Miscarriage and Other Pains in My Uterus

A day without bleeding or pain is a quiet but fleeting miracle because inevitably the bleeding starts again. Or the non-specific ache slices across my lower abdomen, a nagging reminder of loss. And imperfection.

It has been one month, two weeks and one day since my second miscarriage, and my body is teetering on the edge of recovery, not entirely crossing that line into good health. Stubborn. Deeply wounded.

Whatever the reason for my slow recovery, I return to my doctor, once again explaining the pain I'm feeling, watching for his previous expression of skepticism. Why didn't he believe me?

When a doctor doubts you, you begin to wonder if the ghost pains are only physical manifestations of the ripping of your soul. I am stunned at how many times my medical practitioners ignore, negate or minimize my fears and concerns.

As I try to sort through options in my primal quest for pregnancy and child, I need answers. Did my abnormal pap smear affect my pregnancies? Was my progesterone level too low? I've heard that some women's bodies create antibodies that attack the fetus – did mine?

The answer to each of my questions seems to be "You are looking for answers where there are none." Even when I ask if there is a local support group for women who have miscarried, the response is that I should be careful where I go for support. No referral.

The lingering pain I'm feeling turns out to be an infection causing inflammation of my uterus, or so the doctor guesses.

"Let's put you on antibiotics," he says, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

"What kind of infection is it?" I ask, a defiant patient, a woman taking control of her health.

"I don't know. I'd have to take another culture to find out, and that would be an expense. I'll give you an antibiotic that will cover a wide range of infections."

Pause. My inner acquiescent patient tries to silence me. Who am I to question a doctor?

"An expense to whom? I have insurance right now. Shouldn't we see what type of infection it is?"

"Your insurance will cover it. But I'd have to take another culture."

"I'll get undressed."

CUT TO: Woman, naked from the waist down, feet in stirrups, knees angled outward and a doctor approaching with a large Q-Tip. He disappears behind the sheet tent then reappears with a specimen. What is happening down there?

Looking at the big picture, I am incredibly lucky. I'm generally healthy in all of my other body parts, I'm relatively fit, I'm in a loving relationship, and I haven't had trouble getting pregnant. Yet.

My first pregnancy lasted nine weeks. At the sixth week, I told my certified nurse midwife that I wasn't feeling pregnant anymore. I didn't feel the nausea that the pregnancy books described. My breasts had stopped hurting.

"Be grateful you aren't nauseous," she said.

I wasn't feeling gratitude.

When, in the ninth week, she couldn't hear a fetal heartbeat, she had a quick explanation.

"Your uterus is tilted back, away from the monitor, but its nothing to worry about. I'm sure we'll hear something next time."

"Are you sure?" My words returned to me over and over again as I cried in bed a few days later, cramping and bleeding. "Are you sure everything is okay?"
For this pregnancy, I insisted on being monitored closely even though I was told that it wasn't common practice to monitor a pregnancy in the first three months unless there was a history of miscarriage.

A history? What does that mean? Three, four? I was determined to prevent a history of miscarriage and demanded that they test my hormone levels frequently.

At the sixth week, I stopped feeling pregnant. The next week, my pregnancy hormone levels were low.

Even with low hormone levels, they scheduled me for a pre-natal exam that included a battery of blood tests and the first actual meeting with my doctor. I told the women in the lab that I didn't feel pregnant anymore. They looked at my chart.

"You were low last week," said the older woman, the one who related her own miscarriage experience to me on a day when I was feeling helpless and alone. "Why are we doing a pre-natal screening when your hormones are so low? Let me check with the doctor."

She looked me in the eye. She was listening to me.

She returned to the lab and again looked me in the eye, telling me something beyond her words.

"The doctor asked why 'we are doing pre-natal screening when your hormones are so low?' He wants me to check your levels again."

She heard me. She was telling me that she heard me even when no one else was listening.

The next day, I went in for a sonogram. No fetal heartbeat.

Two days later, the doctor confirmed my levels were indeed dropping and immediately recommended a D&C. Major surgery. The scraping of my uterus to clean it out.

"Isn't there a less invasive way?" I asked,

"Not really," was his reply. My uterus had to be cleaned.

I refused.

Call me crazy, but I didn't want a sharp instrument poking around inside of me, scraping the walls of my uterus, regardless of my doctor's assurances that there were few risks and "almost no chance of scarring."

My body was speaking to me. My body was telling me it could handle this. Apparently, my body knew what to do during my first miscarriage without any intervention or surgery, squeezing everything out until it was empty.

But this time was different. My mind knew the fetus was no longer viable, but my body hadn't caught on. How long would I have to walk around with something dead inside of me?

For the next few days, I kept telling my uterus "it's okay, just contract. It will all be over in no time." My uterus was still.

Against my doctor's advice, I turned to alternative treatments, just a little something to give my uterus a nudge. First, I went to an acupuncturist. As I lay alone in a white room on the treatment table, I spoke to my uterus in gentle tones and felt a twinge in my lower abdomen in response as the tiny thin needles piercing my skin began to hum.

Next, I went to a reflexologist. She told me she had induced labor in other women then proceeded to rub my ankles vigorously. So this will be like labor, I thought, but without a happy ending.

The following day, my uterus admitted defeat and began to contract. Six hours of pain and bleeding later, I was empty. Empty but not defeated.