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Couple turns heartbreaking pregnancy loss into funny TikTok video that's surprisingly healing

The video is captioned, “When your resignation from being DINKS is denied.”

Photo credit: Canva

Humor can help us talk about the stuff too painful to open up about.

When we are grieving, there are moments of tears, and moments of laughter. Each is healing in their own special way, and are all part of the process.

This might not at first seem to apply to something as devastating as pregnancy loss, but one couple’s comedy video, and the overwhelming positive response that followed, suggest otherwise.

Husband and wife and content creator duo Alexandra Madison and Jon Bouffard are no strangers to creating funny skits about the regular goings on of their lives—one of their most popular being inspired by becoming pregnant.

In the clip, the couple arrives at “DINKS” (“Dual Income No Kids”) Headquarters, where they proudly hand off their resignation letter to a curmudgeonly office worker.

Cut to a few months later, and Madison and Bouffard lost the baby.

Madison told Today that while she and Jon had certainly experienced something “traumatic, heavy and sad,” there was a point in their healing journey where moments of joy were beginning to return, and they wanted to honor that without feeling guilty. They decided that making a lighthearted follow-up video showing them both might do the trick.

In the video, titled “When your resignation from being DINKS is denied,” Madison and Bouffard once again barge into the DINKS office and snatch up the application handed over in the previous video, since clearly that application was rejected. And as MAdison put it, “we don’t handle rejection very well.”

“We never thought we would be here making this follow-up to our first video resigning as DINKS, but here we are, “ Madison wrote in the video’s caption.


@alexandramadison_ We don’t handle rejection very well here 🙃 Jon and I have always posted skits inspired by what's going on in our lives, and that includes this one. We never thought we would be here making this 'follow-up' to our first video resigning as DINKs (Dual Income No Kids), but here we are. And that's life. Real life. There are ups and downs, and along the way, I've discovered that a little (sometimes dark) humor brings moments of relief. This post is a small part of that journey, a reminder that it's okay to give ourselves and each other permission to laugh again. We can’t thank you all enough for your continued outpouring of support. And to all the couples who had their DINK memberships renewed, did you turn your nursery into a wine cellar? We haven’t…just asking.
♬ original sound - Alex and Jon


“And that’s life. Real life. There are ups and downs, and along the way, I’ve discovered that a little (Sometimes dark) humor brings moments of relief. This post is a small part of that journey, a reminder that it’s okay to give ourselves and each other permission to laugh again.”

The video picked up speed very quickly, racking up nearly 8 million views. But more importantly, it seemed to be extremely cathartic for other partners who found themselves in similar situations.

“We were denied twice before our application finally went through,” one peronse wrote.

Another added, “We were denied three times (3rd application denied late stage) before our application was accepted/ The granted application is currently sleeping in his bassinet.”

Still another commented, “dark humor is the only thing getting us by these days.”

Others were moved by Madison and Bouffard’s willingness to be so open about their experience.

“I laughed…and then I cried. Thank you for sharing your journey…all of it. This is a vulnerable place to be and you guys always show up amazingly.”

Another echoed, “God bless you both for not being silent about this matter but sharing these hard times with us. We love you very much.”

Madison and Bouffard might have been concerned that they were being “insensitive” by making their video, but the support they’ve received has subsided that fear. After all, many therapists consider humor as a perfectly viable coping mechanism for trauma. It helps make tough things easier to digest and discuss, and it can help painful experiences feel a little less lonely. Which is what this couple accomplished. Hopefully it continues to help them heal a little more each day.

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What it's like to have a miscarriage in the social media age.

I waited until I was 12 weeks along to announce my pregnancy to my "web of people" on social media.

"HEY, YOU GUYS. WE'RE HAVIN' A BAYBAY!" was plastered all over my wall, along with some super adorable pregnancy announcement photos my friend snapped a few weeks before. The support and love flew in. The predictions of the sex and the hunt to find the perfect name started. We had just announced our pregnancy to thousands of our friends and family.

Photo by Amy Lynn, used with permission from Rebecca Swift.

We were over the moon excited. And then, two days later, I started bleeding.

I called for my partner, Patrick, from the bathroom with a shaky voice. It wasn't just a dot of blood. It wasn't brown. It was bright red and there was a lot of it. I remember how huge his eyes were.

We both immediately knew this couldn't be right. After friends assured us that a little bleeding is fine and that everything was most likely OK, we called the clinic and set up an appointment for the next morning.

