She knew many pregnancies ended this way. So why did her miscarriage make one mother feel so alone?
My husband and I were married on a cold, overcast afternoon the day before New Year’s Eve. Neither of us had imagined having a winter wedding, but we needed to marry by January in order to be posted together for our next assignment. We both work as diplomats, our lives divided into chunks of time separated by tours abroad.
The timing of the wedding was not a drastic change of plans; we had decided to marry within months of our first meeting. We were like two lumbering comets destined for one another all those years but stuck in the stillness of space – parties, other relationships, the passing of loved ones, bad jobs, all the experiences in between – before the romantic collision that was our first hello in 2010. “Today I met the boy I’m going to marry,” I confided (and almost sang) to a friend over the phone. “And if it doesn’t work out, don’t ever bring this up again.”
I paced in the only way a woman in the 21st century can: Googling every article ever written on miscarriage
I sent my pain into cyberspace. Hundreds of women answered. I had become a “member of a club” of which I wanted no part
I went back to work. I told the truth to people who asked, mostly because honesty took less effort
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