“Mah Tovu Ohalecha Yaakov, How goodly are your tents, Yaakov.” According to Rashi, this blessing spouted by Balam praised the great modesty and privacy that Bnai Yisrael embodied in the desert. By setting up their camp so that no one could see into one another’s tent, the Jews kept their private lives private. In today’s day and age, this trait of modesty is uniquely Jewish. The secular world has traded private life for public displays, and I am lucky to be part of a godly culture that knows what should be off-limits to the world at large. However, I have found that privacy applied to all areas of our life can lead to feelings of aloneness.
I hadn’t thought much about our culture’s emphasis on privacy until my husband and I went through a miscarriage. An event that I knew happened to some people actually happened to me, and when the doctor told us we did not have a viable embryo, it felt like our world had shattered. How excited and naive we had been when we celebrated after my positive pregnancy test. We had barely started trying and there we were, imagining ourselves as parents already. Had I known the statistics (one in four pregnancies result in miscarriage) I may not have allowed myself to jump ahead quite so far.
At the time when we found out we would not be having a baby as we thought, I felt extremely alone. My husband was right there with me with a supportive shoulder to cry on, but even he couldn’t feel exactly what I felt. It was I who experienced the bleeding, the unceasing cramping and the hormone shifts. At the time, it seemed like all our friends were creating beautiful little families, and we were left out. Had I only had some insight into the private lives of our friends, I would have realized we were not the only ones dealing with this struggle.
At the time of our pregnancy loss, I decided that once, God willing, we successfully brought a child into the world, I would be open about our experience. I didn’t view the miscarriage as a secret I would take to the grave; rather, I viewed it as a private bump along our road. Not sharing during the traumatic time was difficult, but it afforded us our privacy. After all, I wouldn’t want people to know we were “trying.”
But in the Orthodox world, a couple needs to be married only a year or so before Nosey Nellys start wondering if that flowy shirt is concealing a baby bump or just a large lunch. Thankfully my and my husband’s families are not the nosey type, and would never drop not-so-subtle hints or ask us about our baby-making timeline like other people’s in-laws or parents might. I beseech those readers who find themselves in the “nosey” camp to bite their tongues the next time they consider asking about babies. You never know the harm you might cause, especially if the couple you’re talking to has their hearts set on conceiving or just experienced a loss.
It was only a couple of weeks after my miscarriage when I was on the phone with my 10-year-old nephew who asked me point-blank, “Sarah, when are you gonna have a baby?” I was hit yet again by our recent loss, so much so that I had to make up some excuse to hang up the phone before he could tell that I was crying. I can forgive a 10-year-old boy, but I cannot excuse the aunt, mother or family friend who makes such a blunder.
But looking back now, as my 1-year-old son naps in his crib, I ask myself if I would change my viewpoint knowing what I do now. People don’t have to watch their tongues if they know what you’re going through. It doesn’t make you immodest or attention-grabbing if you offhandedly mention that you’d love to have a child whenever Hashem may bless you with one, or that you’ve been wanting one for a while with no success. While nosiness is not OK, privacy is different than secrecy, and the area of pregnancy doesn’t need to be cloaked in secrecy, even if other aspects of your relationship are private.
How helpful it would have been to have a larger support system of close family and friends, some of whom could empathize with us, having gone through something similar themselves. It was once I found out I was pregnant for a second time—this time waiting to celebrate or share the news until our looming doctor’s appointment—that a close friend shared with me that her newborn was in fact a rainbow baby—the term some people use to reference the baby born after a pregnancy loss. I had no idea that this friend had had a traumatic incident like mine. And since I wasn’t yet at the point I had wanted to be in my pregnancy journey, I didn’t even use that opportunity to open up and share my story. Looking back, I wish I would have been more open with my friend. I wouldn’t have had to sit there with a lump in my throat, sympathizing on the outside while empathizing within.
On the very week that I was having the miscarriage, two of my friends came for a Shabbat sleep-over. I had planned this weeks before, and decided not to cancel on them since their presence might help me feel better. One of my friends had just ended a long relationship, so she spent a good part of that weekend talking through her breakup. I remember sitting on the couch, still hurting after taking several painkillers, listening and helping her move past her pain. How I wanted to share my pain with her. Not to pile it on or say, “I have something going on too,” but because of the old saying, “Pain shared is a pain halved.” I wish I had had the nerve or the presence of mind to share my “secret” with her.
Having become more open about our pregnancy loss, I have come to find out that many of our friends, sadly, have similar stories. Something that is so poignant in your personal life shouldn’t be met with feelings of shame, guilt or secrecy. Rather, openness would allow people to find support through their struggle. I remember the phone call I made to my sister after that horrible doctor’s visit. I dreaded it, as it seemed so awkward to me to give her a call to tell her, “I was pregnant … and now I’m not.” But I made that phone call because I thought, “I can’t go through this experience without my sister knowing about it.” Upon reflection, I didn’t need to keep my “secret” all in the family. Had I told my friends, some of whom I now know were dealing with the same things, I would have felt more supported and less alone.
I hope that others who have to go through something similar can have the courage to distinguish the private from the secret, and while maintaining our Jewish sense of modesty, can openly share their struggles and come to realize they truly are not alone.
Sarah Potash lives in Teaneck, with aliyah plans for the near future. Sarah is blessed with a wonderful husband and son, both of whom inspire her writing. She enjoys musical theater, reading, and traveling with her family.
