The day before—Labor Day—we had checked into the ER after I began to bleed at work. At nine weeks pregnant, I feared the worst, but hoped it was nothing. Panicking at my desk, I immediately called my best friend, who told me to go straight to the emergency room.
At the ER, that panic deepened. The Dobbs decision, by the U.S. Supreme Court, which overturned a woman's constitutional right to an abortion, had been passed three months earlier and for the first two hours in the waiting room, I could only think of how that decision would now trickle down to me, here.
My brain anxiously cycled through every bad scenario that could happen. My concern wasn't misplaced.
I was eventually called back for bloodwork and asked questions that were probably standard, but sounded increasingly cold and accusatory, about why I was there. I repeated for what seemed the tenth time that I thought I was having a miscarriage.
Questions, tests, and information collected, I was sent back to the waiting room with my husband. Several hours, a sonogram, and transvaginal ultrasound later, a kind doctor and two nurses told me they were
98 percent sure I was beginning a miscarriage.
There was no heartbeat. There was nothing to save. Miscarriages don't reverse themselves, despite what politicians may think.
Tired and numb, my husband and I asked what I could expect in the days to come. We had been down this path before, but not in Texas. For years, we struggled with infertility and suffered several pregnancy losses with complications.
I lost my first pregnancy in Washington, DC at 15 weeks. My doctors were wonderful and compassionate and immediately arranged for me to have a D&C—a procedure often used in abortions—because I was too far along to miscarry on my own and to limit the trauma of my loss. The only pain I woke to after that surgery was emotional, not physical.
Back in Texas, the attending doctor in the ER told me I was free to take Advil for pain (when you're pregnant you can't take ibuprofen) and that I should return only if I became feverish, filled a heavy pad with blood every hour or was nauseous.
Before we left, I asked him and the nurse if things had changed since the Dobbs decision. Without hesitation, they both said yes, clearly upset. Every OB they knew was trying to leave Texas.
As a woman who has dealt with infertility issues and miscarriages over the last six years, I've had my share of bad days. The next day was unnecessarily the worst day of my life.
For nearly five hours I alternate between lying in a fetal position on our bathroom floor and curling up against the wall, shivering uncontrollably one moment, and burning up the next.
I vomit three times on the floor. I rock back and forth in tears, repeating out loud, to myself, to God, to my husband and my dog on the other side of the door, to please, please make this stop. The pain is so blinding that I think I'm hallucinating.
It goes on so long, I don't have the energy to scream, at what feels like every single bone in my body crumbling, my body breaking apart, collapsing into itself. Between each new wave of pain that comes, I try to focus on the broken grout between the floor tiles.
I pass out twice. I am terrified that I will die.
No one should have to fear they may die because of a miscarriage. And yet, for women like me in the United States, in Texas, that fear is very real.