Picture this: We are living in a 1923 tudor-style home in the 15th and 15th neighborhood of Salt Lake City and listening to Coldplay’s soul screaming song, “Fix You,” not because me and my actual husband are being splashed on a Jumbotron at a Coldplay concert, but because I am experiencing secondary infertility. I am wrecked. I don’t think I can experience a deeper pain than I felt having my first miscarriages. Beth of 2005 has absolutely no idea that she will experience approximately thirty more miscarriages, including two D&Cs as a result of second trimester losses.
I saw him. In 2013, I saw my baby boy on the ultrasound. He had five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. He had a cute little nose, just like Kyle’s. That would have been boy number three. We had already nicknamed him, “Sponge Bob.” I was cautiously over the moon at the thought that I would be a mom again. Two weeks later I recall being wheeled down a cold, lonely hallway at LDS hospital. There was no heartbeat. My baby was gone. I would never become pregnant again.
On days like today I would give anything to go back and be July 2005 Beth. Picture this. Kyle is five years old and Eli is three. My two big, blond, boisterous boys are my world. Kyle is a runaway train of curiosity and creativity. Eli takes a beat and takes it all in. At age three he already has the comic timing of David Letterman.
In 2005, we are building our Park City home. In September Kyle will begin kindergarten and Eli will go to a new preschool. On that hot summer day, the boys are in their swim suits running around the yard in between the two sprinklers we have set up for them. The band Coldplay plays in the background on the outdoor speaker. Kyle raises his arm high and with the vibrato of Pavoratti he sings, “Lights will guide you home.” Eli gleefully jumps through the water.
Soon Kyle is throwing paint on 11 x 17” papers we have nailed to a tree for both boys, Eli becomes distracted and asks for a popsicle.
“Mommy, can I have a popsicle?”
“Of course.”
He giggles. Eli’s deep scratchy, little boy laugh fills my heart in a way I never knew was possible. The boys eat their popsicles and Kyle, now covered head to toe in watercolors, quickly returns to his painting. I am transfixed with his wonderful wide-armed gestures as he tells me all about his art,
“Mom! See, it’s a dinosaur. He is flying. It’s a stegosaurus. Did you know stegosaurs are herbivores? Do you know what a herbivore is? That means they eat plants.”
Eli walks into the house. “Mom, I think I need to pee.” I let Kyle know I check on Eli.
“Ok Mom. That’s a good idea.”
Kyle bends over, grabs a bunch of blue paint and throws it at his painting. I walk into our house.
“Eli. Eli. Where are you?”
I don’t hear him. I find him on the side of the bed between the wall and the bed. He has taken a pillow with a bug print pillowcase from his bed and is resting on it with his arms crossed behind his head. His big crystal blue eyes are wide open.
“Hey Eli, there you are. What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking. Mommy, I like to think.”
“Do you want to come back and paint?”
“I want to think a little bit more.”
July 2025: On a whim, earlier this summer, Dave bought tickets to Alaska. Eli couldn’t make it due to his work schedule. Dave bought Kyle a ticket just in case he could. Kyle lives in Brooklyn, New York. This morning Kyle shared that he wouldn’t be able to come to Alaska. My heart cracked wide open and I did that thing I keep telling myself to do.
“Don’t respond with your big feelings. Give yourself a minute to process.”
I took a beat. While I was taking my beat, Eli walked upstairs and saw me crying. Eli is signing a contract on a house today. He has already started packing his things. Aside from leaving each summer for out of town jobs with Conservation Corps, Eli has lived at home during college. After finishing his summer internship, he officially graduates from the University of Utah in August. I could not be more proud.
Eli noticed my tears and asked what was up.
“You’re moving and we can’t seem to coordinate with Kyle. I am so proud of you, of both of you. You are taking the best next steps. I just love being your mom and,”
Before I could finish, Eli filled in, “I bet. It’s hard for me too. I’ve lived here so long.”
“You are doing good things.” I responded.
