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By Nick Carrington EPLA Editor  When grief attacks, it comes for the whole person, plundering their physical, emotional, and spiritual reserves. In miscarriage, a mother’s body needs to heal without the joy of holding their little one. Both parents must fight through the reality that their home is missing someone, a person of infinite value.
This kind of attack makes daily life that much harder, but life rarely slows down. Parents are often required to go to work with limited or no time off. Bills need to be paid, and they must keep their house in order. If loss parents have other children, those little ones still need to get to school or daycare or be cared for at home. Amid grief, these normal parts of life become overwhelming. Healing often comes in community, and one reason why is that we can take the burdens of others upon ourselves. Picking up those little weights allows a grieving person to breathe, if only for a few moments, and reminds them that they are loved. But even in the grief of miscarriage, hurting people don’t want to inconvenience others. They will likely not ask for help, soldiering on to avoid their pain or appear okay. Many well-meaning people have said “let me know how we can help.” Those words usually lead to nothing, the grieving unwilling to ask for something specific. So as a loved one, don’t say that. Instead, offer to do something at a particular time. Tell them you want to cut their grass on a Saturday. Offer to set up a meal train and make one of your own to bring them. Watch their kids so loss parents can catch up on important tasks or simply be together as a grieving couple. It will be much easier for loss parents to say yes to an offer of specific help, and it shows you’ve thought about their needs. Take some of their responsibilities upon yourself, sacrificing your time to help them heal. They may not know they need it, but these little acts of kindness will ease the pressure in their minds and hearts and give them more space to grieve. Nick Carrington is an Editor for the EPLA and Associate Professor of Professional Writing at Cedarville University
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By Emily Carrington EPLA Founder and President My four year old has recently started telling people about her baby brother. She talks about him candidly and fondly, foreseeing a future of all the things they are going to do together. This wouldn’t be so bad, except she doesn’t have a baby brother. She has a 14-month-old baby sister. I smile, then cringe, before I announce: “No, this is not an announcement! There is no baby brother on the way!” She often calmly chimes in, “I have a baby brother!” and trails off. Sometimes the conversation is less charming, though. She once told strangers, “I have a baby brother. But he died. He died in mommy’s tummy.” I sat silently, letting them take it in, and hoping the conversation would move on. I also felt a little like a fraud, and feared their assumptions about my experience. I wanted to chime in “it was a miscarriage!” But I stopped myself. “She has told them nothing untrue,” I thought. “She has a baby brother and he died in mommy’s tummy.” Shouldn’t I, of all people, know not to compare my loss with others? Abigail knows so deeply what I struggle to know - and I carried him - that a little baby boy lived and died in my tummy. Why does it feel so distant now? Abigail’s baby brother died nearly three years before Abigail was born. He would have been older than her, but because he died in my tummy in the first trimester, he is forever her baby.  Emily Carrington is a freelance writer, wife, mother, and founder of the EPLA.
By Nick Carrington EPLA Editor A few weeks ago at the Guardian, Alexandra King wrote an article titled “A maddening grief: my year of miscarriages and how I got through it.” It is a beautiful piece that touches on the various kinds of pain suffered through miscarriage – physical, emotional, and spiritual. Her pain through three miscarriages led to a new hobby: baking bread. She writes: “Still, in spite of it all, the axis upon which the tragedy/comedy line sits had figured out the coordinates of my New York City kitchen. I knew, in my heart, that it was a sad, bad joke of an impulse. No buns in my oven, at least not for long anyway. But I had to do something. So I banged out sourdough loaves by the dozen. Though many failed for no reason whatsoever, as petulant and unpredictable as my capricious embryos, I couldn’t stop. Even with forearms creased green at the elbow from the daily blood lets at the fertility clinic, where I had turned to try and see if lovely dependable science could figure out why my longed-for babies never stuck around." King also describes a new habit formed after speaking with a blood technician: “Then she asks if I believe in God. I am mortified, but I still say no, because I don’t. 'Oh,' she says, not unkindly. 'I was going to tell you to pray.' Which is why, days later, at home, watching the thick lines of my scoring puff sensuous tendrils into the lid of my loaf, I am surprised to realize, with a start, that I am doing just that. I am kneeling next to the oven, head bent, like a pilgrim at a shrine, talking to the humanist god (or goddess, or both, or nothing). That I am saying, out loud, over and over again, ‘God, please let me have my baby. I will do anything, I will be whatever you need, whatever you want, just please, let my baby stay.” I’m not sure how long I’ve been on the ground. All I know is that when I push my hands to my sticky cheeks, they are white hot, as if the oven’s flames had licked them a long time.” Baking bread. Praying. For King, these were activities born out of despair. If you read the piece (and you should), she is desperate for comfort in something, anything. Despair often drives us to new ways of thinking and new ways of doing. When we see loved ones who have miscarried, we should not be surprised by new habits. But we should also recognize that the depth of despair that King describes is because a child, or in her case, children, have been lost. Those who suffer miscarriage grieve a death, and until we acknowledge that, until we let that seep into our bones, we will struggle to comfort our bereaved loved ones.  Nick Carrington is an Editor for the EPLA and Associate Professor of Professional Writing at Cedarville University
