The morning after the news that our frozen embryo transfer was not working and I was not pregnant, I woke up early and went to an empty bed. The hope that my husband and I had entered 2022 was over. It ended abruptly with a quick phone call from a nurse from our doctor’s office, who briefed us. I found my husband standing quietly in the kitchen, turning to our window planter.
We had been together for a decade, had been married for five years, and the idea of having a small garden there had randomly started and turned into a ritual that marked the beginning of summer. Every year, I looked forward to the day I went to the Union Square New York City market for new things and added them to the planter to watch it carefully.
There is no hallmark card section for “Sorry, your fetus didn’t stick.” But it is a real loss that deserves a place to grieve and support.
But it was March. That time had not yet come, and the sower was lifeless, still holding on to the remains of the previous year—except for a small, pink flower discovered that month. It emerged out of nowhere, alone yet miraculously thriving in a sea of dead bushes.
We have long awaited transfer with one of our genetically normal embryos after four in vitro fertilization cycles. As it drew near, the arrival of the wonder flower had become a conduit of hope – a symbol of our patience and perseverance. Despite my efforts to remain emotionless, all my dreams began to form into that one blossoming miracle. If nature can do it, why can’t I?
But it didn’t work out, because, sometimes, dreams don’t happen, and the potential baby we worked so hard to create and who we believed in so much, was gone.
It was a traumatic experience that deeply affected us and created the kind of grief that Kenneth Doka, a psychologist and grief specialist, says deprived grief Or one that has not been openly acknowledged or supported. There is no hallmark card section for “Sorry, your fetus didn’t stick.” But it is a real loss that deserves a place to grieve and support.
I had seen my husband cry several times, including in the hospital when I lost my baby at 18 weeks pregnant. But in the nearly four years since then, through another miscarriage, multiple surgeries, and a failed treatment cycle, this loss felt different. It was the first time I had seen him mourn openly. She took the day off from work to be sad with me, and she inadvertently shared her grieving process in a way I had never seen before.
Recently, in a interview with The GuardianIn this article, John Legend opened up about the loss of his son, Jack, at 20 weeks due to a pregnancy complication. He explained how it cemented his marriage to his wife, Chrissy Teigen, and revealed that his new album will feature songs about their son. “When you lose a pregnancy and have to go through that grief together, it can be really difficult for a family. Hopefully making music out of this can be good for me and other people as well,” Legend said. It’s refreshing to see a male celebrity talking more openly about it, but it also shouldn’t be so rare.
Men still mostly avoid the conversation when it comes to pregnancy loss, partly because they don’t seem to have any physical effects, but also because they don’t often share feelings in a public forum.
When I found my husband aggressively emptying the planter—including our flower—that had already begun to wither, I stopped it.
“Why are you doing that?” I asked
“I have to,” he said. “To make room for new things to grow.”
He wouldn’t elaborate, but he didn’t have to.
Now, in June, the little garden in our city window is officially back and flourishing. I watched him, as always, choose the best flowers. There was a purpose behind each appointment. He looked after them daily, watering them when needed and removing dead objects so that new flowers could bloom.
Pregnancy loss is especially taxing on expectant moms. For me, Mother’s Day has been tough to deal with ever since my mom passed away on vacation 11 years ago. But facing it as an expectant mother, now 41, and the grieving loss and fertility problems has been even more painful. In moments of desperation, I’ve found myself searching for articles online for women like me — those coping with vacation or grieving.
However, when I recently decided to look for resources for men experiencing similar feelings toward Father’s Day, I wasn’t (not really) surprised at the lack of options. Several searches yielded nothing but articles on male infertility.
This noticeable absence reminds me how important it is to give all hopeful or grieving fathers more space to grieve openly. This may sound like more group support or online therapy resources (to solveThe National Infertility Association, has one), and stories are being shared — or knowing when not to bring it up.
Going through five fertility treatments and a failed transfer over the course of a year, as we did in 2021, can easily put pressure on any relationship — but similar to Legend, it strengthened our marriage in many ways.
It also shed light on how we handle grief. My desire to share fueled his more introverted process and a self-imposed duty to be a strong, silent partner. a response he is far from alone in being. But that doesn’t make her any less qualified to need the tools to navigate the many invisible difficulties that come with fertility struggles.
My husband may not express himself by writing beautiful songs, but he has other outlets (including his collage art). As Father’s Day drew to a close, I saw him in such quiet moments, when he thought no one was watching, looking so lovingly at his window garden. Now I know what his TLC signifies.
For me, that day is a reminder that I only want to give gifts that I haven’t been able to give yet. For him, it is the peace of waiting patiently when he can enjoy the holiday as a father. He’s already a wonderful canine dad to our nearly 5-year-old Goldendoodle, Chief Brody, and our family of three has given me a lot to be thankful for. Yet, our desire to keep striving for human connection has not waned – no matter how we get there.