NZME Video Journalist Cheree Kinnear: "I couldn’t help but feel I’d taken something away from those I loved most."
Don’t share the news.
That was one of the first pieces of advice Google offered me after I found out I was pregnant.
In fact, it was worded more like a warning.
I wasn’t surprised by it, keeping pregnancy a secret until at least the end of the first trimester was common practice.
But it wasn’t until things did go wrong for me that I questioned it.
I found out about my pregnancy just days before Christmas. It was a beautiful surprise and one my partner and I couldn’t wait to share with those closest to us.
Instead, a Healthline nurse was the first person I talked to. My doctor was next.
Then, against all advice, we gave a little red gift box containing two tiny brown baby booties to my parents on Christmas Day.
It took my mum what felt like an eternity to finally ‘click’ what the booties meant before raising her arms in joy belting out “I’m going to be a grandma!”
My dad went silent for some time but the tears filling up in his eyes made me know it meant more than words to him.
A moment I’ll cherish forever.
It was a moment I hoped to share with many more of my family and friends in the months to come.
But when I found myself in a hospital bed less than a week later I could’ve easily regretted it.
I almost thanked myself for not re-wrapping and gifting that little red box to anyone else.
Maybe I should’ve waited.
After all, Doctor Google was always right, wasn’t it?
Miscarriage is the most common reason for losing a baby during early pregnancy. It’s estimated one in four women will miscarry in the first trimester.
An article published by the National Institutes of Health estimated 23 million pregnancies are lost annually, or 44 per minute worldwide.
Despite this, it remains largely unspoken of in society.
So many women go through it but so few actually talk about it.
And often not because they don’t want to, but because the subject itself has for so long been shrouded in shame and is still a taboo subject worldwide.
Cultural beliefs surrounding the loss of a baby can vary significantly across the world. In sub-Saharan Africa, for instance, it is a commonly held belief that a baby may be stillborn due to witchcraft or evil spirits.
In other parts of the world, some individuals believe that a miscarriage is a form of divine punishment.
Regardless of cultural context, feelings of failure and guilt are frequently experienced by women who have experienced miscarriages.
These emotions can often leave individuals with a sense of emptiness - as was the case for me.
Losing a baby I never got to meet was unlike any form of grief I’ve known.
The mourning process was far more difficult to navigate.
After my miscarriage, it took me weeks to feel comfortable leaving my house again. I fought the urge to remain in bed most mornings.
And as my pregnancy symptoms began to fade, my sadness only grew stronger.
I spiralled into feelings of guilt - no matter how many times my partner and family would tell me it wasn’t my fault.
Questions over whether I’d done something wrong or why my body failed plagued my mind.
I couldn’t help but feel I’d taken something away from those I loved most.
We are always encouraged to reach out, speak up, and seek assistance when facing mental health struggles. However, when facing the emotional turmoil of losing a baby, there appears to be limited room for discussion.
It’s as if we, as a society, don’t know how to process miscarriage and even more so, don’t know what to say to someone who’s gone through one.
I noticed apologies always came first.
But then came the “at least it was early,” “you can always try again,” or my personal favourite “It’s not like it was far enough for it to be considered a real baby”.
The hardest part was I knew people meant well. I knew it was just down to a lack of education and understanding that people genuinely thought that was the best way to comfort someone who’d lost a baby.
There’s no rule book and everyone needs different forms of support.
Losing a baby will mean different things to different people too. Some will find it harder than others.
Understanding this isn’t expected but accepting each person will experience the impacts of miscarriage differently is vital.
For many of us, our grief is very real and sometimes talking about it is all we want and need.
As time went on, I certainly found myself in a space where I wanted to talk, but opening genuine conversations about it was hard.
So, instead, I turned to art therapy.
Art therapy is a type of psychotherapy that involves the use of artistic methods and the creative process of making art to help make sense of complicated thoughts and feelings.
I reached out to a therapist to help me navigate the emotions and grief which had become overwhelming at times.
A theme we quickly discovered was that of “confusion”.
I spent a lot of time staring at blank sheets of paper swirling my brush aimlessly in watercolour paint, frustrated by my lack of inspiration. I wasn’t used to feeling “stuck”.
My thoughts were often scattered and the art I created revealed a lack of direction and understanding of what was going on in my life.
Likely because I had no idea how to heal my mind, and the now gaping hole in my heart.
I had gone from seeing my doctor regularly - free of charge - and having the healthcare system at my disposal, to being told there was nothing more they could do for me.
Although I’d recovered physically, mentally was a different story. It’s like I’d been thrown into a whole new world, a new life and a new identity.
Everything felt foreign.
I needed to learn how to walk again but with no guidance on how to.
I needed to centre myself again and find a place of peace in the heartache.
And it’s not that I’ve necessarily found that yet, but opening up throughout this journey has got me close.
There are very few established support systems in place for women experiencing miscarriage, outside of Facebook pages and independently-run groups offering advice and providing platforms where women can connect.
But these platforms are not typically recommended after a woman has been discharged.
Studies suggest that after a miscarriage, 30-50 per cent of women experience anxiety and 10-15 per cent experience depression, typically lasting up to four months.
Despite this, a World Health Organisation review concluded that there is not enough evidence to recommend offering psychological support as standard, following a miscarriage.
It’s a complicated space where - at least I think - more research is needed.
The code on what/what not to do when two lines appear on a pregnancy test may need to be rewritten.
And unless we push back on the societal norms around early pregnancy and discussing miscarriage, we may never know what doing so could achieve.
Like with most things, talking about it, in fact, may actually be more beneficial than not.
So when I found myself in a hospital bed grappling with the loss of my baby, I could’ve easily regretted sharing the news with those closest to me.
But I didn’t. And that was enough for me to know I’d made the right decision.
Sorry Doctor Google, you’re not always right.
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