Two and a half years ago, six weeks into a wanted pregnancy, I woke up bleeding.
Thick globs of tissue, clots, and tangles of matter dropped out of me, staining my inner thighs and clothing, and sliding down the sides of the toilet. I called a consulting nurse, who calmly walked me through a few questions. Bleeding is normal, she assured me, as I sat silently on the other end of the line, upset, seething, and not believing a single word that came out of her mouth. I hated her. I hated my body for what felt like a betrayal.
It was November, and my husband and I had planned to tell our families about the pregnancy at Christmas.
The nurse told me to wait a few hours and, if I was still bleeding, to come in so they could draw my blood to check my hCG level. Human chorionic gonadotropin, or hCG, is a pregnancy hormone that doubles every two to three days during early pregnancy.
That afternoon, the bleeding had become heavier and thicker. I went in for the blood test. The next morning, my doctor called with the results, telling me that they were inconclusive and that I should probably come in for another test tomorrow to make sure that my level was dropping, and that I was in fact miscarrying. But I didn’t need another test to tell me what I already knew…
