Dear Doctor Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Have a Child,
I’ll always remember you—not just for how you introduced yourself but also for the way you delivered the news while I sat bare on the exam table, draped in a flimsy paper gown, with a thick stack of towels beneath me to soak up the remnants of my miscarriage. I clutched that gown as if it were my last shred of dignity, but we both knew that dignity was slipping away faster than the blood.
“Three to five percent,” you said, tossing out the odds of my carrying a pregnancy to term. Those figures were based on my medical history: a 41-year-old woman on her third miscarriage in 18 years, with no full-term pregnancy to my name and uterine fibroids to boot.
You didn’t know me. We were strangers, and this was our first meeting. I had just come from two trips to the ER. The first visit revealed a heartbeat on the ultrasound and assured me that I had a “90 percent” chance everything would be fine. But two days later, that heartbeat vanished. Ironically, my appointment with you had been scheduled before either ER visit, a date I had to advocate for because your receptionist insisted you only saw patients past the 10-week mark.
“But I’m 41 and have a history of miscarriages,” I insisted. Those words earned me a spot on your calendar at just over eight weeks pregnant. But by then, it was too late. Sitting there, bleeding profusely, you used my facts against me. Not in a cruel way—oh no. You were all business, cold and detached. I didn’t see empathy in your eyes, just a clinical gaze.
I can’t recall everything you said. You mentioned surgery to remove the fibroids, and I asked if it would help my chances of carrying a pregnancy to term. You shrugged, your nonchalant response “At your age, who knows? Maybe a little.” You talked about checking my egg reserve, but I tuned out—I didn’t want to hear anymore. I just wanted you to leave so I could get dressed and escape.
You requested a follow-up appointment, which I scheduled but never attended. Once dressed, I walked to my car, tears streaming down my face. Three to five percent. I was all too familiar with those statistics, having read countless articles about women in situations like mine. You saw me as a statistic, a number, a woman of advanced maternal age who needed to face reality. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw puffy eyes and flushed cheeks staring back at me. But I also saw a fighter. Not ready to give up.
I found another doctor. This one, Dr. Smith, had no association with numbers or grim statistics. When I visited him at six weeks pregnant, I inquired about progesterone supplements—something I had read could help women my age. He said it couldn’t hurt and wrote me a prescription. He didn’t prepare me for another miscarriage; he didn’t treat me like I was living in a fantasy. I’m not sure if the progesterone made a difference or if it was just my time, but I beat the odds. Twice. My “three-to-five percent” babies are now 3 and 5 years old.
I don’t hold any bitterness toward you, Dr. Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Have a Child. I arrived at your office too late for you to provide anything but a summary of my loss. You likely thought you were doing me a favor by serving up cold, hard facts, hoping to spare me false hope. I know I didn’t articulate my feelings well that day, but you sure did. You were painfully clear.
Another woman might have lost hope altogether after hearing your statistics. Some might have thanked you and turned the page on that chapter of their lives. But your figures, while true for many, didn’t apply to me. So I urge you, the next time a distraught, bleeding woman sits on your exam table, let her dress first before delivering your statistical lecture. And when you’re done, please tell her about me and my journey.
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In summary, I hope my story serves as a reminder that the numbers don’t define everyone. Every journey is unique, and sometimes the odds can be defied.