a miscarriage wouldn’t be so bad. But that day on our bathroom floor, the pain was beyond anything I’d imagined. It felt like my whole body had turned against me.
In the weeks that followed, the physical pain lingered. Nausea, headaches, bleeding. The emotional pain was far worse. Our hearts were broken. We had invested three years of our lives and tens of thousands of dollars, and I had sacrificed my body with one goal in mind: a family. I have known since childhood that I was meant to be a mother, and I believed in my bones that my husband, Matt, was meant to be a dad, too. We had been through two rounds of attempted egg donor IVF, multiple egg donors, and 15 potential embryos. In the end, only one was actually viable, and that remaining embryo and the love we poured into it left me that day on our bathroom floor. We were devastated and lost. Without knowing what the future looks like, how do you ask for and receive the help you need to survive the present?
What I’ve come to recognize in the years since, and after suffering subsequent losses, most people in this situation don’t ask for help. It’s so hard to reach out for support, especially when you’re having trouble identifying your needs. The loss of a longed-for fetus attacks you physically and emotionally. Both your body and your brain have to adapt. It’s a process of conscious and subconscious adjustment, and the recalibration to a new reality is exhausting. Everyday tasks become a Herculean labor.
Likewise, if you have a loved one grieving a pregnancy loss, it’s hard to know how to show up for them. In honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, here are some of the things that helped me and my husband:
Be a witness.
We’re all conditioned to be fixers, offering pep-talk platitudes and tidy solutions when someone we love is hurting—but anyone grieving a loss needs people close to them to bear witness to their pain. This is true of any kind of loss, but in my experience, it’s especially important when a pregnancy has ended prematurely. There’s no getting around the fact that showing up in this way is difficult emotional work. We’re all conditioned to be fixers, offering pep-talk platitudes and tidy solutions when someone we love is hurting,
On the day of our pregnancy loss, friends showed up with whisky and cookie dough, and we watched “American Ninja Warrior.” No one tried to cheer us up or make us talk, but instead just came to be with us and, in doing so, showed us they loved us.
Provide practical help.
Grief has material impacts on our bodies and brains, making normal functioning a challenge. That holds true even when the loss if of a person who never existed outside the womb. You ll need help with basic stuff: So bring over dinner, offer to walk the dog, babysit, take work off their plate if they’re a colleague. Do something practical to relieve the burden of trying to function while processing a loss.
Send joy.
When we lost our pregnancy, a dear friend sent a fancy box of cheese and snacks from one of my favorite stores in the world. Impractical? Sure. Did it bring us some small amount of immediate joy? Yes. If someone you love has had a pregnancy loss, send them something that is unique to your relationship with them, something you know is sure to make them smile and remember who they are independent of this tragedy.
Keep showing up.
Matthew and I began our parenthood journey in 2016, but didn’t become parents until 2021. There was a lot of frustration, grief, and disappointment during those five years, and our friends showed up for us over and over again. They asked how we were doing, they offered to help with the adoption process, they gave us permission to skip baby showers and kid birthday parties, and they provided fun distractions when we needed them. I don’t know if we would have made it to parenthood if not for the love and support we received from our community along the way. It may not seem like much to you but acknowledging someone else’s pain does make a difference.
Don’t assume you know the end of the story.
Two years after our pregnancy loss, on another fateful summer day, my husband and I received a different call. There was a baby, and his birth mother wanted us to parent him. We were, and we remain, overjoyed by the blessing of our son Bennett. But from time to time, we still think about what could have been. Who might Bennett’s older brother or sister be if things had worked out differently?
When I was lying on the bathroom floor that day in August, I didn’t know if I’d ever be Okay. Today, I am–in fact, I’m better than okay. What helped me through this most difficult period of life, what made me okay, bit by bit, was my ability to be honest about an incredibly painful experience. We’re shaped by these events, in ways we don’t necessarily fully comprehend, and we need space to share–not just in the immediate aftermath of a loss, but even years later, as we reckon with its ongoing impact.
Marisa Renee Lee is a called-upon grief advocate, writer, speaker, and business strategist. She is the author of the award-winning bestseller, Grief Is Love: Living With Loss, CEO of Beacon Advisors, and founder of the breast cancer charity, The Pink Agenda. She lives in the Hudson Valley with her husband, Matthew; son, Bennett; and dog, Sadie.