“Mom, I live so close. I am sure I will be here all the time.” His words carried me.
I have never experienced greater joy than being a parent. Kyle and Eli are double rainbows after a storm. They are kind people who are doing amazing things. I want them to continue to fly and follow their bliss. I also miss the days of watching them run around the back yard, jumping through sprinklers, eating popsicles and listening to Coldplay.
Well, then again, maybe it is you, but my guess is that it probably is not.
My husband and I were on a walk when I shared that I had spent the morning in Instagram therapy. (I love-hate those 60 second self help reels!)
“Did you watch the reel I sent?” I asked. “You know the one about how friends are leaves, branches and roots?”
He had. Like the gentle dance of autumn leaves falling, we talked about how leaves represent casual friends; friends that come and go. Maybe half of our friends are branches. Those are the friends who love to hear from you, are the ones who show up when they can and are wonderful when they show up. Roots are your darkest hour friends. They are the unwavering, reliable folks who are there when shit goes down and stay.
“You are my root. I mean, sure there are people who would text me if they knew I was dying. I can count on you. It’s about how we reciprocate and show up for one another. I don’t have to think about it. I know you will be there holding my hair back when I’m puking my brains out. I mean, come on, you are solid! You let me hide under your shirt just when I am feeling sad and insecure. Um, by the way, all of this Instagram-therapy-friendship-talk-build-up is my way of letting you know that right this very moment I am feeling sad and insecure.”
“What’s up?”
“It goes back to last night. Remember when we were at the restaurant? I was trying to get your attention and that dude was in my line of sight. He assumed I was trying to engage him. Instead of blowing him off, I decided to go with the moment. Because he is a professional writer, within seconds he was giving me advice on how I could be a better writer, (I had not asked for writing advice), and seconds later, he was throwing shade on my friends. Like being thrown off a raft without a lifevest, I was flailing. What was supposed to be me trying to get your attention spiraled into him propping himself up at my expense. I have felt weirdly insecure ever since. Oof.”
“That sounds awful!”
My husband and I spent the next 4,327 steps deconstructing my “awful” feelings. What I know is that I am too old to feel bad as a result of someone else’s insecurities. By the way, I am not saying this because I am old. If you are twenty, you are too old to feel bad as a result of someone else’s baggage.
I’m sensitive. I am a barometer. I can pick up on your imposter syndrome, your need to eat, even your need for someone else to validate my worthiness before you will engage me. I can pick up when you are manipulating others. I can see your need for control.I know it’s a red flag when you announce that you are easy going. Consequently, my acutely attuned radar makes me great bait. (My guess is I am not the only one out there with acutely attuned radar.) I will drop my talk to you when I am actually trying to get my husband’s attention. I will give you the reaction you think you need. I will react to your cruelty, your jokes at my expense and play into your deflections.
Let me spell it out: Recently one of my friends, I haven’t decided if they are a leaf or a branch, well, they asked me how I was doing. I answered,
“I’m having a hard morning. I hope I don’t go off on anyone.” A few hours later and in front of our group of friends, this person asked, “Are you going to go off?” I ignored their question. A little while later, they asked again. I did not respond, yet must have had a look like I might go off because they asked me, “What? Are you going to go off on me?” I ignored them. And sure enough, shortly after that, they asked once more. This time, I put my hand to my face, exasperated. They turned to someone else and while pointing at me, said, “Look. Look. She is going to go off.”
I felt their eyes on me and at that moment all my baggage floated to the surface. It felt like I was standing in front of all of my friends naked with food in my teeth. I trusted that my leafy friend’s early morning question about how I was doing had been sincere. I felt the perspiration on my neck and rolling down my back. That is when I raised both of my arms in the air and exclaimed, “I can’t do this right now. I am completely overwhelmed.”
They laughed, looked away from me, and said, “See. I told you she was going to go off.” I tried to count to ten and couldn’t make it past two. I looked at them until our eyes met, and said,
“Will you please stop?” They did not stop. They did say,
“Well, you told me you were going to go off on someone.”