By Maria Servold EPLA Editor Spring is a time of growth and fruitfulness. At Early Pregnancy Loss Association’s headquarters in Hillsdale, Michigan, the directors have recently taken several steps to expand and solidify our work. Most excitingly, the organization was able to move into a new, bigger space that will allow us to store supplies, conduct business, fulfill requests for care kits, and hold meetings all in one place. We look forward to working out of this location! EPLA is also in the process of hiring a part-time employee who will take over tasks like data entry, care kit mailing and organizing, care kit distribution tracking, etc. We are so happy to have someone dedicated to these tasks, which are currently shared by the board. Finally, we are glad to report that we created another 500 small miscarriage care kits in April, which were donated to Metro Detroit Share, who will distribute them as part of their own early loss bags all over metro Detroit. This is the second time EPLA has created 500 kits for MDS - the first donation was in July 2020. We are thrilled to work with MDS, as it allows us to help more women and families across the state of Michigan. We also hope to soon expand our care kit services into Northwest Ohio. 2021 is shaping up to be a year of growth and expansion for EPLA! As always, thank you for your support. If you would like to stay up to date about our growth and upcoming needs email us at miscarriagecare@gmail.com to be added to the mailing list!  Maria Servold is an Editor at the EPLA, Assistant Director of the Herbert H. Dow II Program in American Journalism, and Lecturer in Journalism at Hillsdale College.
By Nick Carrington EPLA Editor Our culture struggles to comfort families who have suffered a miscarriage. One reason is that we have trouble empathizing. We expect to lose elderly loved ones at some point. Many children know what the loss of a grandparent feels like. Far fewer of us know how to nurse the wound of losing a child. We can’t fathom that level of ache - what it’s like to take the screws out of a crib. Even if we can imagine the loss of a child, the lack of interaction with a miscarried child makes it harder. The parents recognize the loss as what it is: the death of a person. The mother feels her child within her, or at least the sickness, tiredness, or other bodily changes that come with being pregnant. She bonds with her little one in a special way, the way only a mother can. Both the father and the mother dream of who that child will be. They think of holding that little one, clothing him or her, instilling wisdom and virtue. A father may read or sing to his child in the womb, hoping he or she will learn to recognize his voice. The parents love the child. Their child. But as friends and family, we don’t dream daily of that child. We never get to hold him or her. While we understand that little one is part of our family, we don’t feel it until we experience him or her for ourselves. So when there is a miscarriage, many loved ones struggle to empathize. It feels like an event without a category, something outside of our experience. It’s not. Not feeling the weight of reality doesn’t change reality. Our loved ones have lost a child and to mourn with them, we must work to empathize with them, recognizing the magnitude of that loss. To do otherwise is to fail to help the parents or give dignity to their child. To see and on some level, suffer that loss, we need to read stories of loss. We need to absorb the kind of language parents of miscarriage use. We need to listen to our loved ones when they are ready to talk. In doing so, we take a small part of their burden upon us. In tragedy, that may be all we can do.  Nick Carrington is an Editor for the EPLA and Associate Professor of Professional Writing at Cedarville University
By: Maria Servold EPLA Editor Anyone who has suffered a miscarriage knows the sorrow that follows in the aftermath of the loss itself. Many times, women must return to work soon after a miscarriage, as they may be unable to take paid time off or feel uncomfortable asking for time off. At the end of March, New Zealand’s parliament voted in a law that will provide three days of paid bereavement leave to mothers and their partners after a miscarriage. While some private companies may already offer paid bereavement leave for miscarriage, New Zealand’s national movement sets a great example for the rest of the world. Mothers and fathers who experience loss should not feel awkward or guilty for taking time off to grieve; nor should they have to use paid sick time in the wake of a miscarriage. As quoted in the Washington Post, Ginny Anderson said, “The grief that comes with miscarriage is not a sickness, it is a loss.” According to the Post article, the United States has no laws in places about paid leave after a miscarriage or stillbirth. We acknowledge that many companies probably have their own miscarriage bereavement policies, but it would be great to see national recognition of the need for such leave.  Maria Servold is an Editor at the EPLA, Assistant Director of the Herbert H. Dow II Program in American Journalism, and Lecturer in Journalism at Hillsdale College.
