Miscarriage

It wasn’t planned. My first born son was just a toddler, not even two yet. I was pregnant again. I remember this overwhelming feeling of fear when I first found out. I was not prepared for another baby so soon and wasn’t even sure at that point in my life if I wanted to have more than one child.

At the first gynecologist appointment, everything appeared fine. A healthy heartbeat was detected. I was given pictures of the ultrasound. A due date was set. I was trying to come to terms with having another child so soon after the first.

A couple of weeks later, when I was approximately eight or nine weeks along, I became sick. I’m not sure if it was a virus or food poisoning, but it caused me to vomit so violently that I started to bleed. I knew something was wrong.

I scheduled a follow up gynecological appointment. The ultrasound technician had to call the doctor into the room. They could no longer detect a fetal heartbeat. My doctor looked at the ultrasound screen and said, “The brain did not form correctly.” I had a dead fetus inside my womb.

After the exam, I went into my doctor's office and discussed my options. I could either wait for my body to naturally expel it on my own, a spontaneous abortion, or I could use the help of the so-called abortion pill to help the process along. The idea of having this dead life inside of me for who knows how long did not sit well with me. I wanted it out of me as soon as possible and on my own terms.

As the doctor wrote me the prescription for the abortion medication, he told me that I might have trouble at the pharmacy if it was against the pharmacist's religion to dispense that medication. He told me to come back to his office if that was the case.

I sat at that CVS staring a hole through the pharmacist. I was prepared to cause commotion if anyone gave me any trouble, but thankfully, they did not. The idea that some strangers' religion might supersede my medical needs was absolutely appalling to me. It was adding insult to injury.

I took the medication as prescribed and it began to do its job. I experienced severe cramping and heavy bleeding. It appeared to me that the medication was doing what it was intended to do. I was wrong.

A couple days go by and I wake up one morning with horrible cramps. I sat on the toilet where I was bleeding profusely. I knew it was too much, so I called my mom to come get my son, then I called an ambulance. My husband at the time was supposedly at work, but most likely he was out somewhere getting high on cocaine. I couldn’t get in touch with him and he showed up long after I arrived at the hospital.

I was able to walk out to the ambulance on my own. I remember a male paramedic asked me if I had a pad on. As if a pad would contain all the blood I was losing. As if he was worried about me messing up his stretcher. If I had it to do over again, I would have told that man to eat a pad. There was no compassion at all.

I was met with the same cold treatment when I arrived at the hospital. It didn't seem like there was any kind of urgency related to the fact that I was steadily bleeding. I remember at one point a nurse walked me across the hall so that I could use the bathroom and I was pouring blood all over the floor. I remember seeing the look of shock on the nurse's face, like it was a surprise to her that I was losing that much blood.

After what seemed like forever, the doctor finally entered the room. He had me in the stirrups checking me and he said, “Oh, there it is, pass me the forceps.” The doctor removed what remained of the fetus and placed it in one of those kidney shaped steel pans. He covered it with a white washcloth. I never looked inside that bowl.

The next thing I knew, they were wheeling me back to the operating room. The nurse said, “Here is your morphine.” as she pushed the medicine through my IV and I passed out.

When I woke up in recovery after the D&C, a procedure to remove the miscarriage remains from my uterus, I remember the doctor coming in and saying, “We almost lost you there!” More like they almost let me bleed out on the table before giving me the care that I needed. 

This was over 16 years ago, before the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the landmark Supreme Court decision that protected a woman’s right to an abortion. I shudder to think of what the outcome might have been had this happened in present day America, where they are letting women die and even trying to criminalize them for having a miscarriage. 

I guess I decided to tell this story now after so long because I fear my daughter may not have the same outcome as I did if put into a similar situation. There are so many nuances, so many subtle variations of a woman’s pregnancy. The only people that should be making decisions for a pregnant woman are herself and her doctor. Period. Not the insurance companies, not the Catholic church, not some misogynistic  men, and not some geriatric white senators from one of the southern states.

Please vote with your daughters and granddaughters' healthcare in the forefront of your mind. Going backwards is not progress.