There wasn't any cramping (yet), and we spent the evening scouring Google and WebMD for any answers we could find. The most information we could dig up was from equally worried women begging for answers themselves on random forums. The conversations always started with blood. "What color was it? How much was there? Was there cramping? How far along are you?" But still, this was all speculation and every case seemed to vary, so we looked forward to seeing our doctor as soon as possible.

As we arrived for our appointment the next day, we walked hand-in-hand and attempted to ease the tension with jokes and banter. We opened up the famed Pokemon app our kids had been playing while we waited, and we giggled about finding a Pokemon sitting on the exam table between the stirrups and my legs. We were nervous, but at least we would have answers in the near future.

The doctor came in and we got right down to business. He poured the goop below my stomach, lifted the heart monitor, and placed it down against my skin. Pat and I took a deep breath and waited.

Image via iStock.

I heard a slow heartbeat and almost knocked the doctor over with excitement, and he said "No ... that's your heartbeat." And then, nothing. We couldn't find a beat. The tears immediately started streaming.

We moved into the ultrasound room, and once again, it was confirmed that there was no heartbeat. We cried.

We were shown that the embryo had actually stopped growing at seven weeks. They asked if I wanted the ultrasound picture. I whispered "no."

I learned there are two separate functions in the growth process, and while the fetus growth had halted, the amniotic sac had not, which is why my body continued to think and operate like I was pregnant several weeks after.

Then, I learned there are two options to remove what they now referred to as the "contents of the uterus." I could get a D&C (dilation and curettage), where they surgically open the cervix and remove or "vacuum" out the contents, or let nature run its course. I didn't know much about either, so I didn't decide right away. If I wanted to, I could have the procedure the next morning. I told them I would be in touch.

As we walked out, none of the nurses made eye contact. I have never felt so cold or alone while surrounded by a group of women. I sniffled hard one last time and tried to keep it together.

The rest of the night was a blur. We held each other, told family members and close friends. Then I thought of the thousands of people we told on Facebook. I quickly felt embarrassed. How would I dodge a million questions in parking lots and at parties and over social media over the next few months?  We would think about that later, we decided.

I was told having the D&C procedure was a "pleasant" way to speed up the process and obtain some closure, so we chose to have the procedure and scheduled an appointment for the next day. Then, the cramps started.

It was around 8:30 p.m. when I started feeling the discomfort. These "cramps" were more painful than any period cramping I had experienced. And over the next hour, as they kept coming back, the time in between was shortening from 15 minutes, to 10 minutes, to five minutes...

I decided to sleep it off and mentally prepare myself for the next day. But I couldn't sleep. I was tossing and turning.

The cramps were more painful than ever, and I raised and contorted my pelvis and scrunched into the fetal position to try to suppress it. It was excruciating.

This was more painful than giving birth to either of my two daughters (and, yes, I had pain meds back then). I realized as the cramping grew more frequent and painful, they weren't cramps at all — they were contractions. I was going into labor.

Patrick carried me to the bathtub and we ran a warm bath with Epsom salt. The words of my doctor flashed through my mind: "You may feel pain. You might not. It can happen naturally. You might not even notice."

I winced through the pain, and every time I had a contraction, a wave of blood filled the tub. Patrick held my hand (in between dry heaving into the bathroom sink), and after a half hour of the most pain I've ever experienced in my life, I said "it's coming." And I pushed out a small fluid-filled amniotic sac with a tiny embryo inside. The pain stopped all at once. We could breathe.

Image via iStock.

We didn't know it could happen this way. I didn't know you could go through the pain of childbirth with a miscarriage.

I didn't know how I felt about being 31 and not knowing that this completely natural thing thousands of women go through every single day was physically possible.

How is my body's natural way of flushing out a baby that wasn't going to thrive, and the pain involved, something I had never heard of before?

Even as we had researched our options online, nothing had led us to believe that not immediately having a D&C could leave us in this position. I feel my doctor could have better served me by preparing me for the worse-case scenario, not the best case.

I dried off, tossed on a robe, and scooped up the amniotic sac in my hands. I placed it in a tiny gold jewelry box of my daughter's. It was the best thing I could find at 1 a.m. Somehow it felt to me like a gold encrusted shrine wouldn't have sufficed for this poor little baby. Biased mother, you know.

It rained that night. Patrick and I found an area in our garden in the backyard. He grabbed a shovel and started digging as the rain fell on us. It was serene and quiet out, and I was thankful to have his support and kindness there by my side.

