“Well, maybe that’ll teach you for posting “belly” pictures all over Facebook!”
Her words knocked the wind out of me. I felt like I had been kicked, right after being hit by a Mac truck.
I had just told her that I had lost the baby. That I was no longer pregnant. It took every ounce of energy I had to say the words. The words that were met with words that pierced.
I excused myself and headed home. Maybe she was right, I should have known. This was my fourth pregnancy and my third loss. It was all I knew.
But we were so excited, so hopeful. My belly had started to round slightly as the weeks progressed seemingly fine. I always showed early, this one was no different.
We “announced” the pregnancy with a hilarious photo of me and our then 18 month old daughter. It was supposed to be a sweet photo of her sitting above my tiny bump. Instead she arched her back, opened her mouth and let out a hell-hound howl just as my husband hit the shutter. The resulting photo was an upside down, angry baby and a laughing pregnant momma. It was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
We went in for a routine ultrasound. We would finally be able to see our baby. As the OB scanned his face contorted. The baby had stopped growing a few weeks earlier. It’s little heart was barely beating enough to make a flicker. Our baby was fading and there was nothing anyone could do.
We mourned. I took the photo down and made a brief statement on my personal page. We started the process of un-telling our friends and family. All while scheduling me for surgery, my body was not letting the baby go. My heart wouldn’t either.
The support and love we received kept us going. It lifted us when we were down. Sharing our good news had made going through the impossible, a fraction easier. When it all went wrong, we had people to turn to.
Except her. I thought she was my friend. I thought she would understand. I thought wrong. Her words cut into me so deeply that now, two years later, I still hear them when I see her.
Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mean them to hurt me. Maybe she didn’t know what to say. Maybe, in her own way, she was trying to find levity and I wasn’t ready to laugh. Regardless, it hurt.
I had another pregnancy that resulted in another loss after that. We didn’t tell a soul except my doctor. I couldn’t see another set of pitying eyes look at me and not now what to say, or worse yet, say the very very wrong thing. We grieved alone. Away from judgement and opinion.
Words have such a great impact. They can soothe and they can hurt. They can make what should have been a supportive moment between friends into something hurtful and awkward.
In the words of my mom, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I have learned that this simple statement holds more knowledge than I ever gave it credit for. Words have the power to heal and they have the power to stay with someone for years, reminding them of a hurt so deep, it may never fully heal.
Choose your words carefully, you never know what they will do once released.
(This post first ran on Juicebox Confessions.)
About the author: Michelle Stephens writes from the home she shares with her husband and their two daughters. In addition to being the in-house cookie baker, nose wiper, milk maker, diaper changer, and potty helper she writes a bi-monthly column for The Brattleboro Reformer, a southern Vermont daily newspaper. Her work can be found on Mamalode, BonBon Break, on her personal blog, Juicebox Confession (www.juiceboxconfession.com) and in the upcoming anthology from HerStories, Mothering Through The Darkness. She can also be found on Facebook (www.facebook.com/juiceboxconfession) Twitter (www.twitter.com/juiceboxconfess) and Instagram (https://instagram.com/juiceboxconfession/)