Clearly upon reflection, (like writing this entire exchange out and rereading it), that person is neither a branch or a leaf. I recognize own my stuff too. I made a choice. I believe that they are important socially so I adjusted my boundaries. I am not sure if that was a great choice.
Once again I hearken back to my Instagram-therapy and my real life therapy. Here is what I have learned and what I need to tell myself: We don’t need to be everyone’s roots. Branches are good. What we deserve is to have people in our lives who will meet us half way. I am not sure what your half way looks like. For me, half way is not a ti for a tat. My half way is fluid and looks like feeling safe and feeling worthy. I want you to trust me. I want you to like me, be interested in me, and want to be around me without your friends telling you I am cool enough to be around. I want to do the same for you. When I reach out, I don’t want you to make excuses. I hope you are happy that I reached out. I understand if we don’t get together when you are in town. I cherish that we are friends. When I accidentally talk to you at a bar while trying to get my husband’s attention, I want you to be kind. It’s about bids for connection and building our tender, amazing root systems together. RECIPROCITY. I will set that word right here. I recognize these bids for connection can be hard, especially those who are dealing with their own ugly shit. I have endless compassion for you. I want to hear about your shit. I want to help you with your shit. The nudge: I want you to actively care about my shit too. And for those who don’t see the energy sucking creatures they are, maybe it’s time to deal with your own heartbreaking shit instead of flinging it onto everyone else. Just a thought that I could totally make into an Instagram Reel.
I wish I could reach the white women who voted for Trump. I don’t want to hold myself above them for being more moral or better informed than they are. Nevertheless, I wish I open their eyes to see that Donald Trump is harming America and its interests, even (especially) interests that Republicans and Conservatives embraced until very recently.
My loved ones live in a cloud of befuddlement, seemingly blind to Trump’s broken promises, rogue anti-constitutional behavior (threat of a third term), and stoked with fear—fear that Fox News serves up to fill a purpose in their vulnerable existence.
I lost one friend when I told her I had been given the Covid vaccine.
“Um, I will not be getting the vaccine.” She commented, haughtily, and I never heard from her again.
My mom still will not get her recent Covid booster. She tells me she was afraid and now just can’t seem to schedule an appointment. I offered. I am on shaky ground with another friend. She knows I am a Democrat. She is a wonderful person and a Conservative. Our politics meet close to the middle. Nevertheless, there is a line. For years we avoided talking about politics. Now we avoid talking to each other.
What do we do? What do we say? How do we hear each other? How do we heal? How do we hope? How do we protect the ones we love? It’s like I am walking in a blizzard. The noisedistracts me from any sort of productive focus. That’s why I decided to write. Historically writing helps me clear my head. I need to document our current moment. Oh my God, what is happening? I am actually freaking out!
“The jump in egg prices was due to an outbreak of Avian flu that occurred before Trump took office, although how he deals with the outbreak going forward is on him.But this is very similar to the story of the pandemic and Biden. The media kept telling us that people don’t blame the pandemic for inflation, they blame Biden. If Biden can be nailed for inflation caused by the pandemic, we should be able to nail Trump for soaring egg prices caused by Avian flu.After all, people don’t see Avian flu, they see high egg prices.”
And immigrants? People he made you afraid of, (xenophobia)! They are legal immigrants, immigrants who are now being plucked from their everyday lives. Not rapists. Not gang members. Everyday people are being taken. What happened to,
“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
“Rather than ideas competing freely on their merits, algorithms amplify or suppress the reach of messages… introducing an unprecedented form of interference in the free exchange of ideas that is often overlooked.”
