Introduction: A memory colored by isolation and care systems
Three years have passed since a miscarriage that quietly reshaped the way I understand pregnancy, care, and the spaces in which we endure loss. My experience happened in a period when public health demands and personal grief collided: a Covid-impacted pregnancy, hospital visits solo, and a sense that care was happening to me as an individual rather than with me. Reading my memories back, the most striking lessons are not about the medical procedure itself but about the environments that surrounding care—how spaces, timing, and policy shape our sense of dignity in moments of vulnerability.
Isolation in care: the daily reality of a Covid-era pregnancy
From the first appointment, I learned to navigate pregnancy with a solitary lens. While my husband wandered public spaces near maternity units in Merrion Square, I attended appointments alone, a routine that felt almost medical folklore by the end. I later realized this isolation was not simply personal; it reflected broader conditions of care in a pandemic era where safety outweighed companionship. The word “miscarriage” itself can carry unintended blame, a reminder that language intersects with lived experience and social perception.
Acknowledging the double burden
When, at a bit over 13 weeks, the ultrasound showed a loss, I rushed to secure a D&C appointment. I wanted resolution, speed, and an ability to move forward. Yet the actual experience highlighted a second, quieter burden: the expectation to shoulder medical solitude without question. I did not even ask if my husband could be present for the procedure because I had internalized the sense that this was a solitary event—another consequence of how care was structured during a crisis years ago.
Trusting body knowledge in a world of evolving science
As a philosopher who studies the history of science, I approach medical certainty with a healthy dose of skepticism. My body has always followed a reliable rhythm—the regular 29-day cycle—yet the medical team at times urged revision of that rhythm to fit a narrative. It’s not merely about dates or the clock; it’s about the moment when patient knowledge joins clinical theory to form a complete understanding of one’s own physiology. Trust, in this setting, is a balance: deference to expertise on one hand, and confidence in one’s own body on the other.
When professional estimates clash with lived reality
To my mother, the fluctuating dating and growth expectations looked like a warning sign I should have heard earlier. Optimism is a natural response, but the experience taught me to consider my own evidence—especially when dates and measurements tug the patient into a corner where uncertainty becomes the default. If the framework of care requires patients to override their own knowledge, we risk adding grief to already heavy losses.
Infrastructure and empathy: the physical space of loss and birth
Hospitals are not just clinical spaces; they are environments that communicate values through design. The row of seats facing a registration desk held both a mother-to-be and a patient who had miscarried—a stark reminder that different life events share one waiting room. Construction and repurposing during a period of modernization meant I could hear newborn cries from a recovery bed where I began to heal, a poignant echo of what was and what could be done better. The physical world of care should reflect its moral commitments: to ease, not to amplify, the pain of those in transition between life, loss, and uncertain futures.
Policy, care, and the path forward
There is an urgency to reform not only hospital design but the policies that determine what care feels like during maternity and fertility experiences. Legislation on paid miscarriage and fertility leave marks progress, but systems must be designed to provide dignity, comfort, and clear support when women and their families navigate loss. In a public health landscape shaped by Covid’s legacy, we must balance safety with compassionate care, ensuring vulnerable people are not left to endure these moments without proper support or presence.
Conclusion: Building spaces that honor experience
To move beyond masking the pain of miscarriage, we need hospitals and health systems that recognize the full arc of pregnancy, loss, and recovery. That means better physical spaces, more humane visiting policies (especially in the shadow of pandemics), and governance that foregrounds patient knowledge and dignity. The road away from miscarriage may be hazy, but clarity comes when the environment—built, policy-driven, and human—supports those who endure it with compassion and respect.
