Lucy Grove-Jones has suffered multiple miscarriages, and she draws and writes about them in an illustrated essay for her site, Silence Killed the Dinosaurs. It’s a deeply compelling, moving read, but not an easy one — and that’s kind of the point.
I could have told this story differently. I could have cut out the jokes about apps and fertility-friendly lube. I could have mentally prepared you from the first line, signaled sooner this was a tragedy and half the cast would be dead (would have never existed) by the final curtain.
But no one warned me.
After the first miscarriage all the doctors and nurses and sonnogrammers told me this was common. I heard different statistics. Sometimes it was one in six pregnancies end in miscarriage, sometimes one in four. The pamphlet the hospital gave me said one in three. Whatever the exact number, it means that there are a lot of not-quite-parents out there.
And yet when I went into that first final ultrasound, I had never had a conversation with someone who I knew had wanted a pregnancy and lost it.