Miscarriage - Diagnosis
Part 1
In the early hours of February 14, 2008 my wife woke me up from a deep sleep with a look of concern on her face. “I’m cramping – I think I might be miscarrying,” she said. There wasn’t a lot of time to think about things, but I didn’t think much at all. She wanted a medical opinion over the phone before we went to the trouble (and expense) of trip to the emergency room.
I didn’t know it at the time, but calling a hospital to ask if you should come in is like asking a car salesman if you need a new car. It is actually worse because at least a car salesman will underscore the need for a new car by telling you what is wrong with your old one. Hospital staff is afraid of liability and thus will abjectly refuse to tell you anything substantive.
After calling three different local hospitals, we drove from our home in the next county to Saint Joseph East Hospital at quite a brisk pace. Sara was in feeling uncomfortable with dull aching in her abdomen, but we chatted pleasantly and optimistically while we drove. I’m pretty sensitive and concerned about things for a man, but this just wasn’t real for me- the whole thing just wasn’t something I was experiencing. It was my wife that was sick, my wife who was suffering. I felt like I was there to support her, but really just along for the ride- pretty helpless without any control in the situation.
Our check in process at the hospital was very quick. Fortunately for us it was a slow night and we were admitted after a triage process that took about 30 minutes. While we were waiting, however, others came in. The rubber of our national health care crisis meets the road at emergency rooms across the country. Some very poor, seemingly drunk couple came in and haplessly tried to explain what was going on. Someone was not feeling well, but unable to really understand the check in process or articulate much about what was happening. I felt sorry for the receptionist because it was as if she had to translate English into some other form of communication poor disheveled substance abusers could understand.
There was also another woman who was having chest pains and wanted to be diagnosed without being admitted. The receptionist told the woman that this is why they admitted people- to provide a diagnosis. I think the woman just wanted some sort of basic diagnostic without paying for an emergency room visit, which is understandable. But this isn’t what they do.
Several people saw Sara, took blood, talked about symptoms. Then the doctor came. He was professional and kind. He said he wanted to do a pelvic exam, but had other patients to attend to. However, after about an hour he was ready. We went into another room from the exam room where we were. Sara was laying on a gurney, trying to sleep and relax. I was in a chair leaned up against the wall under fluorescent lamplight.
In the exam room the doctor poked and prodded without the benefit of a decent speculum. A speculum is a hell of an ugly torture device. I think if men had to go through some of the crazy crap women went through, we would either have a lot more incidence of cervical cancer, or we would change the technologies and practices that women had to undergo for health screenings.
The doctor couldn’t see the cervix very well, but did detect quite a bit of old blood. This was not a great sign, but not necessarily the worst sign. He told us he wanted to do an ultrasound to see the fetus and make a diagnosis based on the results of the scan. However, the ultrasound technicians wouldn’t be in for another three hours. So back to the exam room we went to wait.
We got another sheet for Sara and she slept while I looked at the internet thanks to Saint Joseph’s free wireless access. The really weird thing about Saint Joseph’s web access is that they’ve blocked a whole lot of web content! I understand blocking porno and other less tasteful sites. But they blocked fark.com!!!! Fark does not serve material that objectionable! OK so perhaps my thoughts were in the wrong place at the moment. However, I was stuck in an uncomfortable chair unable to sleep and I just needed to be distracted by some funny commentary on various news articles. I wanted my Fark!
Seven AM rolled around and we were wheeled down to the ultrasound area. The technician applied cold water-based jelly to Sara’s abdomen while I looked at the monitor. The technician moved the ultrasound camera around and around, taking occasional measurements and making notes. I’m no expert, but I didn’t see anything that looked like anything- nothing that looked like those pictures people bring in to show you their child in utero. Sara either instinctively knew or read my expression and got a little emotional. I felt bad, but didn’t really have too much of a reaction because I know I’m not an expert and it is easy to get hyped up about something only to have a doctor tell you there’s nothing to worry about.
Unfortunately, our fears were confirmed. The doctor in a professional and even slightly positive demeanor explained that the fetus was dead and in fact had basically liquefied inside her. It was all we needed to begin feeling the hurt and the loss. Sara asked if he had a guess about when the fetus actually died. “Possibly about week 8,” the doctor told us. Sara began to cry and then so did I.
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