Language matters. When it comes to pregnancy loss, the euphemisms, metaphors, medical jargon, politically loaded terms, and taboos blend into a confusing, emotional knot. What we do in these pages is attempt to untangle that knot, but first we want to explain our word choices.
We lay out the medical definitions of pregnancy loss in language as plain as possible, but we also reflect the words each person uses for their own loss.
We are not making political assertions when we use baby, fetus, or embryo. We used the terms that line up with the definitions outlined by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists when discussing medicine, but those we interviewed use a variety of language to describe themselves and their pregnancies, and we have not altered their quotes. If they said “woman,” we left it as woman. If they said “baby,” we followed their lead. Part of our discovery through our research is that pregnancy—and pregnancy loss is circumstantial and hits every person differently. Reflecting language is not only a therapy tool but relevant to the mission of our book.
We use women, birthing parent, and pregnant people throughout, and all are necessary. Women excludes the experiences of girls, trans men, or gender nonbinary people who can become pregnant, lose pregnancies, and be affected by stigma, inequities, and barriers to care. (It is also in some ways too broad, because not every woman becomes pregnant.) Trans and nonbinary people are fighting for more just access to healthcare and equal rights, especially as a spate of laws winnow away protections. Still, abortion, miscarriage, and pregnancy loss have all been marked by gendered policy decisions. We use women when we are talking about historical contexts and inequities relating to gender in healthcare and as it pertains to female emotions being discounted. We use pregnant people or birthing parent when we’re discussing pregnancy and loss more generally over the last twenty years. Sometimes we use mother and sometimes parent. We respect the fluidity of gender and identity, and we try to allow for fluidity in our language as well. While a lot of these problems are as old as time, the language around gender and binaries is changing quickly. We want to draw attention to the inadequacies of the language while also doing our best to use what is most appropriate in each context. Our intentions are journalistic accuracy, and respect for bodily autonomy for everyone who can become pregnant.
We interviewed dozens of people who have experienced some kind of pregnancy loss. In some cases, we use their full names. In other instances, we refer to them by a first name and last initial to protect their privacy. A handful chose to use a pseudonym. We let our sources decide how they would like to be identified so they could consider their personal and professional circumstances while still frankly sharing their stories.
We also use irreverent humor, which we realize may seem unexpected in a book about pregnancy loss. That’s how we’ve always talked to each other, and we both grew up steeped in the Irish American tradition, where laughter and tears are separated by a hair’s breadth. We take shots at systemic failures, historical absurdities, and sometimes ourselves but never those who opened their hearts to talk to us, nor the devastation our current political climate has unleashed on people experiencing pregnancy loss. The Venn diagram of laughter, rage, and sorrow is our wheelhouse. We hope to meet you there.