Suffering in Silence

Opening Up About Miscarriages

by Matushka REBEKAH MARKEWICH

A light breeze gently blew my hair against my face, where it caught in my tears and was held fast. I took a deep breath as I wiped it away. I passed a small wooden box to the priest who had been quietly chanting near a row of small tombstones. A waft of incense hit my face as he took the box and gently lowered it into the earth.

A piece of my heart was buried that day. Since then, I have repeated this experience again and again—and again, and again, and again. I had my first miscarriage when I was 23. Since then, I have had eight more unsuccessful pregnancies. I have two living children, aged 9 and 10, who have been a huge comfort to me. But nothing else in my life has been so challenging or painful as experiencing those losses. Each time, I struggled, wondering why God let it happen to me. Sometimes I even felt like my prayers were just screams in a void. It tested my faith and pushed me past the edge of what I thought I could bear. I felt isolated and alone. I didn’t know anyone who had gone through the same circumstances.

Still, I know that many women have shared these experiences. Miscarriages are much more common than we imagine. According to the March of Dimes, in the U.S., as many as 50% of pregnancies end with a miscarriage. In spite of how common they are, they often lead to silent suffering. Our society has stigmatized open discussion of miscarriages. This leaves women feeling isolated and alone. I am writing about my experiences in the hope that it will help other women feel a little less alone.

I found out I was pregnant again one beautiful winter day in 2015. My family had recently moved back to our home state so my husband could be rector of Christ the Savior Parish in upstate New York. Our children were 3 and 4 years old. I had already miscarried four times. Still, I was healthy and optimistic about the future. I was both happy and anxious. The next two weeks felt like an eternity, but I made it past the point where my miscarriages had always occurred in the past. My blood work looked perfect, and I was certain this pregnancy was working out.

I had an early first ultrasound scheduled. It was a cold winter day, and taking our small children out felt overly daunting, so I left them at home with my husband and went to the appointment alone. I was excited to get a glimpse of our child. I chatted a bit with the ultrasound technician about the pregnancy, but as the image began to appear on the screen, she paused. An agonizing moment later, she said in a low, quiet voice: “It is ectopic.” She quickly left the room to find the doctor, and I was left alone, in utter shock.

An ectopic pregnancy had always been one of my worst fears. It is when the embryo implants outside the uterus, often in the fallopian tube. As the placenta grows, the fallopian tube can rupture, which causes life-threatening internal bleeding. It is always fatal to the baby and can also be fatal to the mother if it is not treated quickly. Usually, the treatment is to surgically remove the entire fallopian tube, but surgery can be avoided (only if detected early enough) by terminating the pregnancy with medication. There are no other options. Before this moment, I never really knew what I would do if I had an ectopic pregnancy. Sometimes I had thought that I might just let myself die. I didn’t want to ever end my child’s life to save my own. However, it is easy to have noble thoughts when you aren’t in the situation and don’t have small children to take care of at home. While the technician went to find the doctor, I took a cell phone photo of the ultrasound machine. It had been left on, with the last picture the technician took still on the monitor. It was so special to me. I don’t think I’ve ever shown anyone that photo.

The doctor came back and confirmed that it was a “textbook case”—there was absolutely no doubt it was ectopic. While there have been extremely rare cases of both mother and baby surviving an ectopic pregnancy, my baby was implanted in a location where it could not survive, and my own life was greatly endangered. My fallopian tube was about to rupture at any moment, in which case I would hemorrhage to death unless I underwent emergency surgery.

The memories of those moments still bring tears. I called my spiritual father, who said I needed to think of my living children. He said there was no need for me to die for a child that could not live. While I knew that was true, choosing to end the pregnancy was the worst moment of my whole life. I cried in that room so much that I think they started sending patients to the other end of the hall. I couldn’t help it. It was the deepest, most raw emotion I have ever felt. I was alone through the entire process, since my husband had stayed home.

The doctor said medication was a better choice than surgery. However, for the following week I was still at a high risk of a fallopian-tube rupture. Within a day I started to have concerning symptoms, so I went to the ER and was admitted overnight. The doctor there was one of the kindest and most caring physicians I have ever met. I had a lot of internal bleeding, but it wasn’t enough to necessitate immediate surgery, so I was sent home. I needed blood work nearly every day for the next week to make sure the bleeding wasn’t fatal. During that time, I was overwhelmed with love by close friends who texted and called. At the same time, I was hurt that God let it happen. I felt like He had let me down in the worst way imaginable; I couldn’t understand why He didn’t just let me miscarry, as with my other pregnancies. Why did it have to hurt so much? Why did I have to make a life-or-death decision?

I felt like a terrible person. I wasn’t sure I deserved to live, and I worried I had made the wrong choice. I’ve heard seminarians talk about that sort of scenario, suggesting it might be better for the woman to die. The details of my experience became a secret part of my life. I was afraid that if people knew, they would shun me. At one point I tried to discuss it with a trusted friend, and the response was an implication that maybe it would have been better if I had let myself die. I know my friend probably didn’t think about the full meaning of those words, but it made me not want to discuss it with anyone ever again.

