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My Story

Miscarriage –
a Man’s Perspective

By Keyan Milanian / 9th Oct, 2016

Sometimes useless isn’t enough, often I’ve felt so much worse than that. Impotent, rootless, rudderless, pointless. As a partner going through miscarriage, it’s so easy to feel like this.

Sometimes useless isn’t enough, often I’ve felt so much worse than that. Impotent, rootless, rudderless, pointless. As a partner going through miscarriage, it’s so easy to feel like this. To know that the little things you might do, holding her hand, kissing her, hugging her, talking to her, wiping away all those tears, brings no comfort or relief.

The worst of our five was in New York. I’d secretly booked the trip, ironically, to cheer up my wife following our first miscarriage. We were only two days into our holiday when she started bleeding.

‘I see you’re pregnant… so why are you crying?’ said the flustered, over-worked doctor who saw us in ER. Had I not felt so dazed by the previous 24 hours I might have snapped at her. Days later (miscarriages often last days and sometimes weeks), they confirmed what we already knew and Amy was forced to go to an abortion clinic, the only place that could carry out the necessary procedure to remove the ‘products of pregnancy’ at such short notice. I did what I could to cheer her up, dealt with our health insurance and rebooked our flights. Our Airbnb hosts – her eight months pregnant – were brilliant.

When we got home I made the mistake of going straight back to work thinking it was better to get on with things. But a month later it hit me and I completely broke down. I had to call in sick to work, sobbing. It was only then that I finally spoke properly to my wife about what we had been through.

I made the mistake of going straight back to work thinking it was better to get on with things. But a month later it hit me and I completely broke down.

I’ve never been in a car crash but I imagine it’s a close analogy for her experience of miscarriage. To be moving forward, expecting you’re heading for a particular destination, then that horrific jolt and blood and darkness. And while women deal with both the psychological and physical trauma of losing a baby – the bleeding, the clots, the poking and prodding, the seemingly endless needles – as the partner, you only ever have an idea, a dream of a future… and then it is gone. That’s something I’ve struggled with each time, processing all those emotions and ideas that come like a terrible flood. I still don’t deal with it very well, it isn’t always easy to know what to say because often there’s nothing to say and, after so many, it’s so difficult to be hopeful, let alone talk about being hopeful. There is no ‘rainbow baby’ in our house.

And even when we are not pregnant, perhaps waiting for one blood test or another, there are the constant reminders. Those new acquaintances who ask, ‘So do you want children?’. Those unwelcome children’s clothes brochures that come through the post; the pregnant bellies; the woman at work who has brought their new addition in to show off or the Facebook scans posted by friends that are another jab in the ribs. See, they can do it, what’s wrong with you?

And it’s all so tiring and I think I am a sadder person than I ever was before this mess.

Even with the feelings of inadequacy, I’ve realised the little things really do make a difference. So keep holding her hand, keep hugging, keep talking and keep going.

But even with the feelings of inadequacy, I’ve realised the little things really do make a difference. So keep holding her hand, keep hugging, keep talking and keep going. Despite it all, I still feel lucky. I never forget that things could be infinitely worse and we both know that, even childless, we’ll find our happy. If, after being pulled from this limbo, we’re told we can’t have children, we will alter our course, navigate out of this storm and eventually bask in the sun again.

We both know that, even childless, we’ll find our happy. If, after being pulled from this limbo, we’re told we can’t have children, we will alter our course, navigate out of this storm and eventually bask in the sun again.

Written by Keyan Milanian

Keyan Milanian is a 33-year-old journalist, primarily in news, from London. He has written across print, online and for TV news working for the Kent Messenger, Daily Star, the Xinhua News Agency and now at the Mirror Online. His interests include food and drink and football.

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