Miscarriage is Not the End of the World

It was November of 1982 and I was almost three months pregnant. My husband was a truck driver with a route that ran between Baltimore and Chicago, so he was out of town for a couple of days each week.

I had been having some bleeding, which can be normal, but after a visit with my Obstetrician, I knew this was not the case for me.  I can very clearly remember her words and the coldness with which she said them. "You are probably going to lose this baby." There was no sympathy, no kindness, and even as the tears began to form in my eyes, she showed me no real compassion. It was nothing to her; it happens all the time. She proceeded to tell me under which circumstances I should call her during office hours, and when I could call her at any hour of the day or night.

So I went home and waited. It was like a huge, heavy cloud hanging over me because I knew what was most likely going to happen, but I didn't know when. It was a Saturday afternoon that my husband happened to be gone. He was on his way back from Chicago, but would not arrive home until early Sunday morning. I sat alone in our apartment, watching TV and trying to forget about it.  I was failing miserably. It was around 5:00 p.m. when I started to feel cramps and began to bleed heavily. I called my mother and she told me I should call the doctor. Of course I got the answering service and my doctor was not on call. Another doctor called me back and told me to go to the emergency room. Here I was, alone, afraid, going to see a strange doctor (which actually turned out better than the heartless one I had), and I needed to go to the hospital. My mother was handicapped and I really didn't want her to struggle out to come get me, but she was going to do it anyway.

Fortunately, my cousin and his wife just happened to stop by at that moment. It's amazing how these things happen sometimes. They had never been to my apartment, but just decided on a whim to come by and visit. So they left a note for my husband and took me to the hospital.

It was heartbreaking, and I was in total misery. The doctor on call was an elderly man who happened to be very kind (quite the opposite of my own doctor) and very compassionate. He patted my hand and reassured me that everything would be fine. Of course he told me that this was probably for the best, that it was God's way of taking care of a baby that had something wrong with it. Maybe so, but what mother-to-be wants to hear that?

As painful as it was, I got through the experience of the D & C, and spent the night at the hospital. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, while it was still dark outside, my husband arrived. By then I was cried out, empty, and thoroughly depressed.

I went home the next morning and tried to get on with my life. It took some time, but I did get back on track. One thing I knew for certain was that I would never go back to that horrible, unfeeling doctor I had before. I did find a new one, a very kind and gentle one, who told me not to worry, that I would be able to have a baby. And sure enough, by March I was pregnant again. I am happy to say that I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl on December 3rd the following year.

I know it is difficult to accept, and a very painful event, both emotionally and spiritually. But it helps to talk to others who have had that experience. Talk to your doctor, talk to your girlfriends, talk to your mother. With a good support system you will get through it and you can try again. Just don't give up, and remember that it truly is not the end of the world.