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 the way you chose to deliver your news without letting me get dressed first. There I was, sitting on an examination table wearing nothing but a paper gown, a wad of paper towels beneath me to catch the remnants of my miscarriage. I held onto that gown tightly, as though it could preserve my dignity, but we both understood that my dignity was slipping away faster than the blood.
“Three to five percent,” you stated matter-of-factly. Those were the odds you assigned me for carrying a pregnancy to term and bringing a child into the world. You derived those numbers from my medical history: I was 41 years old, enduring my third miscarriage in 18 years, had never completed a full-term pregnancy, and had uterine fibroids.
You didn’t know me at all. We had never met before that day. I had just come from two trips to the ER. The first visit revealed a heartbeat on the ultrasound, and I was reassured with “90 percent” odds of everything being fine. But just two days later, there was no heartbeat. Ironically, my appointment with you had been scheduled before either ER visit, and I had to advocate for it, as your receptionist informed me you only saw patients after the ten-week mark.
“But I’m 41,” I insisted. “And I’ve had miscarriages.” I used those facts to secure an appointment when I was just over eight weeks pregnant. But by the time I sat on your exam table, bleeding heavily, you wielded those same facts against me. Not with malice—no, you were professional, almost clinical. I saw no pity in your eyes; I barely saw anything at all.
I don’t recall every word you said. You mentioned the possibility of surgery to remove the fibroids, and I asked if that would improve my chances of carrying a pregnancy to term. You shrugged, stating, “At your age, who knows? Maybe a little.” You mentioned wanting to check my egg reserve, but I tuned out. I couldn’t absorb any more information; I just wanted you to leave so I could get dressed and escape.
Following your request, I scheduled a follow-up appointment, but I never showed up. Once dressed, I left your office and only broke down when I reached my car. Three to five percent. I already knew those numbers; I had read them in countless articles. To you, I was merely a statistic, a woman of advanced maternal age with a bleak prognosis. But in my rearview mirror, I saw puffy eyes and flushed cheeks—a woman who refused to give up. Not yet.
I found a different doctor, someone who didn’t adhere to rigid statistics or reduce me to a number. When I went to him at six weeks pregnant, I asked about taking a progesterone supplement, something I had learned older women often need during pregnancy. He simply said it couldn’t hurt and wrote me a prescription. He didn’t predict another miscarriage or imply that I was being unrealistic in hoping for a different outcome. I’m not sure if the progesterone made a difference or if it was simply my time, but against all odds, I succeeded. Twice. My three-to-five percent babies are now thriving, a joyful 3-year-old and a spirited 5-year-old.
I don’t hold any resentment toward you, Doctor Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Be a Parent. You encountered me at a time when there was little left for you to do beyond summarizing my loss. You probably thought you were being helpful, presenting me with facts I already knew, refraining from offering false hope—if any hope at all. I may not have articulated myself well in that moment, but your words were painfully clear.
Another woman might have lost hope entirely after your talk. She could have thanked you and moved on with her life. Those statistics may apply to many women, but they didn’t define my reality. I want you to remember that, Doctor Who Told Me I’d Probably Never Be a Parent. The next time a heartbroken, bleeding woman sits on your exam table, allow her to get dressed before delivering the grim news about statistics. Afterward, please share my story with her.