Dear Doctor Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Be a Parent,
I will always remember you, not just for your introduction but also for your lack of compassion when you delivered the news that I might never become a mother. There I was, exposed on an exam table with only a flimsy paper gown to shield my vulnerability, a pile of paper towels beneath me to absorb the aftermath of my miscarriage. I grasped that gown tightly, thinking it was my last shred of dignity, even as I felt it slipping away faster than the blood itself.
You stated, “Three to five percent.” Those were the odds you presented for my chance of carrying a pregnancy to term, based on the information in my medical history: a 41-year-old woman experiencing her third miscarriage in 18 years, with no successful full-term pregnancies and the presence of uterine fibroids.
You didn’t know me, having never met me before that fateful day. I had come to you after two emergency room visits. The first ER confirmed a heartbeat on the ultrasound, with a reassuring “90 percent” chance that everything would be fine. But two days later, I faced the heartbreaking reality of no heartbeat. Ironically, I had scheduled this appointment with you beforehand—one I had to fight for because your receptionist insisted you only saw patients after they were ten weeks along.
“But I’m 41,” I pleaded. “And I’ve experienced miscarriages.” Those facts convinced your office to squeeze me in at a little over eight weeks pregnant. But by the time I sat on your exam table, bleeding profusely, you used those same facts against me. Not out of cruelty, but with a chilling professionalism. There was no empathy in your gaze—only a cold detachment.
I can’t recall every word you said. You mentioned the possibility of surgery to remove the fibroids, and when I inquired if it would improve my chances of carrying a pregnancy to term, you shrugged and replied, “At your age, who knows? Maybe a little.” You suggested we look into my egg reserve, but I tuned out, unable to absorb more information. I just wanted you to leave so I could get dressed and escape.
I scheduled a follow-up appointment at your instruction but never went. I dressed, walked out, and only broke down once I reached my car. Those three to five percent odds haunted me. I was aware of those statistics, having read them countless times. You saw me as a mere number, an advanced maternal age statistic who was fooling herself. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw tear-streaked cheeks and swollen eyes. But I also saw a woman who refused to give up. Not yet.
I found another doctor, one who had no association with statistics. When I was six weeks pregnant, I asked him about progesterone supplements, which I’d learned could benefit older women during pregnancy. He agreed it wouldn’t hurt and prescribed it, without the grim predictions you had provided. I don’t know if the progesterone made a difference or if it was simply my time, but against the odds, I succeeded. Twice. Those once-stated three-to-five percent babies are now thriving at ages 3 and 5.
I don’t harbor resentment, Doctor Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Have a Child. You were perhaps trying to help by delivering the harsh reality I was already aware of. While I wasn’t very articulate that day, you were precise in your delivery.
Another woman might have lost hope after your words, accepted your statistics, and moved on. But those numbers, while true for many, didn’t apply to me. I urge you to remember this, so the next time you find yourself in the presence of a distressed woman sitting on your exam table, allow her the dignity to get dressed before sharing your statistics. And when you’re finished, please share my story with her.