In the field of medicine, we often seek evidence to support our diagnoses and treatment plans. Sometimes that evidence is as straightforward as observing gram-positive cocci in clusters during a gram stain or identifying a non-tender, mobile mass through a physical exam. In the context of pregnancy, the signs we look for include the flicker of a tiny, healthy heartbeat on an early ultrasound, the outline of a profile during an anatomy scan, or the rhythm of a rapid heartbeat heard through a Doppler. It’s in the small flutters and movements that only a mother can feel, and the bigger kicks that can be shared with others.
This time, however, I didn’t have the opportunity to experience any of those reassuring signs. My husband and I had been intentional about expanding our family, and I meticulously tracked my last menstrual period. Being both physicians, we were acutely aware of the increased risks of pregnancy complications after a woman turns thirty-five. Ironically, my estimated due date for this planned pregnancy coincided with my thirty-fifth birthday—a date we had picked to complete our family. Because we felt confident about these dates and my health, my doctor and I decided on a telehealth appointment for our first prenatal visit due to COVID-19 precautions. We looked forward to our next visit, just days away, when we hoped to hear that first heartbeat.
But that visit never happened. On Mother’s Day, I began to experience the heartbreaking reality of losing my pregnancy. With each trip to the bathroom, I could see my hopes diminishing. As the day progressed, my situation worsened, and my doctor urged me to go to the emergency room—a place I had hoped to avoid during this pandemic.
I shared a Mother’s Day dinner with my family before heading to the hospital around 8 PM. Normally, I would enter through the back entrance from the physician parking area and head straight to my clinic. This time, however, I walked through the emergency room entrance, where I spotted a new sign that read, “Heroes Work Here.” It served as a reminder that our work continues, even during a pandemic.
At the registration desk, I was confronted with the hospital’s no-visitor policy due to COVID-19 precautions, which meant I would face the upcoming hours alone. After a quick triage, I was placed in a GYN room. A familiar face walked in—an emergency medicine physician I had treated just months prior. We shared a bittersweet laugh about the role reversal; in the hospital, colleagues often become friends and patients.
He reviewed my history and swiftly arranged an ultrasound to gather more information. As I was wheeled down the hall, the technician softly said, “Happy Mother’s Day.” I wondered if she knew the note in my chart stating I was ten weeks pregnant. Did she realize I had left my two kids at home? Or was it simply her way of acknowledging every woman in this position on this day?
Upon arrival in the ultrasound room, the technician greeted me and guided me through the process. As she dimmed the lights and played soft music, I lay there, acutely aware of the silence. Knowing the potential outcomes as a physician only deepened my anxiety. Despite my earlier resignation to the reality of a miscarriage, I found myself clinging to hope, yearning for her to say, “There’s the baby. Would you like to see the heartbeat?”
But those words never came. I remained silent, aware that she would likely tell me, “The doctor will explain everything,” confirming what I already feared—there was no heartbeat.
Back in my room, I awaited the inevitable. I was provided copies of my lab results and the ultrasound report, which noted, “No intrauterine gestational sac visualized.” The obstetrician arrived, confirmed my worst fears: a complete miscarriage. All I could do was monitor for any concerning symptoms.
Afterward, I left the emergency room just after 1 AM. Every one of my pregnancies had ended the day after a holiday. My first daughter was born the day after Christmas, and my second daughter came the day after Labor Day. Now, I was leaving the hospital the day after Mother’s Day, marking the end of another pregnancy.
When I arrived home, everyone was asleep. After a shower, I crawled into bed, where my husband held me as I wept. The following morning, I prepared for work, knowing I had patients starting at 8 AM at the very hospital I had just left. Walking through the usual entrance, I recalled the sign that proclaimed “Heroes Work Here.” Even in the face of my loss, the work we do must continue. I found myself crying in my office between patients until I couldn’t anymore; I cancelled my appointments and returned home, where I could grieve openly.
As I curled up on the couch, my five-year-old daughter approached, noticing my tears. Due to online schooling, we were all together at home. I explained that we had lost the baby, and she comforted me, saying, “Mom, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. But you’ve seen me cry a hundred times. Remember, it’s okay to cry.”
Later that evening, as bedtime approached, my daughter ran into my room and reassured me, “It’s gonna be okay, try not to cry about the baby too much tonight.” She tucked me in, kissing me gently on the forehead before returning to her room.
On this day after Mother’s Day, when I felt like my body had failed me as a mother, my daughter’s small gestures reminded me that perhaps I was succeeding after all. The loss of this pregnancy, which had shown no visible signs of existence, left me mourning someone I never truly met. I grieved the dreams of completing our family, the lost opportunity to share a birthday, and the possibilities that would never come to be.
Losing something that few knew existed is profoundly challenging. Yet, it is the depth of that grief, the void left behind, that serves as my proof—your absence confirms your existence.
For more on this topic, check out this post on Home Insemination Kit and visit Intracervical Insemination for expert insights. Additionally, for a broader understanding of conception, this Wikipedia page is an excellent resource.
Summary
In the midst of a pandemic, the author faced the heartbreaking reality of a miscarriage on Mother’s Day. Despite being a physician and understanding the risks associated with pregnancy, the loss left her mourning a child she never truly had the chance to know. The experience highlighted the emotional complexities surrounding pregnancy loss, particularly during challenging times, and the importance of acknowledging grief in the face of societal expectations.