By Emily Carrington EPLA President and Founder It was late afternoon on a Saturday or Sunday. It was early March, and we lived in Texas at the time. Looking at today’s date, it was probably about seven years ago, give or take a few days. I was starting to make a grocery list and thinking about what we would have for dinner that night. Suddenly I had the urge to take a pregnancy test - because you know, if I was pregnant, I should be focusing on all the good foods and avoiding all the bad foods. (You were my first pregnancy, and there was so much I didn’t know. I certainly didn’t know that by my 5th pregnancy I would be sharing slightly germy/slobbery McDonald’s fries with your sister Abigail and call it a win because I kept some food down! With you the standards started high). Minutes later, I knew you were there! You were inside of me. My first baby. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with all the things I didn’t know. What ARE good pregnancy foods? What about bad foods? How do I take care of this child? I told your dad about you, and he was thrilled! We were so ready for you. We were so glad you existed. We decided on Chipotle because I could load up on some good protein and veggies. That was one of the last decent meals I ate. For a while, only daddy and I knew about you. I remember going to a dinner party with friends and thinking about you the whole time.Every time I passed on the wine or the champagne, I thought about you. During church I nibbled on Saltines, and the woman who sat in front of us figured out you were in there. But most people never picked up on the clues. We were going to keep you a secret for two more months, but we just couldn’t wait anymore. We really wanted to tell your grandparents and your aunts and uncles you were in there. We went to Toys R Us and tried to come up with a cute way to tell everyone about you. We bought the book “Are You My Mother?” and a cute little onesie. We added a piece of paper to the title so it read “Are You My Grandmother?” We then took a picture of the book with the onesie and sent it on to our parents. Then we waited in excited silence for their reply. Grandma and Grandpa were the first to respond. They called confused and unsure what the text meant. I think we woke them up in the middle of a Sunday afternoon nap. When they figured it out, they were so excited! Your Nana and Pop Pop were so excited, too! A few days later we found out your cousin Tucker was on the way. Everyone was so excited you were here, with us. Sadly, we never got to name you. We didn’t know yet if you were an Abigail or a David. It turns out you were neither. We called you Baby and we still call you Baby, because that is the name we knew you by. Your life was so short, and it is often clouded over with grief. But I want you to know I do remember the good stuff, I think of you with so much fondness and joy. I know you were here with us. I know you were real. And I know you are worth celebrating.  Emily Carrington is a freelance writer, wife, mother, and founder of the EPLA.
