Dear Doctor Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Have a Child,
I will always remember you—not just for your introduction, but for the way you delivered your message before I had a chance to compose myself. There I was, sitting naked on an examination table, a flimsy paper gown my only barrier, with a makeshift layer of paper towels beneath me to absorb the remnants of my miscarriage. I held that gown tightly, as if it could preserve my dignity, though we both knew that feeling was bleeding away faster than the blood itself.
“Three to five percent,” you stated bluntly. Those were the odds you assigned to my chances of carrying a pregnancy to term, based solely on the facts in my medical file: I was 41 years old, enduring my third miscarriage in 18 years, had never experienced a full-term pregnancy, and had uterine fibroids.
You didn’t know me. That was our first meeting. I had just returned from two emergency room visits; on the first, an ultrasound revealed a heartbeat, and the doctors assured me there was a “90 percent” chance everything would be fine. Just two days later, I learned there was no heartbeat. Ironically, my appointment with you had been scheduled prior to either ER visit—a struggle to secure a slot because your front desk told me you wouldn’t see patients until after 10 weeks.
“But I’m 41,” I pleaded. “And I’ve had miscarriages.” Those words won me a slot to see you at just over eight weeks pregnant. Yet, it felt too late. As I sat on your exam table, blood soaking through the paper towels, you wielded my medical history like a weapon against me. Not out of malice, of course, but with a professional detachment that felt cold and clinical. I didn’t see compassion in your demeanor; it was as if I was just another statistic.
I can’t recall every detail of our conversation. You spoke about the possibility of surgery to remove the fibroids, and I inquired if that would enhance my chances of carrying a baby to term. You shrugged, stating, “At your age, who knows? Maybe a little.” You mentioned checking my egg reserve, but I didn’t process that information; I had already tuned out. I just wanted you to leave so I could get dressed and escape.
I scheduled a follow-up appointment with you as you requested, but I never kept it. I got dressed, exited the office, and broke down only when I reached my car. Three to five percent. I had seen those numbers in countless articles, and you reduced me to a mere statistic—an advanced maternal age patient, struggling to face reality. In my rearview mirror, I saw swollen eyes and flushed cheeks, but I also saw someone determined not to give up just yet.
I sought out another doctor whose name didn’t carry the weight of statistics. When I visited him at six weeks pregnant, I asked about a progesterone supplement, something I had read could be beneficial for older mothers. He supported the idea without dismissing my hopes. I don’t know if the progesterone made a difference or if it was simply my time, but against the odds, I succeeded—twice. My “three-to-five percent” babies are now thriving 3- and 5-year-olds.
I don’t hold resentment towards you, Dr. Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Have a Child. You met me at a moment when there was little you could do but recite my losses. You likely thought you were helping by offering me facts I was already aware of, by not leading me to false hope. I realize my words were jumbled that day in your office, but yours were painfully clear.
Another woman might have lost faith and walked away. She might have thanked you and moved on with her life. Your statistics hold true for many, but they didn’t apply to me. I want you to remember that, Dr. Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Have a Child. The next time a distraught woman, bleeding and broken, sits before you in need of a glimmer of hope, let her get dressed first before sharing the grim realities of statistics. And afterward, please tell her about me.
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In summary, while statistics can be daunting, they don’t define individual outcomes. Hope is a powerful force, and every journey is different.
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