In the medical field, we often seek tangible evidence to affirm our diagnoses and treatment strategies. This proof can come in various forms, from the presence of specific bacteria on a gram stain to the reassuring flicker of a heartbeat observed during an ultrasound. For expectant parents, these early signs of life—heartbeat on a Doppler, visible growth during check-ups, and those gentle flutters—serve as milestones in their journey to parenthood.
However, this time, I was deprived of those reassuring markers. My husband and I, both medical professionals, were acutely aware of the heightened risks associated with pregnancy after the age of thirty-five. We found a peculiar humor in the fact that my estimated due date coincided with my thirty-fifth birthday—a symbolic deadline for completing our family. Diligently tracking my menstrual cycle, I felt optimistic. Consequently, my doctor and I opted for a telehealth appointment for our initial prenatal visit, adhering to COVID-19 protocols. We planned to hear the heartbeat soon.
But that moment would never arrive. On Mother’s Day, I began to realize that my pregnancy was slipping away with every trip to the bathroom.
As the day unfolded, my condition worsened, prompting my doctor to suggest a trip to the emergency room—a place I had been keen to avoid during the pandemic. After a quiet dinner with my husband and daughters, I found myself entering the emergency department instead of the familiar back entrance of my clinic. The prominent sign reading “Heroes Work Here” was a poignant reminder of our ongoing commitment to care, even in these trying times.
Upon arrival, I was struck by the hospital’s no-visitor policy, underscoring the isolation of my situation. After passing through triage, I was placed in a GYN room in the emergency area where I was greeted by a physician who had previously been my patient. This unexpected role reversal was a unique aspect of working in healthcare, where colleagues often transition into patients and vice versa.
As we discussed my history, he quickly arranged for an ultrasound to gather further information. The technician who wheeled me to the room offered a soft, “Happy Mother’s Day.” I couldn’t help but wonder if she had noted my triage information or if it was merely a customary greeting to any woman in my position.
Once in the ultrasound room, the technician conducted the scans silently, occasionally instructing me to expect some pressure. As a physician, I was acutely aware of the potential outcomes, battling between the hope of a heartbeat and the grim reality I feared. I longed for her to turn and say, “There’s the baby. Would you like to see the heartbeat?”
But those words didn’t come. Instead, I knew she would defer to the doctor for results, which further solidified my fears.
After the ultrasound, I received my lab results and report. The findings were devastating: “No intrauterine gestational sac visualized,” indicating a complete miscarriage. The obstetrician confirmed this harsh reality, and I was left to navigate the aftermath alone.
I left the emergency room around 1 AM, reflecting on the irony that my pregnancies had all ended the day after a holiday. My eldest was born the day after Christmas, and my second daughter arrived the day after Labor Day. Now, I was departing the hospital on the day after Mother’s Day, marking the end of another hopeful journey.
Returning home, my family was asleep. I took a shower and crawled into bed where my husband held me as I wept. A few hours later, I prepared to return to work, facing patients at the same hospital. I walked through the back entrance, reminded of the “Heroes Work Here” sign. Even amidst personal loss, my commitment to my profession remained unwavering. I tried to push through, but the weight of my sorrow overwhelmed me, and I canceled my appointments to seek solace at home.
As I curled up with a blanket, my five-year-old approached me, curious about my tears. With schools closed, we were all together at home, and I shared the news of our loss. She comforted me, saying, “Mom, it’s okay to cry.” Later that night, she reassured me, “It’s gonna be okay, try not to cry about the baby too much tonight.” Her small gestures reminded me that perhaps I was still succeeding in motherhood, despite feeling like my body had failed me.
In the days that followed, I mourned the loss of an unborn child I never truly met. I grieved not only for the baby but also for the dreams and possibilities that came with that pregnancy. While the world may not have recognized this loss, the profound emptiness I felt was all the proof I needed to know that something had existed, if only for a brief moment.
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Summary
This poignant narrative reflects on the author’s experience of a miscarriage on Mother’s Day during the pandemic. It explores the complexities of grief, the unique challenges of navigating loss in isolation, and the unexpected support from family, illustrating the profound impact of loss even when there is little tangible evidence of a pregnancy.