I need to say this. But I don't know if it helps.

(Note: if you want to read this, but are confused, follow the link in the first sentence before reading further)

I went to the office the morning after it became apparent we were losing our potential baby. I didn’t know what else to do. I told my boss what had had happened, and she sent me home. She told me that it was necessary for me to be at home for my wife.

But when I got home my wife told me there was nothing I could do and that I might as well go back to work.

She was right.

I was not the one who was undergoing a miscarriage. I was not physically losing a part of my body down the toilet. What in the glorious fuck was I going to say or do to make her feel better?

So I did what any decent husband would do. I hung around the house, waiting to be needed, for anything – to be cried upon; to take her to the hospital; or run errands for her. I was utterly heartbroken for many reasons but mostly because I had to watch the woman I love suffer physically and emotionally, and be helpless to do a goddamned thing to help.

It turns out she did need me to run to the store for her. And I was happy to do so. I also installed a temporary screen in the front window and shoveled a bunch of wood chips onto a path next to the garage. I was trying to do anything to be useful. I needed to feel like I was good for something.

But I felt like that was not the time to share that particular sentiment with her. She didn’t need to hear about my biological/sociological male needs to feel useful. That was not going to take away her pain, her cramps, her blood and tears. Times like these make me think that a man can never really get any sympathy from a woman. And we don't deserve it.

That’s certainly the protocol for expectant fathers. I was preparing myself to undergo the ups and downs of pregnancy; to be the understanding partner who might feel the occasional verbal swipe from a hormonal wife. I was preparing myself for late night runs to the store for the foods she would crave. I was prepared to go perhaps months without sex or intimacy of any kind. And I was preparing not to complain about it – after all my inconveniences would be nothing compared to carrying and giving birth to a baby.

And I was more than willing to endure it. For one magical week, I was an expectant father. I felt like a king-stud and I walked with an extra swagger. Like my wife, I felt like we were going to have a boy. And that made me glow. I looked at my friends’ Facebook pics and videos of their sons with an entirely new outlook. I was going to be a fuckin’ daddy. I was going to have the opportunity to raise a boy and teach him stuff I knew about like girls, guitars, grilling steaks and a whole lot more.

We are experiencing a tragedy together, but honestly I don’t know if telling my wife about my disappointment and heartbreak right now will help her work it out. That’s why I decided to write this down. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m just trying to figure out what’s best for her, but I’m in unchartered waters. I don’t know any other men who’ve been where I am. Someone close to me and his wife had a miscarriage some years back, but they already had two kids at the time. And frankly I don’t know how much good it would do if I did know someone in a similar situation.