Dear Doctor Who Delivered the News,
You have left an indelible mark on my life, not just because of how you introduced yourself, but for the words you uttered before I even had the chance to put on my clothes. There I was, exposed and vulnerable on an exam table, dressed in nothing but a flimsy paper gown, with a thick stack of paper towels beneath me absorbing the remnants of my recent miscarriage. Clutching that gown like a lifeline, I was painfully aware that my dignity was slipping away faster than the blood pooling beneath me.
“Three to five percent,” you stated matter-of-factly, presenting the bleak odds of my ever carrying a pregnancy to term. You based this grim statistic solely on my medical history: 41 years old, my third miscarriage in 18 years, a history devoid of any successful full-term pregnancies, and the presence of uterine fibroids.
You didn’t know me. We had never met before that moment. I had just come from two trips to the ER. The first had shown a heartbeat, and I had been told that I had “90 percent” chance of everything being fine. Just two days later, there was no heartbeat. Ironically, this appointment with you had been scheduled before those ER visits, a struggle to secure because your receptionist insisted you wouldn’t see patients until after 10 weeks.
“But I’m 41,” I pleaded. “And I’ve had miscarriages.” Those words pushed me into your office at just over eight weeks pregnant. But sitting there, bleeding heavily, you wielded those facts against me—not out of malice, but with a clinical detachment. I didn’t see pity; I saw indifference.
Your words about potential surgery for the fibroids blurred into the background as I fought to absorb the reality of my situation. When I asked if that would increase my chances of a successful pregnancy, you shrugged and said, “At your age, who knows? Maybe a little.” You talked about checking my egg reserve, but I tuned you out. All I wanted was for you to leave so I could gather myself and escape.
You requested I schedule a follow-up appointment, but I never returned. I got dressed and left, holding back tears until I reached my car. Three to five percent. I had already read those statistics countless times. You saw me as just another statistic, a woman facing the harsh realities of advanced maternal age. But I looked in the rearview mirror and saw more than that; I saw someone determined not to give up.
I found another doctor. His name is not linked to any statistics, nor did he present me with cold numbers. When I arrived at six weeks pregnant, I asked about taking a progesterone supplement often recommended for older mothers. He agreed it couldn’t hurt and wrote me a prescription. He didn’t suggest I brace myself for another miscarriage or imply that I was fooling myself in believing this time would be different. Whether it was the progesterone or simply my time, I defied the odds. Twice. Those “three-to-five percent” children are now thriving at ages three and five.
I don’t harbor resentment towards you, Doctor Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Become a Parent. You were merely summarizing my loss, perhaps thinking you were providing clarity by stating what I already knew. I realize I wasn’t able to articulate my feelings that day, but you were remarkably clear.
Another woman might have given up hope after your diagnosis. She could have thanked you and moved on with her life. While your statistics may reflect reality for many, they didn’t apply to me. So I urge you to remember this: When the next tearful, broken woman sits before you, yearning for a glimmer of hope, let her at least dress herself before delivering grim statistics. And please, share my story with her.
For more information on navigating the path to parenthood, consider checking out resources at Cleveland Clinic or exploring options like the Cryobaby Home Intracervical Insemination Syringe Kit Combo and the Babymaker At-Home Insemination Kit.
In summary, the journey of motherhood can be unpredictable, but hope and determination can defy statistics.
Keyphrase: infertility and hope
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