Helping a Friend Through a Miscarriage
A miscarriage is a terrible, painful, inexplicable thing. It’s horrible when it happens to you. And it’s horrible when it happens to someone you love. You’re equally helpless to stop it in both situations, and equally desperate to fix it. I’ve walked both roads…multiple times. In a room of 100 women, 10 will have experienced a miscarriage–it’s very close to a huge number of women. It’s something that can’t be fully explained, yet the experience instantly bonds all the women who have gone through it. The grief is so deep, so strong, it can only be overcome one wave at a time. Because it comes in waves. Experience from both sides has taught me the following five things for helping a friend through a miscarriage:
1. Don’t try to say anything profound
When your friend calls you crying and devastated because she’s losing or has lost her baby, your first instinct might be to try to come up with something profound to make all the pain go away. The thing is, nothing you say stops that pain. You’re not the wisest person who ever lived, and nothing that you think of to say will make anything better. Almost without question, any contemplated pearl of wisdom will make things worse. Keep all of it to yourself. Now’s not the time.
If you can’t say anything profound, what do you say? Fair question. You say that you’re here for her. You’re listening. You want to help carry her burden because she’s not alone in this. That it’s horrible. That she has every right to cry. That you’re crying with her because your heart is broken with hers. But don’t say anything you think is profound. Keep that tucked away until she’s ready to hear it. My rule of thumb: If she’s crying, she’s not ready to hear it. Whatever you’ve come up with to say to try to fix it…if she’s still crying or has cried today, she won’t hear it the way you mean it. Save it. When she’s ready for wisdom, she’ll come to the people wise enough to know when it should be shared.
2. Be there
When I had my first miscarriage, I felt more alone than I’d ever felt in my life. We had told everybody we were pregnant the minute that second pink line appeared. We were elated to be starting our journey to parenthood, and when the doctor told me that it did not look like a viable pregnancy, I assured her she was wrong–that my baby would be the miracle–and went right on and kept telling all my friends about my new joy.
So when my doctor turned out to be right, and I lost that baby, I didn’t know what to do. We got through it, and then I had to un-tell everybody. After everybody felt obliged to share some sure-fire fix-it statement (see above), it was like they just stayed away until I looked okay again. And I preferred the distance because I didn’t want any more assaults from “helpful” advice.
People are often afraid of grieving people because they don’t want to say or do the wrong thing. Don’t worry about saying or doing anything. Just be there. The only wrong thing is to leave them to hurt alone.
If someone has shared with you that they were pregnant, or share with you that they have had a miscarriage, it’s because you are important enough to that person to receive that news. That means that they most likely want you around during their grief. I say that with a most likely. Not everybody is the same.
But pretty much everybody will answer you if you ask, “Can I come over and be with you?” Or “can I get you a babysitter for your other kids so we can go sit outside for a while?” Or something where you can be with your friend but there’s no pressure to perform or talk. I don’t love “how can I help” because that means your friend has to think of something for you to do. Or if you’re at a distance, or your friend doesn’t want your physical presence, let them know via text that you’re thinking of them and you’re there any time. More than once. Don’t just say it and leave it out there, waiting for them. Keep being there. In that moment of loss, being alone seems like the safe thing, but connecting with people who loved me was critical to my grief journey.
Solitude sometimes seems safer for a grieving person because you don’t want to hear the pithy “wisdom” someone thinks might help. Or feel them waiting for you to break down again. Or feel like they might be judging you for smiling or laughing. I pushed a lot of people away because it seemed safer for my already crushed heart. But a true friend who knows none of their talking will change the emptiness and unbearable weight of grief, but who wants to sit with you so you’re not alone in it…that’s everything. In a time when people’s pitying glances or condescending comments were constant reminders and confirmations of all the negative things I was feeling and thinking, those few who knew to be still and quiet, but be with me, were the ones I leaned on to survive. And the ones I celebrated with when I found ever-increasing joys again.
3. It’s okay not to have any answers
This goes with number 1, but when your friend asks why–because we all want to know why–it’s okay to say “I don’t know.” She’s not asking you why because she thinks you’ll provide an answer that makes it all make sense. She’s just hurting and wants you to share that pain of the senselessness of miscarriage. Why do some women get to carry every baby they conceive to term? How would God let her get pregnant in the first place if she’s just going to lose her baby? Why did it happen before/after she got to see the baby on ultrasound? Why whatever… it’s okay not to have the answers. “I don’t know” is sometimes the best answer. Because then she’s not alone in not understanding this (number 2).
