One of the worst days

My second surgical procedure to “evacuate my uterus” was one of the worst days of my life. There was something about the experience that felt like my baby was being forcibly removed from me against my will. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. The nurse was caring and kind, and referred to my baby as just that, instead of the insulting “products of conception” term used by the other medical professionals. When she handed me the misoprostol pill, there was a sense of defeat that came over me. The game was up. There was no more pretending that maybe the sonographer had simply been mistaken. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

Along came the anesthetist. He was an angel for me that day. His voice was calm and his big hands held mine and said that I would get through this. He told my husband and me that his wife had several miscarriages, and they’d ended up with six children. Good grief. He told me that the next time he would see me would be at National Women’s to have our second baby, and it was a glimmer of hope that I grabbed (well, clawed at really) and clung onto tightly. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

I sobbed when I was wheeled upstairs. I sobbed when I came to after the surgery. What a day. I was wheeled back downstairs and met by my husband. He had sat on something on the chair in our room. It was our baby. He was incensed. I think that I was too emotionally wrung out to become more upset than I already was.

We asked to see our obstetrician. He appeared in his suit and seemed anxious to leave. He told us that he believed that the operation had gone well and to “try and not get pregnant again for a couple of months. The statistics show that there’s a 60% chance that you’ll successfully conceive next time!” With that he gave a tap on my food tray as if to say “knock on wood”, spun on his heels and left. It was that moment that led me to nickname him the BEP, or “Beedy Eyed Peepus” (‘peepus’ being a term we’d made up to describe a similar sounding male appendage). I couldn’t believe his cold hearted and brutally factual approach to such a sensitive issue. And his bloody statistics. What the hell did he know about our chances of success next time? How did anyone know when miscarriage happens so regularly but is so poorly documented? I was so mad.

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