(Loving Note: This article touches on grief after miscarriage.)
I concentrated on breathing slowly, trying to ignore my husband’s useless attempts to comfort me as we walked out of the doctor’s office. Alan dug his keys out of his pocket as we approached the car. “At least you weren’t that far along,” he said.
Hugging my purse to my chest, I glared at my husband. Almost five months seemed far enough along to me. I blinked away the stinging in my eyes as I remembered the nurse’s failed attempt to comfort us by saying that “the fetus had stopped developing” so she doubted I was “as far along as my chart indicated.”
The fetus? No. The baby stopped developing. My baby, who was far enough along to have a heartbeat and far enough along to be a loss, was worth grieving.
Alan opened my car door and placed his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not that big of a deal,” he said. “This happens to a lot of people.”
Shrugging away from his touch, I slid into the passenger seat as anger, confusion, and resentment widened the gap between us. Staring out the window in silence didn’t stop my husband from bombarding me with what I now recognize as well-intentioned platitudes used to process his own confusion and grief.
Over the next few weeks, I concealed my feelings behind a lipstick-glossed smile at work. But baby-sightings in-person and on television triggered explosions of grief. At home, I lashed out at my husband.
Eventually, I asked for a divorce.