In yesterday's New York Times Health section, there was a raw and powerful essay by N. West Moss about one of the most underdiscussed topics women face: miscarriage. The piece is pitch perfect, full of truncated pain, but brimming with hope.
Generally, we don't discuss miscarriage. It isn't a happy topic. We don't blog about it. And when it happens to us or someone we know, some consoling words are whispered and the expectation is that we all move on, and quickly. The tears, the pain and the blood that accompany such an event are usually experienced by an audience of one. As Moss observes, there are no pink ribbons for this cause, to raise awareness or muster sympathy. It is a reality that many, many women endure alone.
Miscarriage--while deeply painful--is not, as Moss writes the death knell of hope or motherhood. So maybe we should stop treating it as such. It is not contagious. It is not a bad omen. It is a heartbreaking disappointment that is neither shameful nor uncommon. It is the loss of a dream, the end of a very new reality. But it is not a final analysis. Hope always remains and endures.
We are all sisters, even before we are Mamas.