I didn’t go to work the week that we ended our pregnancy. I couldn’t of course, I was an absolute mess.
On the Monday afternoon, I received a called from a nurse at the hospital. She was awful. A stiff-upper-lipped English woman who spoke in monotone, as though she was close to suicide. She advised me, in what sounded like a bored spiel she repeated forty times a day, that on Wednesday I needed to come into the hospital. There I would meet a social worker. On the Thursday I would meet the surgeon. The operation would be on Friday.
I asked whether the operation would be performed under general anaesthetic. There was no way in hell that I wanted any recollection of the procedure. No. Way. She said that the standard procedure was to be sedated only, and that if I wished to take it further I would need to talk with the surgeon as scheduled on Thursday evening.
I found it inconceivable that a woman should have to be conscious throughout a termination for medical reasons or otherwise. My mind wandered. Hideous images flooded in. I felt sick. A lump formed in my throat and my heart pounded with anxiety. I rang BEP. “Please tell me that I can have general?” He was surprised that I wasn’t offered general and told me to call back the nurse and demand general. He said that if an anaesthetist wasn’t booked for that morning in advance it would likely be too late to tell the surgeon at my meeting on Thursday. I had to put my foot down and arrange it now.
I rang back. I talked to a different nurse, one with a heartbeat but still not much compassion. She said an anaesthetist is assigned to the list so there should be no problem arranging general. I didn’t fully trust her, as I didn’t fully trust anyone within that hospital. The goal posts had moved on us before.
On the Wednesday, I visited the hospital to talk to the social worker. I wondered whether people looked at me knowing what I was about to do and what they thought of me. I felt ashamed. The social worker wanted to discuss how we’d come about making our decision, whether I’d been under any pressure to end the pregnancy, and what support I had. I felt lucky. I imagined a terrified teenager who’d been careless sitting in my place, or a woman in an abusive relationship hiding a pregnancy. I wasn’t one of those vulnerable women whom these questions were intended for.
The social worker asked if I wanted to see a picture of a baby at 15 weeks gestation, the same as my own. “What?? Why would I want to see that? What is the rationale from the hospital’s view of asking this question? Do they want to discourage terminations? Honestly, I just want to understand why you asked me such a ridiculous question.” The social worker explained that it was to avoid liability from women who say, “if only I’d known that’s what my baby looked like, I would have never terminated.” It made me sad that such cases must exist, that some women truly have no idea about their babies.
Last of all on the Wednesday, I visited the robotic nurse again. She advised me that at the surgeon’s appointment the next day I would need to have one, maybe two, dilating rods inserted into my cervix to dilate it to a safe diameter for surgery. I broke down, uncontrollably. I had no idea that I would have to go through this procedure. It was another painful kick in the guts. There was no avoiding it. How I was going to summon the mental strength to get through the next few days I had no idea. As I left the robotic nurse stood in the doorway and said in her awkward monotone, “all the best, things will get better.”