“I was once a member of the Pregnancy Club, my membership card consisting of two pink lines on a stick. I was eager to pay my dues, just like all the other members. Morning sickness, stretch marks, cravings — I welcomed them all.
But they never came. And before I knew it, my membership was revoked. No real reason — at least none I could discern — other than bad timing, perhaps. Or, at least, that’s what everyone’s been telling me. That and “God’s plan.”
Miscarriage is a terrible word. As if one has dropped something, or carried something incorrectly. Similar to “mistake” or “misunderstanding.” How I longed for it to be either of those things when I learned my baby was gone. Surely, it was a mistake, I prayed. If they would just look again, they would learn it was all a simple misunderstanding.
But the ultrasound screen showed otherwise.
1 out of every 5 pregnancies ends in miscarriage, say the books. That statistic terrified me when I was pregnant. So many lost babies, I thought. How can I keep mine from being one of them? But now that mine is one of them, that 1 out of 5 seems awfully small.
Or, at least, it did. Until soft-speaking female voices started whispering to me in my grief, “It happened to me, too.” Their eyes told me the stories of the pain that we shared, the pain that only a woman who has carried a child – and lost it – could know. For some, it was fresh pain. For others, it was dulled by healthy babies since born.
A sisterhood of sadness.
It’s a silent group, this new club of which I have recently become a reluctant member. Our membership cards are the scars we will always carry on our hearts. Our dues are paid in blood and tears. It is a painful initiation, and one never ceases membership. Because one never forgets.
I am joining, not because I want to, but because I wasn’t given the choice. But at least I know I’m not alone. At least I know there are hundreds of thousands of women with me, however silent and invisible, quietly holding my hand.”
– Author Unknown