In the medical field, we often seek concrete evidence to guide our diagnoses and treatment strategies. This evidence can be as straightforward as identifying gram-positive cocci in a gram stain or detecting a non-tender, mobile mass during a physical examination. In pregnancy, this evidence typically manifests as the flicker of a tiny heart during an early ultrasound or the outline of a baby during an anatomy scan. It’s in the reassuring sounds of a rapid heartbeat on a Doppler and in the growth of the fundal height week by week. It’s in the gentle flutters that only a mother can feel, and the more pronounced kicks that can be shared with loved ones.
However, my journey this time did not offer such evidence. My husband and I, both aware of the challenges associated with pregnancy after thirty-five, had meticulously tracked my last menstrual period. We found it ironic that my estimated due date coincided with my thirty-fifth birthday, a milestone that we hoped would mark the completion of our family. Confident in our timeline and my health, my doctor and I opted for a telehealth appointment for our first prenatal visit, adhering to the COVID-19 guidelines. We planned to meet again soon, eager to hear that first heartbeat.
Yet, that follow-up appointment never came. On Mother’s Day, each trip to the restroom revealed the heartbreaking reality: I was losing my pregnancy.
As the day progressed, my condition worsened, prompting my doctor to recommend a visit to the emergency room. This was a place I had been trying to avoid during the pandemic. After a Mother’s Day dinner with my husband and daughters, I entered the hospital, choosing the emergency entrance instead of my usual route. This time, I noticed the sign proclaiming “Heroes Work Here,” a reminder that, even amidst a pandemic, our work must continue.
At registration, I was reminded of the hospital’s visitor restrictions due to COVID-19, which meant I would face the next few hours alone. After a brief triage, I was placed in a GYN room and soon greeted by an emergency medicine physician. We shared a laugh, recalling that just a couple of months prior, I had cared for him as a patient. This duality is often strange in the hospital environment, where colleagues can become patients and vice versa.
He reviewed my history and quickly arranged for an ultrasound. As we rolled down the hall, the technician softly wished me a “Happy Mother’s Day.” I pondered whether she had seen my chart note indicating I was ten weeks pregnant and left my two children at home. Was her sentiment simply a reflection of the day or a recognition of my situation?
Once in the ultrasound room, the technician began the scan, keeping her comments to a minimum. As a physician, I understood the potential outcomes, and I grappled with the hope of hearing, “There’s the baby. Would you like to see the heartbeat?” Those words, however, never came, and I refrained from asking, knowing the likely response would confirm my fears: there was no heartbeat.
Back in my room, I waited alone, reviewing my labs and the ultrasound report, which indicated no intrauterine gestational sac was detected. The report suggested that it could be a very early intrauterine gestation or a complete miscarriage. The beta-hCG level was 4306, with all other labs appearing normal. The obstetric-gynecologist eventually arrived to confirm what I had suspected for hours: complete miscarriage. There was nothing to do but monitor for any concerning symptoms as I was discharged.
As I left the emergency room around 1 AM, I reflected that all my pregnancies had ended the day after a holiday. My first daughter was born on December 26th, my second on the day after Labor Day, and here I was, exiting the hospital the day after Mother’s Day.
When I returned home, my family was asleep. After showering, I climbed into bed, where my husband held me as I cried. A few hours later, I prepared for work, knowing I had patients scheduled at 8 AM at the same hospital I had just left. Walking through the back entrance, I recalled the sign about heroes. Even amid a pandemic and after losing a pregnancy, we needed to keep going. I found myself crying in my office, closing the door between patients until I couldn’t anymore. I eventually canceled my appointments and returned home, where I could express my grief openly.
Curled up under a blanket on the couch, my five-year-old approached me, asking why I was crying. Typically, she would be in school, but with online classes, we were all at home together. I explained that we had lost the baby, and she sat beside me, cradling me in her small arms. “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,” she said.
Later that night, as my husband prepared to read the girls a bedtime story, my daughter rushed to our room. “It’s gonna be okay, try not to cry about the baby too much tonight,” she said, tucking me in and kissing my forehead.
On this day after Mother’s Day, when I felt my body had failed me in motherhood, my daughter’s simple gestures reminded me that I was still succeeding in some way. I never anticipated that the loss of this pregnancy—one that had no tangible proof of existence—would affect me so deeply. I mourned not only for the lost opportunity to share a birthday with my child and complete our family but also for the intangible possibilities that were now gone.
Losing something so few people even knew about is a profound experience. Yet, in that overwhelming grief, I found a truth: the absence of what could have been confirms its existence. For further insights on pregnancy and home insemination, visit Home Insemination Kit. Additionally, resources like Make a Mom and March of Dimes provide valuable information on this journey.
In summary, my experience on Mother’s Day was marked by loss and reflection. As I navigated through grief and heartache, the small gestures of my children reminded me of the love still present in my life. The absence of my pregnancy may have left a void, but it also served as a testament to the possibilities that once existed.
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