You can quote me on this because after the college students are silenced, you will find next it will be people like you and me, a middle class white woman who is trying to use her voice:
“Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”
Look at history. First they came for the immigrants. Soon everyone who pushed back against the current regime was taken by plain clothed, masked officials under the cover of darkness and marched to a prison camp which soon became a death camp where millions were forced to strip down, abandon their belongings and their clothes. Naked, they had their heads shaved and were given a prison number to “serve as efficient management of camps,” which was tattooed on their forearms; dehumanized. It really is Nazi Germany 1933.
“I like the lady who does my nails because she is an American. I can understand her. I couldn’t understand those other ladies.”
Implication: “English is not their first language. Immigrants are something to be feared. They are not like us.”
In my Mom’s defense, she is eighty-four and wears hearing aids. I can understand why she wants to be understood by the person she pays to do her nails. Unfortunately, her comment is clouded by the fact that Fox News and News Max run nonstop in the background of her home.
I reminded her that at age fifteen her grandfather immigrated from Luxembourg.
“Mom, I bet your grandpa was hard to understand when he immigrated here. I hope people were gave him a pass.”
She nodded.
I am not implying that my mom doesn’t get to choose who she pays to do her nails. What I am saying is I hope she will see immigrants differently. I hope she will consider that maybe there is a world beyond what Fox News is spoon feeding her.
My mom immediately followed with,
“I am not a racist.”
It was like she had been coached, given a script, and prepared to talk to her woke, leftist, non-christian daughter. How can I penetrate this messaging? How can I penetrate the fact that my mom believes I am the bad guy, better, that I am on the wrong team? How can I have a conversation like we were able to have during the George W. Bush years. I literally have a personal connection to the men who created the torture program for Guantanamo Bay. It broke my brain then. Now this dark piece of trivia feels like a helpful bridge. Like,
“hey, I know one of these dudes. His family seems really nice.”
How can we unify and save this ship before it goes down? I am not sure. Help!
Our son told us he couldn’t go with us to Portugal. He had just been offered a new job, and they needed him to start immediately. Of course it is ok that I am sad he cannot go on this trip.
“I knew you would say No.” I blurted.
With all of her dizzying and big feelings, Little-Girl-Me (age 4) steam-rolled over Slow-to-Process, Adult-me. Instead of congratulating my son, I made it about me.
Instead of telling his new boss, “yes,” our lovely son waited to come home and talk to me first. “Mom, this means I cannot go to Portugal.” I felt like an ass.
My son is sweet. He has a great reason not to go. He was hired for a really cool new job. Adult-Me, my true self, understands, is excited for him and supports his responsible decision. I wish Little-Girl-Me was more healed and would not just blurt stuff out. I own my shit and continue to work. I want to be better. I don’t want my kids to have to live with the resonance of my deep pain.
Immediately, I apologized. “Hey, I am sorry I said that. It really is ok. I am happy for you.”
I left the room and was flooding-after-a-huricane, flooded. I cried, I mean, I wept tears buried deep inside and forgotten by Little-Girl-me. I did not cry because my son is not going to come on a trip with us. I cried because I recognize there were times when the unhealed trauma from my past is so big that it bled all over my children. They could not escape those large moments of my overwhelm. That must have been really hard for them. I am so sorry. I am trying to heal. I am trying to make amends.
As I sat there, I thought of my children. I felt pride. How was I gifted the best kids ever? They are nuanced and beautiful. I looked at my phone and noticed a missed call earlier from my son. I realized it was when I was in the shower. When he couldn’t reach me, he came home to talk to Dave and me. He put us first and shared his news before telling his new boss. He wanted to make sure I was ok. I took a breath and assured him I was ok. The brutality of my past is not my children’s to carry. I am healing that pain and letting it go.
I saw my mom. I heard her pleading words the time I told her we were moving to Virginia,
“BETH, I will kill myself if you leave Utah. You cannot move. Please don’t move. Please don’t leave me.”
My mind blurred. I felt the paralyzing weight of my mom’s stranglehold. I have always been determined not to do this to my kids, even unintentionally, which I had sort of done by telling my son I knew he would say no. Oof! Adult-me encourages them and truly wants them to follow their dreams.
