Letter To My Friend

A letter to my friend about miscarriage

“A year ago, I lost my baby after more than a year of trying. Six months later, I lost you, my best friend of 10 years.

I didn’t know how exactly to respond at the time, but this whole experience left me feeling raw and open, and so naturally what follows is a raw, opening up about my experience.

LOST.

Everything is all wrapped up in that four letter word. Lost, I lost you, I lost the baby, I lost some of the joy in trying.

Six months after I miscarried my baby and my joy, you got pregnant and I was happy for you. I tried to hide my feelings, but it was so hard. It was so difficult to see an unplanned pregnancy and the joy and hear about morning sickness, when all I had was a hospital bill and a pair of blood stained underwear now sitting in a landfill somewhere.

I’m not sure where the energy came from to say I needed space, I needed boundaries and most of all I needed some grace. I felt like a horrible person. Who gets jealous over a baby? Instead of any of that, I received a tirade of unapologetic anger, shame and distrust.

Shame for taking anxiety medicine, shame for choosing to convert to Judaism. Distrust in my ability to feel both thrilled for you and feel pain, jealousy and a need for space from pregnancy conversations.

After 10 years of friendship, all I have is 10 crumpled pages of printed out text messages. Printed to take to my therapist for a dose of reality, because I surely must have been wrong for feeling like this, or at least wrong for saying it to you.

Two things you said will stay with me for a long time, maybe forever.

“You’re being pretty contradictory (for feeling joy and sorrow at the same time). I would have wanted you to be the G-d mother of my child, and to talk about natural remedies for pregnancy [side effects] and [to talk about] babies.”

and...

“Maybe consider fate, and [that] there is *some* reason you’re not getting pregnant.”

It’s the word contradictory that’s hijacked my brain.

The contradiction of trying for (now) two years to have a baby and like others, putting on a smile, going to work, buying baby presents.

Never saying how I truly felt.

Finally I choose to be honest - to say “I’m happy for you, but I’ve seen the road to hell and it’s paved red” - and then not receive even an ounce of compassion or empathy back.

You wanted a friend’s support during your pregnancy, but couldn’t be supportive during my miscarriage. That’s the real contradiction.

You said you want to talk about babies; Do you mean any babies, or your baby? I want nothing more than to talk about babies. For the six weeks I held my baby in my womb, I thought about talking. Talking with my Ma about first foods and peanut allergies and Facetiming to show those chubby little legs peddling their first tricycle. Calls to Bubie Malka to thank her for the beautiful layette set. Calls to the Rabbi to arrange the Upsherin. A lifetime of talking about babies, and I wanted to never stop talking.

Finally, “some” reason?

By this I assume you meant a higher power, in your case a “higher energy.”

The truth is, there is a reason and it’s called PolyCystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). It has nothing to do with fate and everything to do with dumb luck.

To insinuate otherwise is just cruel.

A year in quarantine with ample time to think, and the benefit of therapy has made me realize I lost something else this year.

I lost a part of me that would have held onto my feelings and not asked for boundaries, a part of me that wanted so much for everything to be okay that I put myself last. I still struggle with these concepts, but that’s beside the point.

I also realized at a certain point that all of my emotional energy had become necessary for communicating my needs to you. At the expense of grieving and dealing with the loss of my baby, I was grieving our friendship ending and feeling guilty for expressing my needs. Understanding this made the void normally filled with our sisterhood easier to tolerate.

I finally had the space I’d been asking for.

This experience solidified the “life is not black and white” cliche.

It is possible to feel both joy and sorrow at the same time, and while existing in this either of gray, I continue to hope to see my rainbow soon.

In the meantime, I’m just trying to continue trying.”