Watching a father-to-be dig a hole and then place a golden box into the dirt — something I thought was going to be our child we would raise for the rest of our lives — was one of the hardest things I have experienced in this lifetime. I was glad it was over.

The next day, I woke up tired, defeated, and sick to my stomach because, although the hard part was over, I still had to admit to the world what had happened.

I like to keep a positive attitude on social media, but I couldn't ignore this. So I trudged over to the computer and laid it all out:

Image via Rebecca Swift.

"It's with a heavy, heavy heart that I share this. Although it's not the preferred platform, you have all been so wonderfully supportive in sharing our happiness. I thought we were in the clear at 12 weeks, but unfortunately our little one didn't make it past that. Thank you so much for the kindness, the love and support, and the thoughts and prayers. It means the world to us."

The thing I was mortifyingly embarrassed to admit and dreaded putting out there quickly became my saving grace. Love surrounded us. The support and the uplifting messages poured in. We didn't feel alone.

Friends and acquaintances from high school and college and all walks of life, husbands of wives who had gone through it themselves, women who had braved the dreaded bathtub scene all reached out to send their love. It felt so good to talk about it. I know a lot of people suffer in silence.

An estimated 1 in 6 pregnancies end in miscarriage. There are up to a million cases in the United States alone per year.

For me, learning these statistics and knowing how common miscarriage is hugely helped me with the grieving process. I know we all grieve differently, some publicly and some privately, but the support and stories that have been shared with me since publicly announcing my miscarriage have made me feel less alone.

I wonder how more prepared I would have been in making a decision about my D&C had I been able to find more detailed information from women who had been through this.

That's why it's been heavy on my heart to share my personal experience. As real and painful and horrifying as it was, I've decided not to sugarcoat it for a second. Because if I'd known what a miscarriage could really be like, I would have been more prepared for what happened to me that night.

For those of you who have gone through or are going through a miscarriage, know that I'm grieving with you and surrounding you with my love. Know that it's more than OK to talk about, and there are millions of women just like you. You are not alone.

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On April Fool's Day, think before you joke about pregnancy.

Gwen Stefani announced on her Instagram this morning that she is expecting a baby.

It's a girl ❤️💕❤️gx

A photo posted by Gwen Stefani (@gwenstefani) on

“It’s a girl” the pop star said, including a few heart emojis for good measure.

But as you probably already guessed, Stefani is not pregnant and this is an April Fools' joke.

On April Fools' Day, Stefani — and countless others — sometimes take to the social media account of their choice and attempt to convince their unsuspecting friends and relatives that they're pregnant. 

"It's all in good fun," they quip. "It's no big deal."

But they're wrong. 

Stefani with boyfriend Blake Shelton. Photo by Larry Busacca/Getty Images for NARAS.

It might seem like harmless fun, but these kinds of jokes can really sting for more people than you'd think.

Photo by iStock.

According to the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecologists, an estimated 10% to 25% of of pregnancies end in miscarriage. And women who've had a previous miscarriage have a slightly elevated risk of having another. 

So whether you're aware or not, there is a strong likelihood that someone you know has or will suffer from pregnancy loss. 

And that's not even accounting for the 10% of women (that's more than 6 million) between the ages of 15 and 44 who have had difficulty getting pregnant or carrying their baby to term. Or the men, whose own health issues make up about 33% of infertility struggles.

For couples with fertility issues, trying to conceive can be expensive, painful, and physically and emotionally exhausting.  

Still laughing? 

And all of this is compounded by the fact that we don't often talk about infertility or pregnancy loss.

Photo by iStock.

Despite the fact that so many pregnancies end in miscarriage, the topic is still taboo, often discussed in hushed tones. 

When writing about her own experience, actress Laura Benanti wrote in The Huffington Post: 

"Well, if this is so common, then why do we only speak about it in whispers, if we speak about it at all?

If this is so common, why does it feel like the Voldemort of women’s issues?

The 'M' that must not be named."

Photo by Frazer Harrison/Getty Images for Trevor Project.

Many families never discuss their loss or struggles with friends or families; instead they press on in private. Some individuals develop depression, anxiety, or even post-traumatic stress disorder from the experience. 

April Fools' Day is a fun day for silly pranks and goofy jokes, but think twice about who or what you're making light of.

People who take offense to these "jokes" aren't trying to be killjoys or wet blankets. They're handling a complicated, painful experience that's still cloaked in shame and silence for far too many families. 

