I was in my second trimester. A time of hope, excitement, and sharing the news with family. It was our first pregnancy.
Then, two weeks later, I was in the ER, bleeding, scared, asking if the painkillers were safe for the baby. The doctor didn’t hesitate:
“You don’t have to worry. There is no baby. You’re miscarrying.”
I wasn’t prepared for those words. I didn’t know that was the end. And the way it was said — blunt — left me stunned. It wasn’t just the loss. It was how the news was delivered.
The emergency room’s dim lights and the quiet cleanup by the nurse added to the sombre atmosphere of that night. We were given the choice to go home or stay for further observation. I opted to stay, seeking answers and any possible insight into why my pregnancy had not survived. And then, the nurse mentioned the possibility of having the specimen tested.
And just like that, my precious baby became a specimen.
The choice of terminology felt jarring and impersonal. The term “specimen” used by the medical staff, though clinically accurate, felt cold and detached at a moment when personal sensitivity was most needed.
Yet, as the hours passed, the care provided by the nurses, with their warm blankets and attentive checks, offered a semblance of comfort during my turmoil.
As I grappled with the reality of the situation, I realized that their intention was not to be callous but to convey medical information. My baby was a specimen, not having developed, but my body didn’t let go. Being in the second trimester, I expected it to be more. I wanted it to be more. It was my baby.
Many people are unaware that miscarriages are a common occurrence. Miscarriage, or early pregnancy loss, is defined as the loss of a pregnancy before 20 weeks. It’s far more common than many people realize. In fact, about 1 in 4 known pregnancies end in miscarriage. Some studies suggest the number could be even higher because many losses happen before a person even knows they are pregnant. Most miscarriages, around 8 out of 10, occur in the first trimester, often before the 12th week.
Behind these numbers are stories like mine — of joy interrupted, and quiet grief that doesn’t always get the space it deserves. Knowing the statistics may help normalize the experience, but it doesn’t make the loss any less personal or the pain any less real.
Although I understood how prevalent it was, knowing the statistics didn’t bring me comfort.
One of the most challenging aspects of experiencing miscarriage is the disconnect between the patient’s grief and the provider’s response. This gap may be partly due to the familiarity health care providers have with the frequency and typical outcomes of early pregnancy loss. Miscarriage is common, yes, but each experience carries a deeply individual emotional burden.
For many providers, who see miscarriage frequently and know that it often doesn’t impact future fertility, the loss may not appear traumatic. But that professional distance, intended or not, can leave patients feeling unseen in the depths of their grief.
My own experience underscored how deeply the style of communication—words, to tone, to presence- can impact a patient’s emotional well-being. It pushed me to reflect on what’s missing in clinical training: genuine sensitivity, trauma-informed communication, and patient-centred care in the face of loss.
These gaps in emotional care are not only felt by patients; they are also visible and often painful for those who work within the system. Elise Everard, a third-year student midwife, shared her first-ever experience of caring for a patient who had miscarried. Her reflections offer a glimpse into the emotional weight of delivering the news of miscarriage and the limits of her training.
Despite academic preparation, Elise found herself unprepared for the human reality of grief.
“It’s an upsetting power dynamic when you think about it — that I, as the health-care provider, knew this powerful, life-changing information about their body before they did.”
Elise acknowledged the disorienting imbalance between knowing clinical information and conveying it with care. As she put it:
“Nothing in our modules quite prepared me for the real weight of silence on the other end of the phone. A thousand thoughts ran through my head: How do I say it? Should it be clinical? Should it be gentle? Should it be direct? There were no right words.”
Even as a trainee, Elise sensed the limitations of clinical language in conveying such sensitive and emotional news. She recalled the internal conflict of naming grief in technical terms:
“I didn’t want to talk about ‘expelling products of conception’. ”
‘The fetus is no longer viable’? That sounded so cold and clinical. But anything gentler felt too vague.”
I wasn’t given any pamphlets or resources when I was discharged. No one asked if I needed to talk to someone. At the time, I didn’t think to ask either. I stayed at the hospital so the specimen could be collected and for the bleeding to stop. But as we left the hospital, I felt a deep sense of having left something behind, of being empty-handed. I remember I kept looking back. I didn’t feel devastated; I just felt hollow.
It’s okay, right? It should be okay.
Stopping at Starbucks, I made light of it, ‘Now, I can have coffee.” I ordered and went to grab the cup. It slipped. As it hit the floor, I fell after it and began sobbing. Kneeling, I continued to cry, trying to pick up the coffee cup, wiping the spill with the tissues others handed me as they tried to ignore my howling.
And too often, emotional support is secondary to clinical response. When a pregnant person’s emotional distress goes unacknowledged during or after early pregnancy loss, her grief can deepen.
It took more than 24 hours for the grief to hit me, and when it did, I didn’t know how to navigate it. I didn’t give myself time to heal before returning to my everyday life. No one had prepared me for the truth that grief doesn’t always happen in the ER or the bathroom. Sometimes, it waits until you think you’re safe.
Society adds another layer of silence. Norms and stigmas around pregnancy loss can lead to guilt, shame, and isolation. For days after, I cried in private while putting on a brave face for my husband and family. Why? I’m still not sure. At the time, I didn’t know anyone who had had a miscarriage. But after my loss, friends and family began to share their own stories of miscarriages that had never been spoken about before.
Compassionate healing support must not be an afterthought, and for me and my husband, it was non-existent. Male partners are often invisible in clinical settings and social conversations. Their grief is real, but overlooked.
My family and friends directed their care and sympathy toward me. My husband was left to process his loss in the shadows of my loss. At the hospital, and even in our social circle, he stood beside me, present, grieving — but unrecognized. His pain was real, but unacknowledged.
And while most health-care providers mean well, many don’t have the training or time to offer care that truly addresses the emotional toll of miscarriage.
Globally, support for pregnancy loss varies widely. Culture, language, and lived experiences deeply influence how care is given and received. Trauma-informed care requires more than technical skill. It requires emotional preparedness and linguistic sensitivity.
We need trauma-informed protocols that go beyond clinical treatment to make space for grief, for spilled coffee, silence, and emotional healing. That silence — the space between clinical facts and human loss — is where compassionate care must begin.“Words do not exist in the void space where there should be a heartbeat.” – Elise Everard.
Grief after pregnancy loss can feel deeply isolating. The following resources may be helpful if you are navigating this experience and looking for support, information, or connections
Dr. Nisha Malhotra is a health economist and interdisciplinary researcher whose work explores the social and economic determinants of autonomy and health-related behaviour. Her research spans maternal and child health, healthcare access, gender-based violence, and health equity, with projects based in both South Asia and Canada. With a PhD in Economics from the University of Maryland, College Park, and over 15 years of experience teaching research methods, Dr. Malhotra brings expertise in policy analysis, econometrics, and community-based research design. She continues to pursue independent research focused on reducing health disparities and informing inclusive public policy. Connect on LinkedIn here.
Elise Everard is a student midwife, finishing up her studies at the University of British Columbia. After completing an undergrad in Biomedical Studies, with a focus on First Nations Studies, she stumbled into the world of midwifery care and never looked back. During her third year at UBC, she met Dr. Malhotra while working as a research assistant at the Birthplace Lab, and was able to support critical research exploring healthcare inequities in Canada. She is set to graduate in November 2025, and looks forward to providing trauma-informed care as a Registered Midwife in the near future. [email protected]
Published:
August 21, 2025
Author:
Nisha Malhotra
Categories:
SHARE THIS POST:
