Breaking the Silence: An Agenda for a Feminist Discourse of Pregnancy Loss

When we married in February 1985, my husband extracted a promise that I would finish my dissertation before getting pregnant. So full of joyful anticipation and confidence were we that when the date of my oral was set we both began announcing to friends our intention of starting a baby. I defended my dissertation on October 15th and conceived on the 31st. Fifteen days later a home pregnancy test gave us the wished-for confirmation, and we immediately called our parents to announce the imminent arrival of what would be the first grandchild on both sides of the family I also went to the local knit shop, bought a teach-yourself-to-knit book, a pair of number one needles, the lightest-weight yarn available, and started a baby sweater. The next three months were very happy ones indeed. Then, on the evening of Friday, January 16, 1987, in the thirteenth week of my pregnancy, I started cramping and spotting. I called the birthing center where I was a patient and was reassured that many women spot during their pregnancies and that it might not mean anything. I was instructed to rest and to call again if it got worse. All through the night, while my husband lay beside me sleeping, I kept a worried vigil. By six the next morning I was bleeding profusely. I woke my husband and called the birthing center. This time the midwife told me to go to the emergency room, suggesting that we call there first to let them know we were coming. By this time I was terrified and was horrified to learn that no one from the birthing center would accompany me to the hospital. During my initial visit to the center it had been stressed that if anything went wrong during labor and I had to be transferred to a hospital to deliver,