The prior Tuesday marked the day to recognize the loss of pregnancy, and since that day my thoughts were immersed in the distinct politically charged past of the Irish womb. I am in the midst of documenting the work of William Petty, a pioneer of quantitative political economics and champion of uterine charting.
In 1691, Petty undertook a data-based study of Ireland’s economy, reflecting his knack for Political Arithmetick, with his Political Anatomy of Ireland. He documented the economically battered Ireland much like medical students gaining practical knowledge from the feeble and common animals, in an attempt to alleviate the nation’s ailments.
His research provides an early illustration of the concept that synchronising biological reproduction and national productivity can prove beneficial. He contended that Ireland was populated sparsely, having an impressive 10 acres of fertile land for every citizen (in comparison to the mere four acres in both England and France). Petty went on to propose, in his private works, divorce for marriages that did not bear children within six months and penalties for women who did not deliver a child every three years.
A post-conference dinner last month found me situated across from a fellow academic, who was researching the dependency of females on online communities for valuable information about a now-illicit sterilisation device for women, that brought about calamitous consequences for patients. The conversation steered towards the historical responsibility thrust upon the females in west Belfast, their role in altering Northern Ireland’s religious demography. She shared her grandmother’s memories of frequent visits from the local priest every three months following the birth of each infant. These visits would come with the reminder to keep her pregnancy cycle unremitting. After all, relentless childbearing, she claimed, was a dictate equally enforced by both the priesthood and paramilitary.
Comments such as JD Vance’s disapproving “childless cat ladies” statement, suggest a narrow perspective that values women solely for their ability to birth children. This viewpoint, particularly targeting women who have a strong bond with their stepchildren, implies that individuals without offspring have no meaningful investment in our societal future. This leads me to conclude, despite the prevalence of prejudiced ideologies and zealous political views, there exists a universally recognised value in pregnancy and fertility.
Nevertheless, it’s perplexing to witness the merciless treatment surrounding pregnancy loss and infertility, historically and today. In Ireland, for example, women experiencing miscarriages are often placed in environments juxtaposing happiness and sorrow. They register for D&C surgery while surrounded by expectant mothers ready for inductions and sections. Their recovery rooms may be passed by women holding their newborns. Accessing specialist bereavement midwives can also prove challenging, requiring multiple calls and explaining your painful circumstances to countless individuals due to poor infrastructure, further magnifying the harshness of their plight.
Additionally, miscarriages are typically followed by frantic efforts to get pregnant again. Though there has been recent public support for IVF treatments, it falls short for singles, women over the age of 40 and those with a BMI exceeding 30. The latter group must further endure the pressure to lose weight amidst their fertility concerns.
Currently, there’s no statutory leave in place for women who experience a pregnancy loss before the 24th week. Although a draft Bill providing 20 days paid leave post-miscarriage and 10 days for those pursuing fertility treatment has been proposed since 2021, it will not be reconsidered until 2025. While the Bill is far from perfect, it’s undeniably a step towards improving the support for such women.
Two years prior, I endured the heart-wrenching experience of miscarriage. I vividly remember the deafening dread during my 13.5 weeks pregnancy check-up the moment the sonogram fell silent. In my desperation, I yearned for an immediate procedure to put an end to my torment, yet I was sent home to schedule it a few days later. Those subsequent days were tormenting, with me feeling as if I were carrying a dormant life within me, fretting over whether my body would take control of the situation.
When the time came for the procedure, it was a painless and dignified experience, executed with a great deal of compassion by the medical team. Following the event, I opened up about this experience and was stunned by how many of my friends confided in me about their own similar journeys. People whom I mourned with over the loss of their grandparents had endured pregnancy losses unbeknownst to me – this is testament to the silent trauma surrounding the topic. One can’t help but wonder whether the custom of announcing pregnancies post the 12th week could be protecting more than just mothers.
I have always admired Ireland for the compassionate way it handles bereavement. The same night I underwent surgery to remove my ill-fated foetus, I received the devastating news of my sudden loss of my brother. The comforting mechanisms of the Irish mourning rituals kick-started immediately, providing me with an array of grief support, from wakes to gatherings to an ongoing shower of love. It strikes me that perhaps miscarriage feels incredibly isolating because there is often a glaring lack of this grief language surrounding it.
Dr Clare Moriarty is currently an Irish Research Council postdoctoral fellow based at Dublin’s Trinity College. Support is available at pregnancyandinfantloss.ie.