No attempt to answer any “why” question will actually answer that “why” question. Be comfortable with not having all the answers. It’s better to be a good friend than to be right. Or to know everything. Or to fix everything. Even if you’re a doctor. Even if you’re a member of the clergy. No matter your qualifications or knowledge base, you cannot answer “why” with any words which will satisfy her need to feel like there’s a reason for her loss. Don’t try. Any effort to answer will most likely deepen her pain. Go back to number 1 and number 2. Grieve with her.
4. Speak truth gently and with love
The only things to say when your friend is grieving are things that are true, helpful, and loving. If it doesn’t actually help, don’t say it. If you can’t say it with love, don’t say it. And if it’s not true, don’t say it. But sometimes, she needs some truth. Weigh it carefully before you say it. If it needs to be said, you’ll know.
Sometimes, the truth sounds like “it’s okay to laugh,” or “your grief doesn’t have to follow a pattern.” Allowing a person space to grieve how she needs to grieve is very powerful. That permission to feel what you need to feel can be very freeing. Many women experiencing a miscarriage are going through that grief for the first time–it is scary and nobody knows how to do it right. Hearing out loud that it is okay to be happy in a happy moment can be very liberating. The last thing a grieving person needs is to feel guilty for having other emotions.
Often, though, the truth that needs to be said is in response to defeatist statements like: “there’s something wrong with me,” “I’ll never have babies,” “my husband won’t want me anymore,” or other similar indications of despair. This is also the time to speak truth she needs to hear, but only if you can say it with love.
Now isn’t the time for a lecture. This is your friend vulnerably sharing her deepest fears in the wake of a tsunami that just rocked her world. Gently, but firmly, tell her the truth about herself. She most likely has lost sight of who she really is and feels as desperate as her statement sounds. Be the lighthouse to lead her back to the solid ground of the truth on which she can start to rebuild. But remember: the lighthouse doesn’t pull boats to shore. It shines from the rocks and lets the boat get safely to shore in her own time. Don’t insist that she accept the truth right away. But don’t confirm her hopelessness, especially not through silent affirmation.
Always ALWAYS speak truth with love, and say what needs to be said when you know it needs to be said. Please get help, or bring others into the situation if the statements you hear feel like warnings of imminent harm to your friend. https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org
5. Avoid the three worst phrases
The three worst phrases to say when a person is grieving are: (1) at least, (2) it could be worse, and (3) you’ll see. Any sentence that starts with or includes any of those statements (or any variations thereof) will be condescending, minimizing, and sure to put up a wall. A person who is grieving doesn’t want their pain trivialized by a sanctimonious person telling them to be thankful their grief isn’t worse. Just because something worse could have happened, doesn’t mean her pain isn’t enormous and very real. Allow her to feel her valid feelings and experience grief the way she needs to process it.
One of the most hurtful things I heard in my miscarriage journey was “at least it happened before the baby ever felt pain.” It told my grief-altered mind that it was best I didn’t birth my child because what kind of selfish monster would want a baby to be born when she knows that life is painful? (If you’re thinking this way, please know that’s not reality because while life has painful moments, it also has joy and happiness which far outweigh the negatives and babies are always worth it).
What that person meant as helpful (because they were thinking rationally) became tremendously hurtful torture to my irrational, emotion-driven mind. Emotions aren’t rational, and they usually can’t be reasoned with. Any statement meant to bring logic and reason to grief will typically only make it worse. Let the emotions pass before you try to bring up any logic. And when you do, be sure still to avoid the three worst phrases.
At the end of the day,
the people who were with me during my miscarriages, I count as some of my favorite relationships. Because when I was down in the black hole of grief, feeling like there was no light, these people disregarded their own comfort, climbed in there with me, and stayed with me until I was able to look up to see hope and light again.
In time, others’ success stories were uplifting. In time, others’ babies weren’t daggers to my heart, but sweet reminders of hope and the miracle each child is to have made it all the way to birth. And in time, when I became pregnant and stayed pregnant, every symptom, pain, bladder disaster, and stretch mark became that much more special because they all were confirmation that my hope wasn’t misplaced, and that joy was on the other side of all the grief. Your friend will get there. But she needs time, and she needs a wise friend by her side. Please give her both.