Of Mice and Men and Miscarriage

I’m in a mood tonight. Perhaps it’s the fact that my laundry room has flooded twice and the room smells like mildew has taken permanent residence between floor boards. Or perhaps it’s that my husband spent my first fifteen minutes in his presence screaming at me because the laundry was flooded. Yes, it was I who secretly conspired to flood the laundry room during the Hawkeye’s game. So instead of posting what I had planned to be an upbeat account of how I have tackled menu planning and feel proud of the results I think I’m pondering something more somber. Recipes of ways to bulk of your vegetable and fruit intake to follow some other day.



I mostly feel upset because I never knew I was pregnant when I miscarried. The guilt of feeling something I had done or eaten had destroyed the opportunity to parent still harrows through my brain. Had I known, had I only known. No coffee please, no thank you I don’t care for a glass of soda or wine. But, alas I didn’t know until the bleeding started. Perhaps I should feel thankful I never called the parents and announced the impending birth or decorated a room, or purchased a car seat. I cannot fathom the feeling of absolute anguish of knowing and….losing.

My first and my most recent miscarriages sear my thoughts. I cope better now, I feel no guilt, I know I’m not broken. But at the time, I floated from one reality to another with little ability to feel whole or like less of a woman. Bear in mind my esteem and feelings of self-worth faltered long before I miscarried. Miscarriage only provided another reason why I seemed a “broken” person. When I think of how I managed to move forward after my last miscarriage, I immediately think of my students. They moved me…not just forward, but inspired me through their understanding and support.

In October of my first year teaching I had scheduled an early meeting with a student to discuss makeup work. We sat, each tending to the tasks required, and suddenly as he motioned to me to ask a question I felt a surge of blood. I hadn’t anticipated my period. I knew the blood prevented me from walking to his desk to help, so I encouraged him to set up shop next to me. We would work through the problem until he felt he could move forward alone. I hoped, I prayed this smart boy would catch on quickly and be on his way. Meanwhile, my stomach churned, boiled, and sharp pains dug into my guts. He completed the task. I requested he go and catch up with me later. He stood up to shake my hand. Instinctively I also stood up and took his hand. I winced in pain; he winced as he caught a glimpse of blood oozing down my pants as I dizzily struggled to stand. Kindly, yet awkwardly, he asked if I was okay and if I needed him to get help. I denied assistance, sent him on his way, and begged the other teacher to take care of my classes for the remainder of the day.

At home, I sobbed. Not again! No insurance! The women’s clinic and ER both advised me to “let nature take its course” since I had no means of paying to see a doctor. So, I did. I called in sick for three days and bled. Nature was cruel. Was I being punished for kissing a boy in the fourth grade?

My return to school seemed subdued and I walked the halls in a trance. I couldn’t tell anyone, and I couldn’t engage as my effervescent self. Outside my classroom I heard two teens chatting. “Miller had an abortion.” “No freakin’ way?”

Most people let these discussions fizzle out-- the rumor mill to expire. But I couldn’t stand in front of a group of teens who believed I had purposefully lost this baby.I didn't have the option to exercise my choice. As students took their seats, the nerves warmed my belly, my hands started to stiffen.

“Good Morning guys.”

“Good morning Miller.”

The bulk of my broach of the topic: “I haven’t been out the last three days for the reason some of you may think. I want to stop rumors before they get out of control. Monday, I miscarried. It was tough at first, but I feel better now. Not perfect, but better. So now that you know, please do not tell your friends something different.” My voice quivered, my body language slackened.

They all sat there eyes blinking feeling, what I assume, overwhelmed by this incredibly human moment. Teachers don’t tell you stuff like this. They tell you baseball is cool and kids should read more. But this…no they don’t tell you this.

Tyler raised his hand, “What is a miscarriage?” I explained. He innocently gave his condolences. In fact, he got up from desk and hugged me.

Other hands raised; poignant questions followed by my responses interrupted moments of stillness and quiet. Students shared experiences, “Yeah my mom had that happen once.” Or “I have a brother I never met because he died when he was a baby” or “ What’s the difference between a miscarriage and an abortion?” For ninety minutes (a vital block day of learning) we cast aside Of Mice and Men to talk about the human condition as we had experienced it. I felt liberated by the discussion, saddened by the topic, and responsible for a magical moment as a teacher. We (society) never talk about these types of things. Miscarriage lies somewhere between abortion and sexuality on the continuum of taboos most likely to be avoided in discussion. But here we were talking about it without rules or shame. This lesson proved just as vital as Steinbeck's choice to not name the solitary female character in his book.

I have never felt closer to a group of students. They didn’t pity me or judge me. They just wondered how I was feeling. The very sentiment still brings tears to my eyes. Kids…kids connected with the very raw emotion more than I had wanted to. They also gave me hope—if I could have sons and daughters as wise and kind. They informed my philosophy as an educator--I will always care how a student feels to engage and encourage the process of learning.

Afterward, a few mothers sent me emails thanking me for teaching this “lesson” to their sons, a mother baked me a cake, two girls took care of some filing, and a father left me a voice mail to express his care and concern. If I needed anything…just ask. One student, whenever he saw me, always offered to carry my bag or my box of papers to grade. And the boy who was in the room the day it happened came to my room and quietly confessed, “I didn’t know that was what it was called. I think I told my friend the wrong thing. I’m sorry.”

How could I feel anger at this boy who had no idea what a miscarriage was? Of course I understood. Normally a quiet, shy student his explanation seemed to rocket out of his mouth, his words couldn’t keep time with his thoughts. “ It’s just. Just. I thought you know? Something was wrong. I could tell. I asked. He said that’s what it was. I shouldn’t hav….”

“Its okay.” I put my hand on his arm and promised I was okay. For the first time that day, I was.