At that moment I heard this voice distinctly say,
“You are their mom. Your burdens should not be theirs. Pull it together and make sure he knows you support him and that everything is ok and then shut up and listen to him.”
That internal voice is right.
My son and I spoke a few minutes later. I reminded him of the trip we took to Southern Utah.
“Remember how you stayed with me when Dad went rogue and hiked down that crazy canyon? You were careful. You were kind and so much fun. We are good.”
Tearfully, I paused and made sure to make eye contact. [insert me gesturing at myself here] “I am just sorry that my big feelings sometimes take over and make you feel bad. I am working on my shit. You are good and I am really happy about your job.”
“But I don’t like your tears.” He said.
“Hey. Hey. I am ok. I love how you communicate and articulate your point of view. I learn from you. My tears are tears and are not your responsibility. I have big feelings. I am healing my stuff and I am sorry when my stuff explodes onto you. I am really happy about your job. Seriously.”
Minutes later he was back upstairs sharing about his new job, his schedule and we were joking about all the discounts he could get us. I apologized for allowing my Little-Girl-Me feelings to overshadow such a cool moment.
“I am really excited about your job. Of course they hired you. You are amazing!” He shared that he is a little nervous. I encouraged, “You are responsible. You are never late to class. You show up.”
“You are right. I am always on time for class.”
We laughed and I assured him he is a great fit.
This is not the first and hopefully will soon be the last time my kids and I have exchanges like these. My sons are kind and forgiving. I am learning and I am healing. I am grateful for the grace they show me.
It is time for this cycle to end and for me to let my burdens go. That is why I need to let sweet and earnest Little-Girl Bethy, who was like a bouncy ball fighting her way out of a dark room, know that she is strong, smart, wonderful and beautiful, that her weight is perfect at any weight, that she is not disappointing Heavenly Father when she says, “Goddammit;” that I am so sorry that Little-girl Bethy was often asked to step aside, was frequently left alone to figure things out completely unsupported or sidetracked to take care of her own mom. Nevertheless, Little-Girl Bethy was strong, determined and tenacious. She survived, is fucking amazing and has always been open to figuring things out. And now Little-Girl Bethy FINALLY realizes that her mom’s pain is no longer hers to carry or to pass on. High-fucking-fives to that!
—
Parenting is difficult. Owning your shit is brutal. Healing past trauma is otherworldly. I feel weighted by grief. Breaking dysfunctional cycles and patterns is the hardest work I have ever done. I hope my children forgive me. I am grateful for the grace they show me.
We were living in Park City, Utah at the time. I have been told that living at high elevation is what saved my life. I was pregnant, and we were visiting Portland, Oregon (sea level) when I learned our baby no longer had a heart beat. That day I spoke to my Utah OBGYN, who assumed the baby would pass normally and to be safe, gave me some warnings.
We made our way to lunch with a college friend, who we had not seen in years, and his wife. My husband and I were seated before they arrived. I had already been to the bathroom twice, soaking my pad. My cramping felt like childbirth. Our friends arrived. We ordered. Sweat pooled on the back of my neck. As each excruciatingly painful built up and passed, I remained still and smiled as if nothing was wrong. Our food arrived. I felt another gush. I excused myself from the table. By the third time I needed to excuse myself from the table, I had soaked my clothes. Now I needed to excuse my husband. He had the car keys and I needed more feminine hygiene supplies. How do you tell your friend that you haven’t seen in years and his wife that you just met, “Um, so I have bled through my protection four times since arriving. Every time I go to the bathroom the fetal tissue expelled is greater than the time before?” You tell them vaguely what is going on and then you leave.
Once in the car, I called my OBGYN. I wanted to make sure I was not overreacting.
“If this does not settle down in two hours, you need to go in.” She urged.
We waited, the bleeding increased and we made our way to pick up our sons, who were with Dave’s best friend.
