"Nothing We Could Do"

Imagine your beautiful wife is pregnant. You have been having a great time preparing for the new baby. You've painted the nursery and set up a nice crib and changing table. The ultrasound has revealed that the baby will be a boy, and the two of you are seriously debating what name to give him. Life is wonderful.

Then one night, you hear your wife moaning and gasping in the bathroom. You walk in to see her lying on the floor, blood soaking the bathroom rug and her nightgown. Fortunately, your phone is in your pocket, so you can stay with her while you call 911. The ambulance arrives quickly, and the EMTs tell you what you already suspected: it looks like your wife is having a miscarriage.

At the hospital, the doctors confirm the bad news. In the morning, they release her with some medication and instructions for home care. It seems she can't stop crying over this loss, and you are feeling the grief.

Two days later, she does not feel better physically. In fact, she is in more pain, and she's still bleeding. The doctor said there might be light bleeding, but this seems like too much. You take her back to the hospital. The doctor says that some tissue was left behind by the miscarriage. There is now a risk of infection. Unfortunately, there is nothing they can do at this time.

You feel stunned. Nothing they can do? The nurse explains that the traditional treatment would be a minor surgical procedure, known as a D&C, to remove the tissue from the uterus. However, because of your state's anti-abortion laws, they cannot perform this procedure.

"Abortion?" you ask. "But my wife isn't pregnant. She had a miscarriage two days ago, so there's no possible abortion!" The nurse looks grim as she explains that because of the law, hospital policy prohibits any D&C unless a woman's life is in danger. If the doctor violated this policy, he could risk life in prison.

"But isn't her life in danger?" you demand. "If an infection develops, it could kill her!"

The nurse just shakes her head sadly as she hands you your wife's discharge papers. "Just go home and have her rest. She can take these antibiotics. Maybe her body will expel the tissue naturally. If she develops a high fever or bleeds enough to fill a few maxi pads, bring her back."

Feeling like you're in a nightmare, you take your wife home again. The painkillers and antibiotics don't seem to be helping. She continues to bleed, and by now she's a bit feverish. You find yourself pacing back and forth, checking on her every two minutes. When her fever reaches 102, you can't stand it any more, and, once again, you drive her to the hospital.

The doctor confirms that she now has a septic infection. Her life is in immediate danger, so at last they can treat her. She is whisked off to the operating room. You wait, pacing the hallway, for hours.

Finally, the doctor reappears, looking sad. "I'm so sorry," he says. "We did everything we could, but we couldn't save her."

You feel a surge of hot anger, and you start yelling. "You didn't do everything you could! You could have helped her two days ago, or even yesterday. But you just waited until she was dying!" You choke on your own rage and pain, hot tears and snot running down your face.

"I'm sorry," the doctor repeats. You realize that he is truly sorry, but that is not going to bring back the woman you love.

Later, as you stand next to the gurney that holds your wife's body, looking down at her sweet face, the nurse hands you a clipboard with some papers to sign. "Is there anyone we can call for you?" she asks. You realize that your parents, and your wife's parents, have no idea what has happened. Having the hospital call them so that you don't have to is the kindest thing that has happened to you here.

Somehow, you get home. The house seems too big and too quiet. Upstairs, you rip the blood-soaked sheets off the bed, throw them into the nursery, and close the door.