A few months ago, a friend from high school with whom I hadn’t spoken in years sent me a text that he’d seen an article I wrote about my second-trimester miscarriage. He and his wife had recently experienced a late pregnancy loss, and it had nearly broken them.
He proceeded to reveal intimate details about how they found a way forward. But unlike the hundreds of other messages I’d received, this one offered something unique: an offer. If my husband ever needed someone to talk to, he’d be happy to meet him for a cup of coffee.
I was touched by this sentiment but suspected my husband, Ben, would never take him up on it. While supportive of me sharing my deepest feelings on the Internet, Ben is not someone who readily offers up his own. At that point, he had shared little about what he was carrying but I passed along the offer, hoping that if he was ever ready to open up more, he’d remember someone had already pulled up a chair.
The causes of miscarriage remain largely unknown. Many of us who go through it are left with unanswered questions and a profoundly isolating sadness. Increasingly, the mothers’ sides of these stories have been pulled out of the shadows. We lean on our girlfriends, share on social media, and even write personal essays for public consumption. We commiserate over our shared grief. The male perspective, though, is mostly tucked away, often turning partners into silent sufferers on the hoped-for road to parenthood.
We’ve had some glimpses into men’s hormonal response to fatherhood. Regions of the brain linked to attachment and caregiving strengthen when men become parents. But little has been studied about how men respond to and overcome pregnancy loss.
Those early days carry moments for both parents that feel isolating at best, and crippling at worst. There’s no question we have a long way to go in supporting birthing parents through the emotional aftermath of a miscarriage or stillbirth: After my D&E I was given a thick packet of materials about abortion services, but nothing about the grief that would ultimately consume me. The few resources I found had weeks-long wait lists.
If finding support was this hard for someone like me, imagine how much harder it is for fathers. The person men are most likely to turn to for such a thing is the one navigating her own rollercoaster of emotions and hormones. It’s hard to find peer support groups or therapists specializing in paternal loss, and society loves telling men their role is to be the strong and stoic ones. But what happens then when they’re struggling to carry their own weight?
I attended a pregnancy loss support group after we lost our daughter. Of the six families in the group, only one partner came regularly. My husband opted out. This father was navigating many of the same feelings as the mothers, but he voiced another layer of frustration: When he went back to work, most of the heartfelt condolences and well-meaning check-ins were directed at his partner. “How’s your wife doing?” was a common refrain, as if this tragic outcome hadn’t happened to both of them.
In follow-up appointments with the obstetrician, he noticed that she directed her advice about grief to her patient. He felt cast aside because he was no one’s patient, existing in the periphery of a system built around someone else’s care.
When he went back to work, most of the heartfelt condolences and well-meaning check-ins were directed at his partner. “How’s your wife doing?” was a common refrain, as if this tragic outcome hadn’t happened to both of them.
These experiences are often referred to as disenfranchised grief–when society signals that all or part of your grief is less important, or isn’t aware of it in the first place. If a man doesn’t receive social validation that his loss is valid, he’ll naturally be less inclined to seek out support. It’s time for our systems to widen their lens and support both parents through loss. Until that day comes, fathers will have to find ways to reach for one another in the spaces where formal support still falls short.
Last week, another friend reached out after her own miscarriage at seventeen weeks, eerily close to the point when we’d lost our daughter. When I told Ben what had happened, he didn’t hesitate: “Tell her that if her husband ever wants to talk, I can share what helped me.”
I paused, reflecting on the same invitation he had received just a few months prior. Ben might not have accepted it, but he clearly realized the power of extending a hand to someone else in the early days of a tough journey.
Vaughan Bagley writes on Substack for her newsletter, Becoming Mom, where she shines a light on the winding, sometimes painful, path to motherhood.
Author’s note: If you or someone you love has recently experienced a pregnancy loss or stillbirth, consider reaching out to the Sad Dads Club to explore their suite of mental health services for men, fathers, and non-birthing parents.
Image: Nighthawks by Edward Hopper (1942)