I became pregnant again one year later. This time, one of my closest friends and I had the exact same due date. I miscarried within a few weeks. It was excruciating to watch her go through every stage of pregnancy, because it was a tangible reminder of what I had lost. Five months after that miscarriage, I became pregnant for the last time, and I miscarried shortly after finding out. My same friend, still pregnant, and her family were visiting us when it happened. It was extremely difficult, but we got through it and became much closer friends.

The grief of that final loss was cumulative, and I felt all the previous losses as if they had just happened all over again. I felt shame, even though I knew I wasn’t at fault. I felt guilt for being sad and not content with my children who were living. I was afraid I was wasting my precious time with them, while they were small, by focusing so much on babies I had lost. I went through stages of both being angry with God and feeling guilty about this anger. I felt like my body had caused so much death. I felt like it had failed at the most basic aspect of being a woman. I wanted to punish it and I struggled with thoughts of self-harm.

I was clinically depressed. My anxiety spiraled out of control. I knew I needed help, so I went to my doctor and started antidepressants and therapy. Through that experience, I found out I also had undiagnosed Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I had avoided taking antidepressants, thinking I just needed to try harder or pray more. My therapist compared this to trying to fix a house without any scaffolding. You could do it, but it would be a lot more difficult. Medication was the scaffolding that would help me apply what I was learning in therapy. I went to confession often; it helped carry me through those dark times.

During this period, my family members and friends kept having children. People would hand me their babies to hold, and I would choke back tears while counting down the shortest amount of time to hand the child back without seeming rude. I dreaded baby showers, but was afraid that if I didn’t attend, my friends would think I didn’t care about them.

There was an exact moment when I began to feel true peace. I was asked to be the godmother of a baby girl. Her baptism was around the same time as my last due date. As I held her, waiting for the Baptism service to start, I realized that in comparison to eternity, our lives on this earth are so brief, just a flash. The children I had lost would never know pain or grief and would be with Christ for eternity. At that moment, I stopped feeling like I had caused death; these unborn children were alive in Christ. That was something I always had always known before, but at that moment, my heart finally understood it: They were and always would be alive in Christ. My body created life.

It can be difficult to know how to talk to someone who is grieving after a miscarriage. Even after suffering so many losses myself, I often struggle over what to say in these situations. There just isn’t anything that can make it better. We always want to fix things, but only time heals grief. I have heard all sorts of misguided comments, ranging from, “At least now you won’t gain weight” to “Maybe it wasn’t a real pregnancy after all.” Although remarks like these are rather extreme, they came from well-meaning clergy who were trying to cheer me up. Unless you are the priest of a woman who has miscarried, or a close friend, it is best to listen to her rather than talk. Do not ask her any invasive questions about her body (it happens). Instead of saying, “Let me know what I can do,” be direct and offer to make a meal or clean her house. You could also get her a gift card so she can get something for herself. If you are unable to do anything, at least tell her you will pray for her. Gestures like these often help more than you could know. I still remember feeling buoyed by love during my own sorrowful times; it made them more bearable.

"At that moment, I stopped feeling like I had caused death; these unborn children were alive in Christ."

If you are a close friend, family member, or husband, I would suggest letting the woman grieve in her own timeframe. Well-meaning loved ones often push a woman to get back to normal and “get over it.” I would also suggest being sensitive about baby-themed anything. Baby showers, baby announcements, asking her to watch or hold your baby—all of these can be silently excruciating to a grieving mother. That’s not to say you shouldn’t include her, but be sensitive to her feelings and don’t be offended if she isn’t up to participating.

If you have recently suffered a miscarriage yourself, I promise your situation will get better. Give yourself all the time you need. Treat yourself like you would treat your best friend. It is common to struggle with guilt after a miscarriage, but confession can help free us from this. I have also found comfort in the liturgical services for the babies my husband and I have lost. We have buried their remains at the cemetery of our beloved monastery. Many churches have plots set aside for miscarried infants. Finally, I suggest remembering that people often say hurtful things inadvertently. It is hard to give grace to people when you are the one hurting, but if I hadn’t done this, I would have lost friendships entirely.

It has been several years since my last miscarriage. One question still comes back to me: “Why did God let all of this happen?” I don’t know the answer, but I know God doesn’t cause suffering. It is a result of the fallen world in which we live. I still grieve my lost children and I always will. But that is how grief works; you don’t stop loving what you lost. In the service for the burial of an infant, one of the Odes of the Canon says, “Thy departure from this earthly life is a cause of grief and sorrow for your parents and all who love you, O little child; but in truth, you have been saved by the Lord from sufferings and snares of many kinds.” Despite my grief, I feel peace that those lives will be with Christ for all of eternity.

MATUSHKA REBEKAH MARKEWICH is a freelance photographer and full-time mother of two. She is a parishioner at Christ the Savior Orthodox Church in Ballston Lake, New York, where her husband, Rev. Matthew Markewich, is the rector.

Enthroned Madonna and Child

Byzantine (c. 1250/1275) National Gallery of Art