Hard to Bear: Investigating the science and silence of miscarriage

Product Information

Therefore, too much to bare has an entirely different literal meaning than too much to bear. It would refer to excessive exposure rather than excessive burdens. Bear and bare are homophones: words that sound the same but mean different things and are spelled differently. Most people don’t have a problem using these words when speaking, but writing them down creates a new set of problems. An inch is too much to bare when stripping the insulation from copper wiring; a strong connection usually only requires ¼ inch of exposed wire or less. What Oderberg “aims to deliver”, she does. It can’t have been easy to write. This carefully researched, rich resource has the capacity to bring change. For those who have experienced miscarriage, it is consolatory and attentive. For those who love and care for them, it is practical and supportive. Hard to Bear is a furious, insistent and tender work.

If you are using the fixed phrase to refer to an excessive burden, always use too much to bear. Too much to bare is usually a mistake based on the homophones bare and bear. The correct word in this instance is bear: I can’t bear it, or bear with me. But how can you remember that? From the many physical causes of miscarriage, to the socioeconomic, environmental and behavioural factors impacting women’s experiences of pregnancy loss, Oderberg focuses on an Australian context without neglecting alternative statistics and perspectives.

More results

Oderberg begins with her own history, because she can write about her own experience directly and ethically. Her reproductive history creates a narrative line through Hard to Bear, extending outwards like a cantilever to provide space for the vast chorus of other voices she assembles. Her frank account continually expands to include other observations, many of them counterpointing or offering a different angle from her own. If you can never remember whether to write bear with me or bare with me; if you can’t tell the difference between I can’t bear it or I can’t bare it, then you’re not alone.

The chapter “More Than Words” responds to the many messages Oderberg has received from people asking what to say or do when someone they know has a miscarriage. On its own this chapter could limit suffering. The suggestions of what not to say are particularly useful – “oh well, at least you can drink now”, not to mention “try again”. Hard to Bear is a work of witness, advocacy and hope. It originates from Isabelle Oderberg’s experience of being told by an obstetrician, during her sixth miscarriage, that if women were better educated about pregnancy loss, she “wouldn’t be crying about it”. Bleeding and cramping as the doctor waves aside her grief, Oderberg still finds a gift in his dismissal – a fervent and furious flame: “the desire to write this book”. Choice is great in theory, but just because services exist doesn’t mean access is equal. And if access isn’t equal, the idea of choice is a fallacy.’ The actress looked at her new evening gown in the mirror and thought, “that is too much to bare at the Oscars.” There are many burning questions and few satisfactory answers surrounding the search for adequate pregnancy-loss support – a gap this book aims to bridge with scientific fact and empathic compassion. Readers who have experienced poor healthcare in the context of pregnancy loss will be infuriated – but not surprised – by the systemic issues uncovered by the author’s research. Aptly titled, Hard to Bear may be emotionally triggering to the same demographic it is most likely to benefit. However, as evidenced by the author’s dedication to the cause, perseverance can lead to positive outcomes, and this book does end on an optimistic note.

Bear or Bare

Hard to Bear reveals how inadequate education perpetuates detrimental outcomes on both individual and systemic levels, placing accountability in the hands of a patriarchal medical system, which is overtly guilty of the persistent dehumanisation of women. She describes how racialised health inequality contributes to these issues, particularly in Australia with its paternalistic colonial history of systemic violence, trauma and medical coercion committed against First Nations women. I can speak with authority on the subject of being hard up. I have been a provincial actor. If further evidence be required, which I do not think likely, I can add that I have been a “gentleman connected with the press.” I have lived on 15 shilling a week. I have lived a week on 10, owing the other 5; and I have lived for a fortnight on a great-coat. It is wonderful what an insight into domestic economy being really hard up gives one. If you want to find out the value of money, live on 15 shillings a week and see how much you can put by for clothes and recreation. You will find out that it is worth while to wait for the farthing change, that it is worth while to walk a mile to save a penny, that a glass of beer is a luxury to be indulged in only at rare intervals, and that a collar can be worn for four days.

Hard to Bear is essential reading for anyone interested in the intersection of systemic inequality, empirical evidence and lived experience. The wisdom and warnings contained within will echo loudly in the hearts and minds of compassionate carers, victims of loss and – hopefully – future generations of ethical medical professionals. To bear means to support or carry or endure (physically and figuratively). Who can carry heavy things and endure long stretches of extreme weather without food? Bears. I should like to know, too, by what mysterious law of nature it is that before you have left your watch “to be repaired” half an hour, some one is sure to stop you in the street and conspicuously ask you the time. Nobody even feels the slightest curiosity on the subject when you’ve got it on. Hard to Bear illuminates the science and numbers, collects a wide range of experiences and suggests how the experience of pregnancy loss might be made less painful. It is a work for and about the 150,000 Australian families affected each year by miscarriage. Powered by anger against injustice and cruelty and the hope of limiting suffering, its method is inclusive. Oderberg believes “we can fix this” and she aims to “forge a pathway for better care in early pregnancy loss”. Dear old ladies and gentlemen who know nothing about being hard up–and may they never, bless their gray old heads–look upon the pawn-shop as the last stage of degradation; but those who know it better (and my readers have no doubt, noticed this themselves) are often surprised, like the little boy who dreamed he went to heaven, at meeting so many people there that they never expected to see. For my part, I think it a much more independent course than borrowing from friends, and I always try to impress this upon those of my acquaintance who incline toward “wanting a couple of pounds till the day after to-morrow.” But they won’t all see it. One of them once remarked that he objected to the principle of the thing. I fancy if he had said it was the interest that he objected to he would have been nearer the truth: twenty-five per cent. certainly does come heavy.Some medical language could use an upgrade. Wearing the label “elderly primigravida” doesn’t make anyone envisage a thriving prospect, and I wonder whether a cervix – however wonderful – has sufficient intention to be deemed incompetent. On the other hand, when Oderberg wrote an article titled “The ‘ugly’ side of pregnancy loss is the part we most need to see”, the word “clot” was edited out. Latinate and figurative language obfuscates and tidies up experience, while a blunt noun can reveal it.