Trying to keep my mind off of things and knowing I would have to break our OMSI Science Museum date, I asked our children if they wanted to get ice cream from Ruby Jewel. “Of course we do!” Our youngest giggled, “Mom, do you know this will be the sixth time we have gone to Ruby Jewel since we came to Portland?”
“That’s absolutely perfect.” I responded.
We made our way over to the Mississippi Avenue neighborhood of Portland where we enjoyed our delicious ice creams. Then I paused to share our news.
“Ok guys, you know last night I think we lost the baby, well, now things are getting a little weird so we may go get things checked out at the hospital.”
I saw the concern and fear wash over them: “Mom, we want you to be ok.”
We made our way to the hospital. This was before Roe was overturned, and furthermore we were in liberal Portland, Oregon, a politically liberal city. My husband dropped me and my older son off. “You come with me.” I said. I grabbed my son’s hand while Dave parked. I checked in and then talked with the nurse. She took me seriously and quickly admitted me. Calm. I was calm. I was assigned a male nurse. When he talked to me, I maintained my steely Midwestern composure. “I am bleeding a lot. I’m from out of town and my doctor recommended I come in.” I asked him about D&Cs and what they could do.
“Oh, we don’t perform D&C’s at our hospital.”
“Really?” I pushed.
The kids had made their way to my room. They were understandably bored, hungry and my youngest kept asking, “Mom, when will this be done? When can we leave? I am hungry.”
“We are not leaving until we know what is going on with Mom.”
Hours passed. I urged my husband to take the boys and leave. “They need to eat.” They left and I walked myself to the bathroom. I could not believe all the bright red blood. It was coming out of me. “How can I still be standing with this much blood?” I thought. As I sat on the toilet, a clot the size of a plum, flipped out and landed on my ankle. I stared at it transfixed. I grabbed some toilet paper to use to pick up the clot. I cleaned myself up, lifted my IV bag off the hook and walked back in my room as a sweet young med tech tried to get my attention. I felt another gush. It felt like someone had just broken my water. My legs were soaked in blood. I saw the blood on the floor.
“Um, I do not know what is happening. I think I need some help.” I stood there motionless as if my not moving would make it all stop.
“What do you need?” She asked.
“I think I need to go to the bathroom again. Will you help me?”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
I kept apologizing and blood kept gushing. “I do not know what is happening. I do not understand.” Fruitlessly, I tried to clean off the blood. We walked back to the bathroom. The tech pulled up my blood-soaked gown so I could sit on the toilet. There was no urine, just more blood. The tech helped me stand.
I was back in my hospital bed and texted my husband, “The bleeding is worse. I am afraid.” I felt like I was going to pass out and then another uterine bursting cramp and a gush.
I needed the bathroom. I was delirious and completely covered in blood. We made our way to the bathroom again and I wondered if I was going to die.
Back in my room I found the ultrasound tech. Maybe she can help me live. “Please. Please. I do not know what is happening.” She asked me what I needed.
“The bleeding won’t stop. There is so much blood. I need to use the bathroom again,”
“Whatever you need.”
In those moments my husband came rushing back to the room, leaving our kids in the car. “What do you need?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Help me. Please.”
I did not know. What I knew is that the lower half of my body was soaked in blood and like a fast flowing river the bleeding would not stop.
The ultrasound tech inserted the ultrasound wand. “Ouch! Shit! That hurts!” I screamed. The pain was otherworldly. Dave held my hand. For several minutes and from every possible angle, she viewed my uterus. Like a faucet turned on full blast, blood continued flowing out of me. I whimpered. I did not cry. I pleaded and kept asking her what was happening. “Oh honey. I know. I know. I know what you are going through. There really is a lot of blood.”
I was, in a way, giving birth. She pointed and showed me the gestational sac on the screen. There was no baby. I felt the air leave my body. Even though I was bleeding, even though I was completely covered in blood, somehow I had convinced myself that maybe my baby would beat the odds and as a result would be hiding, waiting for all the bleeding to stop. Nope. My baby was gone.
