Dark Humour & Deep Grief

A tale of miscarriage and the dark humour that kept me from completely falling apart.

(Trigger warning: this is a detailed account of miscarriage. Also, kitchen utensils.)

I’d just been “given” a new role. And by “given,” I mean forcibly gifted like a surprise puppy, except instead of unconditional love, it came with unrealistic expectations and the distinct smell of impending doom. It was a role I didn’t want, didn’t ask for, and definitely wasn’t about to be paid properly for. Because, as it turned out, this “promotion” was more of a “opportunity,” which is corporate-speak for “You’re doing more work, but let’s all pretend it’s a learning experience.”

To make matters worse, my new boss was someone I’d worked with before and had specifically avoided because she was the kind of manager who really leaned into the micro part of micromanagement. The kind who asks you to cc her on emails about your own lunch break. And while I was trying to navigate this fresh hell, I was also attempting to do something slightly more important: get pregnant again. Which is where this story takes a sharp, tragic turn into what-the-fuckery-Laura.

This sadly wasn’t my first rodeo. We lost babies before having our son, and by this point, we were on our fourth consecutive loss trying for our daughter, which meant we’d passed “tragic” and moved straight into “statistical anomaly.” Doctors had run all the tests and determined that my body was perfectly healthy, which was somehow more infuriating than if they’d just told me I was broken. Because if nothing was wrong, then why the hell wasn’t it working?

Right in the middle of yet another round of Let’s Figure Out Why Your Uterus Is a Quitter, I fell pregnant again. I called the clinic, and they told me that if (when) it went wrong, they’d be able to run tests. I felt optimistic. Maybe this time we’d get answers.

At around eight weeks, the telltale pain started. The clinic had one request: if I could, I should try to catch the material. Which is a truly horrifying phrase because the “material” in question was my baby. I’d never done this before, previous losses had been met with quiet grief and an unspoken agreement between me and the toilet bowl that we wouldn’t discuss what just happened. But I wanted answers, so I asked, “Catch it with what, exactly?”

A kitchen sieve, they said.

Right. Because nothing says “handling profound loss” like clutching an item normally reserved for pasta… in your bathroom.

Days passed. Bleeding, cramping, waiting. Then, one morning, while logging into a Zoom call way too early with my new team, I figured I’d pop to the loo for a quick check (the laptop was left in the hallway). And just as I did, of course, it happened. But in the panic of the moment, I had no sieve! Which meant no answers. Just devastation and the horrifying realisation that everything was literally going down the drain.

In a grief-stricken haze, I ran and grabbed the nearest thing in the kitchen a giant soup spoon… ran back to the bathroom and started scooping. Because apparently, my brain had short-circuited, and this seemed like a logical Plan B. And then it hit me:

I was still logged into the Zoom call.

Camera on. Mic on. Possible full view of me (from the hallway), sobbing and wielding a ladle like a deranged medieval peasant attempting some kind of ritual.

I slammed the laptop shut so fast I nearly concussed myself. I don’t think anyone saw. But honestly, it wouldn’t even be the weirdest thing that’s happened on a work call.

Later, I tried telling a friend about it - hoping they’d laugh at the sheer absurdity, but instead, they just stared at me like I’d just confessed to drowning kittens. And yeah, okay, it was a horrifying moment. But sometimes, the only way to survive the most gut-wrenching grief is to find dark humour in it.

In the end, the “material” actually passed the next day, and they did run tests, but it was too small to analyse. No answers. Another painful loss. Another question mark. Another darkly ridiculous, heartbreaking chapter in this exhausting journey.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: in the middle of the worst moments of your life, sometimes all you can do is cling to the weird, absurd, pitch-black humour that bubbles up. Even if it’s the kind of humour that makes everyone else want to back away slowly and pretend they didn’t hear you.

Here’s the thing… this kind of story? It happens all the time. In offices, in toilets, between Zoom calls. Women go through devastating losses and then walk straight into meetings, school runs, and emails titled “Following up on this!” And we do it quietly, because society has somehow decided that miscarriage should be a private tragedy, not something we should talk about unless it’s wrapped in a socially acceptable, softly-lit version of grief.

But, well, screw that. Loss isn’t shameful. It’s not something to whisper about. If you’ve been through it, you’re not alone, and you don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen. We should be able to say, “I went to hell and back” without everyone shifting uncomfortably in their seats. We should be able to say, “I lost something that mattered. I’m hurting.”

So if you’ve been through it, if you’ve ever had to mourn and carry on like nothing happened, I see you. And if you want to share your story, I’ll be here, ladle in hand, ready to listen.