Mourning Sickness

There’s a particularly cruel kind of irony in life when you spend years hoping to not conceive, only to fall pregnant, have your whole life map rearranged, just to miscarry. Repeatedly. Not to mention being faced with the possibility of actually carrying a pregnancy to term (even though you know that your chances are slim-to-none), perhaps even more insidious question looms: Would I even want to??? Because, really, what kind of world is this to bring a child into? A world of rising fascism, accelerating climate collapse, a wealth disparity so extreme that billionaires are playing a quick game of space colonisation, all while others can’t afford food, shelter, or heating, at least two genocides are occurring at any given time, and the ever-lurking question of how long can the human race keep circling the drain?

This is a story of contradictions, and one with no real conclusion. Sorry. It draws on the longing for something that will never come, and the grief of loss, even when you were not sure you wanted the thing in the first place. That “thing” is a baby, btw. I will continue to say “thing” not out of the stubborn, DINKWAD household, millennial that you parents probably think I am. I am kinda that person, but that’s mildly irrelevant right now. It’s out of respect to those who find themselves in a similar situation of facing miscarriage and not wanting to personify the cluster of cells that formed fell from their uterus. This is your cue to either hop on board, or quietly leave. The sardonically sickening bitterness of not having a choice, even when you were not sure what choice you would have made. And the impossible, paradoxical reality of mourning what was, and what could have been, while knowing that… perhaps, it was for the best anyway.

Humans are inefficient

For something that supposedly exists to make babies, the human reproductive system is shockingly inefficient. Infertility — the inability to conceive after a year of trying, affects about 1 in 6 people worldwide (World Health Organisation, 2023). One of the biggest culprits? Endometriosis. It affects roughly 10% of people with uteruses globally (Shaw et al., 2020). Commonly known as “Endo”, it’s the result of when the uterine lining decides to migrate outside the womb, and it then proceeds to stick to surrounding organs, causing inflammation, scarring, and an impressive level of pain that is routinely dismissed by medical professionals. Trust. I’m writing this in between my waves of sheer panic and preempting pain ahead of my smear test in two days time.

Endometriosis can cause symptoms from excruciating periods to digestive issues, organ fusion, and infertility. Between 30-50% of people with endometriosis struggle with conception, with the scarring and inflammation making it difficult for an egg to implant (Practice Committee of the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, 2022). Further, because medicine has a long, rigid tradition of dismissing women’s pain, it takes an average of 7-10 years to even get a diagnosis (Ballweg, 2021). Not forgetting our favourite friend: cancer. If endometriosis is the slow, steady creek of infertility, cancer is the white water rapid. Depending on the type and treatment, reproductive damage can be absolute. Chemotherapy can decimate ovarian reserves, radiation can destroy uterine function, and surgery can outright remove reproductive organs (European Cancer Society, 2022). Some people freeze eggs before treatment; that’s if they can afford to financially, medically, and mentally. But others have no warning, no preparation. Just a diagnosis, a treatment plan, and a whole possibility stolen from them, whether they like it or not.

half-term holidays (shan’s version)

Miscarriage is far more common than most people realise. About 10-20% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage, though the real number is likely much higher because so many losses happen before a pregnancy is even confirmed (Dutch College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, 2023). And yet, despite how common it is, miscarriage remains one of the loneliest experiences a person can go through. In my opinion, it doesn’t really matter if you were trying for a baby or if the pregnancy was a complete surprise; nor does it matter if you have/had doubts about parenthood. The moment you see that positive test, a future starts forming in your mind. And when miscarriage rips that future away - whether that’s a surprise jump into parenthood, or a joyous leap into your planned future - what’s left is a strange, hollow grief. One that society is wholly unprepared to acknowledge, let alone be proactive about.