Once I accepted that my baby was really gone, I was acutely aware of every sound, smell and sight. The room was bright. The machines were loud. The air smelled like death. I felt naked. I saw the red. I felt the liquid. I was lying in a pool of my own blood — blood I have only seen in really bad horror movies. I wanted to run. I was weak and kept bleeding. My blood pressure kept dropping.
Finally, really, finally, after he took a long lunch break and completely vanished for hours, my male nurse came into my room. That is when my lovely Ultrasound tech insisted,
“She really needs something for the pain. You need to help her!”
After confirming with the doctor, the nurse gave me a shot of Dilaudid. Until then I had not been given an IV, nor had I been continuously hooked up to the blood pressure or oxygen monitors. I have no idea why. I asked the nurse if he would take my blood pressure. “I feel dizzy and I do not feel right. Please. Please take my blood pressure.” He handed my husband a blue plastic barf bag, slipped a blood pressure cuff on my upper left arm, and cautioned my husband, “If she throws up, come find me.” I felt the pump, pump, pump of the cuff and watched my blood pressure go down, down down to 54/33.
“I don’t think that is ok.”
The nurse lowered my bed and said, “Oh, it’s fine.” Once my bed was lowered, my pressure went back up to 77/33. I know enough about blood pressure to know that once it goes too low that the body starts shutting itself down. I knew if I kept bleeding and my blood pressure kept dropping that we would have a bigger problem. After the nurse left we texted our doctor friend. When we shared my blood pressure numbers with him he insisted,
“Push your call button now!” And this is an ER doctor dude who does not scare easily.
Again I whimpered. Then I cried. I could not believe the intense and constant pain. The pain medicine was not helping. That is when I asked my husband,
“Am I going to die?”
“No. No. You are not going to die. You are going to be ok.”
I already had these two beautiful and amazing children. I needed to fight for them. Unfortunately, my body had a different plan. My blood pressure did not stabilize. They kept switching IV bags for another IV bag. We stopped counting at around ten bags of Packed Red Blood Cells (an IV where Plasma has been removed from the Red Blood Cells). Repeatedly I heard the phrases “this hemorrhaging needs to stop and low blood volume.” Yet through it all the doctor kept saying while simultaneously being freaked out,
“You are so healthy. You should have already had a transfusion. Wow. Living at high altitude and now being at sea level is saving your life. I cannot believe this.” I couldn’t either. Because I live at 7,200 feet (yes, that’s right) and was now at approximately sea level, I had extra hemoglobin.
Immediately before surgery I was able to change out of my second completely blood-soaked gown. I asked the med tech if things were bad and she shook her head. That is when I saw a lake of blood on the bed. “Only really bad head wounds or gunshot victims have this much blood,” I thought. She and my husband helped me remove another bloody gown. I saw blood on the floor, blood on the bed, clots stuck on the fabric of my gown and the heavy red stains making up the baby I had just lost.
Let me be clear, it took until I was on the precipice of death before the ER would call a surgeon. When we met with the surgeon, they said,
“We need to do a D&C. We need to stop the bleeding. The only way the bleeding will stop is if all the fetal material is removed.”
Under general anesthesia I had the surgery. Once they performed the D&C, which removed all the fetal material, my bleeding stopped. I was able to go home in the middle of the night.
—
About Women’s Healthcare.
Here is the deal: The deck is already stacked against women. By the time the mother’s life is in danger, every second counts. When there are really severe penalties to medical care, time is wasted trying to decide if a doctor can and or will intervene, which only adds extra dangers to an already dangerous situation. Even if there is no heartbeat, with these total abortion ban laws, medical professionals actually cannot intervene, or better, may not choose to intervene in enough time fearing risk of breaking the total abortion laws.
