Dear Doctor Who Said I’d Probably Never Become a Parent,
I will always remember you—not just for your introduction but for your choice to deliver devastating news while I was still vulnerable, seated on an exam table, clad only in a paper gown. I was losing blood from a miscarriage, desperately holding onto that gown as if it represented my dignity, all the while knowing that my dignity was slipping away.
“Three to five percent,” you stated, calculating my chances of a successful pregnancy based on the details found in my medical history: my age of 41, my third miscarriage in 18 years, and the presence of uterine fibroids.
You didn’t know me; we had never met before that day. I had rushed in after two visits to the ER. The first visit revealed a heartbeat, and I was told I had a “90 percent” chance of everything being fine. But two days later, that heartbeat was gone. Ironically, I had scheduled this appointment with you prior to my ER visits—after much insistence that, given my age and history, I needed to be seen sooner than your receptionist had advised.
But there I sat, bleeding profusely, as you used the facts of my file to paint a grim picture of my future. You weren’t cruel; your professionalism was evident. There was no empathy in your eyes, just an unyielding certainty that reinforced my despair.
I can’t recall every word you spoke. You mentioned surgery to remove the fibroids and I asked if it would help my chances of carrying a pregnancy to term. Your response—“At your age, who knows? Maybe a little”—made it clear you held little hope for me. You suggested checking my egg reserve, but I tuned out. I just wanted you to leave so I could get dressed and escape.
I followed through with scheduling a follow-up appointment, but I never attended. Once dressed, I left and didn’t allow myself to break down until I got to my car. Those numbers—three to five percent—they weren’t just statistics. They were a life sentence you handed me, viewing me as merely a statistic rather than a person with hopes and dreams.
Afterward, I sought another doctor. This new physician, whose name does not evoke a sense of dread, didn’t focus on the numbers. When I inquired about progesterone supplements, he simply said it couldn’t hurt and wrote me a prescription. There was no presumption of another miscarriage, no suggestion of delusion. I don’t know if the supplements made a difference or if it was simply my time, but against the odds, I succeeded. My “three to five percent” babies are now thriving children, aged 3 and 5.
I don’t harbor resentment towards you, Doctor Who Said I’d Probably Never Become a Parent. You encountered me at a moment when I was at my lowest, and you couldn’t change that reality. Perhaps you believed you were providing a necessary perspective by offering the statistics I was already familiar with—an attempt to keep me grounded, perhaps. I recognize I was not articulate that day, but your words were crystal clear.
Another woman might have lost hope after your visit, but I didn’t. The statistics you shared may ring true for many, but they did not apply to me. I hope this message reaches you, and that you will remember it the next time a distraught woman sits before you, searching for a glimmer of hope. Please allow her the dignity of getting dressed before delivering your statistical analysis. And if you do, perhaps you can share my story with her.
For those exploring the journey of home insemination, resources like Infertility can provide valuable information. Additionally, for more insights on artificial insemination, consider checking out Cryobaby and Babymaker, both reputable sources in this field.
In summary, while statistics may serve as a guideline for many, they do not define individual experiences. There is hope for those who seek it, and sometimes, against all odds, miracles do happen.
Keyphrase: infertility and statistics
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]