By: Nick Carrington EPLA Editor Dear Little One, I wonder what your name is. That might seem strange; no one ever gave you a name. You were gone before we knew whether to buy you a blue or pink blanket, and names tend to follow such things. But you’re a person, and people have names. I don’t like not knowing. One of the first things we learn about someone is their name, and in families, we attached meaning to those names. Your father’s name is Adam. I can’t hear that name without thinking of someone who swallows books whole, digesting wisdom and rejecting folly. In our family, the name Adam means “prudence,” but not the unfeeling kind. It’s cloaked in kindness; the upspring of a big heart. Maybe you’re an Adam, too. Maybe you would have read books for hours, unknowingly playing with your earlobe. Maybe you would have found your groove on the junior high dance floor. Maybe you would have tackled some of life’s hardest questions about virtue, liberty, and the brokenness of men. Studious. Fun. Shrewd. But best of all, full of love. But maybe you’re an Emily, like your mother. In our family, that name is synonymous with a relentless will, a will dedicated to goodness and beauty. I would never want to get between an Emily and the task at hand. If you are an Emily, you would have conquered this life through goals and lists, motivated to heal the grief that we only whisper about. You would have harnessed your strong will (with some help from your parents) to attack pain and replace it with peace. You would have brought light to dark places, and rested in the evening with a glass of wine. Strong. Passionate. Good. But best of all, full of love. But I’m guessing you aren’t an Adam or an Emily. You are something between and wholly other. You take from both and make it your own. You may even have a little silliness in you, like your favorite uncle. One day I’ll know -- not just your name, but what it means. Until then, Little One, know that while you never had a name in this life, you still mean so much.  Nick Carrington is an Editor for the EPLA and Associate Professor of Professional Writing at Cedarville University
By Maria Servold EPLA Editor For decades, one of the hardest things to find after a miscarriage was support. In recent years, that has changed. Now, groups like the Early Pregnancy Loss Association and others are working to provide emotional, physical, and mental support after pregnancy loss. EPLA provides information, in the form of resource folders and this blog, as well as physical support, with our miscarriage care kits. Eventually, we hope to help cover the cost of medical bills associated with miscarriage. Another organization providing support is the Star Legacy Foundation. A national group, Star Legacy Foundation is a nonprofit organization that seeks to reduce pregnancy and infant loss, provide support for families after loss, and support research on loss. One of the greatest things Star Legacy offers is a series of support groups, held online via video conferencing. This encourages anyone to participate, no matter their location. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do after a miscarriage is to leave the house and seek support. Star Legacy’s support groups make that hurdle much easier. Support groups cover a range of topics including: pregnancy after loss, dads’ grief, and coping with SIDS/infant death. A list of support group meeting times and registration information can be found here.  Maria Servold is an Editor at the EPLA, Assistant Director of the Herbert H. Dow II Program in American Journalism, and Lecturer in Journalism at Hillsdale College.
By: Emily Carrington EPLA President and Founder “Is the nursery done!?” A woman asked cheerfully at Bible Study. “Oh, no. I guess I have been behind on that. I am not really sure it will be done before she gets here,” I responded politely. “Oh! But you will want a place to put her stuff, and nest! It is just so nice to be organized before the baby gets here. I am sure you will be more motivated soon!” I smiled and was glad the conversation had come to a natural close. I was in my third trimester of my fourth pregnancy. This was the furthest I had ever made it, and I had every reason to believe that our little girl would be joining us in a few weeks. But I couldn’t be sure enough to completely finish her nursery. It wasn’t like I had ignored all of the preparations for the room. We had taken the wallpaper down and painted the walls. I had sorted clothes on a folding table in the corner, and I had thought about where to hang some of the art on the walls. Eventually, my best friend from childhood came to visit, and we spent the weekend washing and sorting clothes. Over the next few weeks I did gain some motivation to prepare more. We put up the bassinet, and we opened some gifts. We bought a car seat and packed our bags. But when we brought our beautiful baby home from the hospital, the nursery was far from done. There was no crib, there was no rocking chair, there were hardly any pictures on the walls. The truth was, I just couldn’t. I couldn’t find the emotional energy to complete a nursery because deep down, I didn’t believe we were bringing home a baby. I did not have gruesome thoughts; there were no medical worries. I had no logical reason to be so pessimistic. But after three pregnancies that seemed to vanish — why should this one miraculously end in a baby? I did not complete her nursery until she was nearly 9 months old. By the time I was done, it was my favorite room in the house, a beautiful room laced with memories, love, and LIFE! Now I see that even though I had lost each of my first three babies in the first trimester, their losses haunted me throughout my whole pregnancy with my daughter. Pregnancy after loss is a unique experience full of unexpected challenges. Well-meaning people may not understand your lack of excitement or preparedness. Luckily, we are not alone. I am thankful for organizations such as PALS that exist to help women walk through pregnancies after loss. Check out their amazing mission: “Pregnancy After Loss Support is dedicated to ensuring that every mom and her partner who is experiencing pregnancy after loss is able to find support and connection among both peers and health care professionals who understand and validate the unique and complex experience of pregnancy after a previous perinatal or child death.” If you or a loved one are struggling with a pregnancy after loss I encourage you to reach out to PALS for support.  Emily Carrington is a freelance writer, wife, mother, and founder of the EPLA.
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