I lost my baby at 21 weeks on the day after Christmas. We ran into one of my husband's cousins about 3 weeks after the loss. The cousin's wife could not look me in the eye. I was disturbed by this, but just figured she felt uncomfortable and didn't know what to say. Come to find out yesterday that she is pregnant. I guess if she looked at me, my bad baby luck would make something terrible happen to her baby??

I realize that people don't know what to say or what to do (and, therefore, many just say and do nothing). It is just such a shame, however, that such a horrible and marginalizing experience has to be made so much worse by people treating me like I am some kind of harbinger of doom.

It hurts so badly when people react like this.

I can think of 'nicer' reasons that she might react like that - maybe she thought you knew already (or could somehow guess) and that that might be really difficult for you in the circumstances - but it's still isolating and horrible and not fair. And we shouldn't need to excuse people or think of excuses for them.

I'm thinking of you x

I'm so sorry for her rudeness. I have had just a few encounters thus far (as my loss is so recent) and now there will be MANY more to follow like you described. Really makes me want to slap these people. The u/s tech I've had the past two times acts this way...and today she didn't even mention anything about Will when she scanned over him. That infuriated me.

Our babies were/are real as anything, and when people pretend as if they were just a figment of our imagination, or a bad case of luck, it makes me feel so angry for Will and the other lost babies that the world doesn't always see them.

Many hugs to you today.

I remember feeling the same way around any of the 5 pregnant friends that I had after losing Will. "They must be afraid I will be bad luck- that it will rub off on their pregnancy and baby".

These were the most complicated of feelings for me- feeling sadness in connection to other's joy. What I came to understand (and believe) is that the feelings are equally as complicated for others- most of them felt guilt. I don't believe now that a single one of them felt I was bad luck- after all- they still had the luxury of feeling "It could never happen to me".

Last summer which was 3 years later, after I lost Tiger.... I remembered that. If the guilt of others pained me- I stayed away. Or I realized the complicated feelings and still responded honestly with "I'm just really sad. Broken hearted in fact". And I learned to either sit with or avoid the discomfort of others. Really- there is no time- grieving is work and we all get a free pass to do it as we choose. I just couldn't take on the reactions of others. Of course they don't know what to say- how would they? I have come to adore those few phenomenal humans who actually enter the space of grieving with me- who are able to be with me without discomfort. The most comforting call that I got after Will died was my colleague who truthfully just said, "Susan. Fuck!". Because somehow for me, that was exactly it. But who can say that? Who knows how to just be with you how you want (do you know how you want to be treated?) and say the right and most truthful thing?

No one really- except for the other Medusas. After all- its a mythical land we've all entered.

Thank you, all of you. I have read your stories (I plan on posting mine when I have a nice bit of time). I cry for all of your losses. And, Eve, I am praying for the safe arrival of your daughter. (I was actually supposed to be a twin. The same thing happened to my brother that happened to your Will. And I am here).

B, thank you for helping me see the more positive ways of viewing this experience. I know, if I am being charitable (and, in fact, realistic), that she probably just felt guilty herself when she saw me. Actually, when I became pregnant, I thought of her because i knew she was trying to get pregnant. I felt guilty that I had become pregnant so easily. It really is such a complicated web of feelings that we pregnant or trying-to-get-pregnant women share, isn't it? Right now, I am just struggling with some feelings of self-disgust that I can't be truly happy for pregnant friends and family. With time, I am sure that will come.

Sooze, I understand so well what you mean about finding people who can feel comfortable in your grief. I have a friend who lives up the street from me. Before my loss, I didn't consider her a very close friend... but I have been so touched by her ability to feel comfortable around me and my grief. She's never suffered a loss (in fact, she is trying to get pregnant again) and, honestly, I wouldn't have expected her to be this way beforehand. As you said, we must focus on the people who have given us understanding and comfort. It truly is a gift. I can only hope that *I* can do that for someone else down the road.

It's a wonderfully apt and descriptive phrase isn't it? I remember first reading it and being overcome by how precisely I felt described. The snakes on my head, the terror I brought, the ability to turn others to stone if they gazed upon me. . .

Sooze is right, but I don't think you necessarily can get to the same place without walking it. I still tend to feel resentful of people who can't make the effort. I appreciate the honest effort and inability to know what to say, even when it's clumsy than the people who won't look me in the eye or pretend to ignore it all. I guess I feel my son deserves better than that, if I don't. Which isn't to say that I can't make the effort towards understanding and empathy, just that I'm not quite yet in a place where I care to exert myself in that direction.

Maybe someday. I think you have to come to terms with how you feel and how quixotic the emotions are.

I guess I sort of think that you will always be Medusa somehow, but that when you can look in the mirror and see the snakes writhing and not be turned to stone yourself, you are on the road to peace.

"I guess I sort of think that you will always be Medusa somehow, but that when you can look in the mirror and see the snakes writhing and not be turned to stone yourself, you are on the road to peace."

Eliza, I had an "a-ha" moment when I read this. I'm looking forward to the day when I look in the mirror and don't see the anguish, the confusion, the envy, and the emptiness. I know that, in time, this day will come. I won't always be staring at a broken woman.

"I guess I sort of think that you will always be Medusa somehow, but that when you can look in the mirror and see the snakes writhing and not be turned to stone yourself, you are on the road to peace."

Yes, so beautifully put. I love your writing, btw, Eliza. I haven't been able to stand to look at myself in the mirror since Will died. I tell myself it's because my eyes are always red and puffy, I refuse to wear make-up or really 'do' my hair (I'm on bedrest anyway). But I really think it has more to do with the hatred I feel toward myself that I couldn't even tell when my baby died. What kind of mother doen't know?

Well, Eve, I can tell you exactly why you didn't know and if anyone has adequate reason not to know, it's you. You have a healthy girl in there moving around and that confuses the issue a lot.

But leaving that aside . . . even if you did know it doesn't change it. I asked myself over and over why I didn't know the cramps were contractions, why I didn't go immediately to the hospital instead of waiting, why I didn't get a second opinion when the OB told me that all those clots were totally normal, even though there is no way that could be considered normal.

It's because it's a lot easier to blame ourselves for not knowing or for not doing or for doing or for anything than accept that it's so far outside our control.

You are an excellent mother who has had a tragic event happen to you, your son and your family. It doesn't make you a bad mother. But you probably won't see that for awhile, because I think it's one of those things that happens to each of us individually.