Celebrate. Have fun and enjoy yourself. But if you're thinking about making a fake pregnancy post, think again. 

It's just not funny. 

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It's rare for dads to share their thoughts about miscarriages. This man did.

I remember the rainy winter night vividly. Our unborn baby was dead.

Three days prior to Christmas 2009, my wife and I lost our baby. I put on a brave face for my wife by saying everything will be OK, and I told my inner circle that we'll dust ourselves off and try again — but privately I was a mess.

I know that about 15-20% of confirmed pregnancies end in miscarriage, but that didn't ease our immense pain.

Oftentimes the stories of miscarriages are shared through the perspectives of the women who experience them, and rightfully so. I didn't have to endure the physical pain and emotional pain that my wife and countless other women deal with.

But as a man, I want to share my version of the events to help others who are going through the same thing. The emotional pain and feelings of loss and helplessness following a miscarriage aren't something men talk about that often, but it was incredibly difficult for me. Simply put, I experienced a roller coaster of emotions during that time.

1. Sadness.

I didn't eat, I lost a lot of weight, and I spent a lot of my private moments in tears. I knew I had to move forward, but I didn't know how. Looking back on it, I know the main reason I was so sad for such a long period of time was due to not knowing if I should grieve — at least publicly.

I felt as if my role was to be the strong one. "This happened to my wife's body, not mine," I thought. "This can't be about me and my feelings." Society seemed to agree. Nobody asked how I was feeling. It was as if I was a bystander instead of an active participant in creating the child we lost. As the weeks passed, I fell deeper into despair.

If a loved one outside the womb died, I'd be given the green light to grieve. So why is it so strange for a man to grieve for a loved one who died inside the womb?

I couldn't keep up the charade for very long, and eventually the floodgates opened (which made me feel a lot better).

Embracing my sadness was hard for me to do, but things improved once I did. GIF from "Inside Out."

2. Anger and disgust.

I would hear stories of dads who have little to no interest in raising their children — and I would become enraged. How could someone father a child and not want to be involved in their life? Sure, many dads today are great — but I couldn't get the bad ones out of my mind.

It was almost as if the only way to rid myself of the rage would be to create a reality show called "Deadbeat Island." All the crappy dads of the world would be banished there to complete tasks like remembering their kids' birthdays or changing blowout diapers until they committed to being active fathers. But alas, that type of programming would never see the light of day.

Enjoy your stay on Deadbeat Island, buddy.

Some days were worse than others, but my main coping mechanism was to remember that it wasn't about the other guys. I would be the best dad I could be if I had the chance. That's what kept me going.

3. Fear.

When we became pregnant again, I experienced a level of fear that I haven't experienced in my lifetime. Every milestone was met with a brief sigh of relief followed by more intense panic.

"Whew! We passed the six-week mark ... but we still have to make it through the first trimester."

Every day there was something new to be afraid of — but mostly it stemmed from my fear of experiencing that devastation once again. It was like walking on an emotional tightrope for 40 straight weeks. My wife felt the same way.

From an emotional standpoint, this is what every day seemed like for my wife and me.

4. Joy.

After what seemed like the longest wait ever, I finally became a dad in January 2011.

You're looking at the happiest moment of my life.

I cried joyful tears, I laughed, I sang, I danced, and I completely lost my mind in excitement during that first day. The love affair only grew from there.

Sure, it's never easy waking up in the middle of the night to change diapers or soothe a fussy baby, but that's what I signed up for. I wanted the chance and I received it, and that made me very happy.

Being the best dad I can be for my daughter and her baby sister inspires me to be a better man.

My daughters are now 5 and 2.5 years old.

I wasn't the greatest guy before a became a dad, and that miscarriage was the wake-up call I sorely needed to improve.

Today I talk less and listen more. I give more hugs than handshakes. I'm less, "I've got it all together," and more, "We're all in this together."

Sure, I'm still a work in progress (aren't we all?), but I figure if I'm aspiring to be the best dad I can be for my daughters, why can't I aspire to be the best human being I can be for everyone who cares about me?

I don't have all of the answers, but I can state that my overwhelming passion to be a good dad stems from the fear that I'd never have the chance to become one.

I'm not naive. I know there are thousands of people all over the world who cannot have children. But once the chance to be a father was taken away during that December night, I didn't think about that. I think about it now, and my heart goes out to the families who encounter those challenges.

No matter your gender, please know that you're not alone. Riding the emotional rollercoaster of miscarriages can be easier if you know that others are going along for the ride with you.

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