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.
The utensil drama did make me laugh and also had intense memory of my own miscarriage debacle. Thankfully just the once but that, combined with the ‘post event care experience’ and then the horror show of the birth of my daughter left me with no desire to have any more and suffer the risk. My miscarriage was a missed miscarriage which I feel is such a cruel one as you go around thinking you are pregnant and, when late enough, even telling people you are and then you discover nothing’s been happening for weeks. Mine started with spotting then intense bleeding but by the time I got to the EPU all the really hefty ‘matter’ had passed and they couldn’t see a problem as on the scan they could see a fetal sac. There was no heartbeat but they just thought the pregnancy was earlier than I thought it was (spoiler alert: it wasn’t). I went home, hopeful but then that night had horrendous worst ever types of pain but me thinking I must still be pregnant didn’t want to take more than one paracetamol. 2 night later I felt something shift and remarked to my husband that maybe that was an early flutter! How could it have been…
Then I needed the loo and that fetal sac came out. If it had been a fetal sac, my body held onto it for weeks and wove thick tissue around it, a pearl by another name I suppose.
It was a Sunday night and my husband said I may as well go back to work the next day as it was all over. He went to work on the Monday morning, away for the week. I went to work too. Didn’t last long. I was in the military and went to see the doc, devastated. He was impassive and signed me off sick for the rest of the week. No other support. When I left the military a few years later I got my medical records. The EPU had actually written to my med centre suggesting anti depressants for me. I had no idea. Shortly afterwards I was told I was to be deployed to a war zone. I did not have the kahunas to say I was not psychologically well enough, worried I would be seen as a flake. So did all the training and left. I was a mess crying on the phone to my husband and generally feeling appalling. Cruelly my body continued to suffer the effects and, whilst in theatre(war zone) for what would have been my baby’s birth date, my hair fell out in chunks.
The whole thing was over a decade ago but still upsetting right now. The grief and physical pain needs to be acknowledged and women giving appropriate time. The secrecy of early pregnancy because of miscarriage is wrong. It perpetuates stuffing away of emotions for both the pregnant woman and the partner. It nearly ruined my marriage but was actually the fault of culture both general culture and the culture within my own organisation.
I am so sorry to hear of your multiple miscarriages and every lost baby is a pinprick of light and hope in our lives ❤️❤️❤️