I’m not sure a lot of people would be willing to admit this, partly due to the stigma surrounding it, but, I know that I don’t want children, like, at all. So if I saw those little lines signal a pregnancy, I would choose an abortion. My conditions mean that I can never carry a pregnancy to full term, which isn’t really an issue considering the statement I just made. The issue lies in the in-between. I have been pregnant several times, and I’ve naturally miscarried 100% of those times. My last miscarriage ended with me having to take a month off work and then being hospitalised for a haemorrhage bleed while I was miscarrying. The pain of naturally having contractions while haemorrhaging and being forced to miscarry in a bedpan at 24 weeks, all whilst being offered no pain relief is not something I wish to ever experience again. I collected those stretch marks across my stomach like stamps. I gave every single pregnancy a go. I convinced myself that it’s what I wanted. I wore my heart on my sleeve and trusted people who ended up betraying my confidentiality, which added to the stress of my healing. If I can put a lid on the chaos before it ensues, why wouldn’t I? And even without my long and laborious justification, at the core of this entire conversation is a concept that I know many people, for some reason, struggle with: it’s my body, my life, and I’ll do what I want to.

Kim, there’s people that are dying

Among this personal drivel, there are also questions in my head about how wise it would be, for me personally, to be willing to raise a child in such a turbulent world. I can’t really say it’s ever been any better than this, but now is pretty fucking bad, actually? Women aren’t just having children because “it’s what we do” anymore, so there needs to some substantial changes that make a lot of different aspects of life equitable for me if I’m to have children. Firstly, the climate. It’s no secret that we are living in an era of climate catastrophe. Scientists predict that by 2050, the planet will be nearly unrecognisable due to rising temperatures, natural disasters, and food and water shortages (IPCC, 2023). In a 2021 study, 39% of Gen-Z and 36% of Millennials cited climate change as a major factor in their decision not to have children (Morning Consult, 2021). Because really, what are you supposed to do with the knowledge that your child’s future environment is definitely going to be worse than your own. And then there's political and economic instability. Wages have stagnated. Wealth inequality is at its highest point in modern history. Housing is increasingly unattainable, both to rent and to buy. Fascism is alive and thriving. Despite all this, people still ask: “when are you having kids?” I understand the argument that there has never, ever been a “perfect” time to have children in history. I get it. But I simply do not care to bring more life into the world. I’d rather spend my time trying to reverse some of this damage and make the future safer for the next generations. Things like being politically attuned and environmentally conscious are at the forefront of my lifestyle: I’m still playing my part in raising the next generation, you just don’t see it yet.

You can’t pack this feeling neatly into a box, and believe me, I’ve tried. It’s a weird thing to mourn a life that never existed: whether that’s the cluster of cells, or that’s the life you envisaged with child. For me, it’s been a hard hurdle to jump, and the track has been laden with bitterness. The main stumbling block for me was realising that I had a real lack of support in my corner from women when I was navigating something extremely traumatic. I had no family to turn to, no friends who were women of colour AND parents that I could speak to about my concerns regarding pregnancy. This lead me to grabbing the hand of anyone who would listen, which regrettably down the line ended up being a giant slap in the face. And just when I thought that pregnancy would be lonely, I found out just how isolating miscarriage was.

So, where does that leave us? With pain, yes. With grief, maybe. But also, with an opportunity to learn acceptance. I think I’ve made peace with the unchangeable. Through therapy, communication with my partner, and getting it off my chest with my wonderful friends, I’ve learnt the very simple facts: loss does not equal failure, and childlessness does not equal a lack of fulfilment. And, perhaps, in allowing ourselves to sit with that grief, we can begin to welcome the lives we have, even if they are not the ones we once briefly locked eyes with.

—

References:

European Cancer Society. (2022). How Cancer Treatment Affects Fertility.

Dutch College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists. (2023). Early Pregnancy Loss: Miscarriage and Molar Pregnancy.

Morning Consult. (2021). Climate Anxiety and Childbearing: A Generational Divide.

Shaw, R. W., Lobo, R. A., & Paulson, R. J. (2020). Textbook of Gynaecology.