Keep in mind, one in four known pregnancies result in miscarriage. Now please consider miscarriages and the caution doctors already take to perform life saving D&Cs. Any additional legal friction such as a TOTAL ABORTION BAN will arguably lead to significantly more deaths. Further, many anti abortion laws do not have a carve out law that protects the mother in cases like mine, and even those that do require already-cautious doctors to be even more risk-averse because of their draconian penalties. Even in a place where abortion is legal, even in my case, which was during Roe, the medical establishment was very cautious about making interventions.
In the end, here is why I am speaking up again. Recently, I opened up about my miscarriages and the D&Cs I received as a result. I have been challenged, bullied, attacked and told I have no idea what I am talking about regarding how doctors treat a miscarriage or how easily a doctor will perform a D&C.
I have the unique and traumatic experience to know more than most how and when a D&C is performed.
If you think my experience is rare, think again. Other data suggests, 10 – 10% of all recorded pregnancies end in miscarriage. If you are shaking your head because you somehow think a Trump presidency will make things easier for pregnant women, women who have miscarried, you are misguided!
You have not walked in our shoes. You have not been near death, and because legal liability and fear of malpractice is already such a colossal deal, you have not experienced the caution medical professionals already take to perform life saving D&Cs. You have not experienced a time when the health of the mother is the last thing a doctor is able to consider. Yet, somehow you have convinced yourself that a GOP who will take away these rights with a TOTAL ABORTION BAN will somehow magically be more open minded and make exceptions to protect the mother? YOU ARE WRONG!
I cannot overstate this enough: when I was in the very liberal city of Portland, Oregon, before Roe was overturned, the medical staff still waited until I became critical before they considered performing a D&C. Only once they absolutely confirmed that the baby was gone and that the only way my bleeding would stop was to perform a D&C, did they perform a D&C.
Sure, maybe it was different for your wife when she miscarried. Well, then she was lucky. Would you really want to keep rolling the dice on that? How about the women who were like me? Before Roe v. Wade was overturned by Donald Trump’s Supreme Court, I had two D&Cs. I was treated for 2 other miscarriages with Plan B known as the morning after pill. All of these procedures saved my life. Think about the real world consequences of these legal decisions.
If you want the best odds for the life of the baby and the mother, vote for a president who cares about women’s healthcare and wants to protect women.
I was raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I learned through a post written by the Salt Lake Tribune’sPeggy Fletcher Stack that the women’s garment will now be sleeveless. This change makes me mad. (Yes. I know the rules have changed before. Before 1923, garments had full-sleeved legs and arms.) My assumption is that I will be criticized for complaining or for not having a testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ:
“Shame on you for bringing up the coercive control you felt yesterday. Don’t you know that everything is better now. This is God’s loving way of adapting the rules for his children. [Your thoughts] are thoughts seeded by The Adversary [used] to stir people up to feeling slighted and then justified in hating the church.”
Sure. [insert my shoulder shrugs here]
Even if an evil force is influencing my thoughts (I don’t believe one is), I have real feelings that actually need to be addressed. Others, like Lindsay Hansen Park, have beautifully addressed these LDS garment changes more concisely than me. Nevertheless, I believe all voices matter. That is why I am offering my perspective here.
I am struggling to see beyond these triggers and my innate reflex to behave and not embarrass my mom. From what I have read online, I am not alone. I have been sitting in my chair for hours, paralyzed with grief. What do I do with all the shaming and shunning now that the rules change? Will people be able to openly drink coffee tomorrow (and without sneaking their minivan through a Starbucks drive through)? I am perplexed and confused.
The trauma resides tucked away in the cheap polyester fabrics and sweaty crotch of my Mormon underwear. When I stepped away from Mormonism I left my bedroom drawer filled with my newly washed LDS garments. For years my garments remained untouched. I was superstitious and haunted by thoughts of bad things happening. As I walked by my dresser drawer I was consumed with visions of crashing airplanes. Instead of there being a perfectly preserved garment-covered-torso-display-of-my-worthiness, there would be nothing left—all because I chose not to wear my Mormon underwear!
I believed I would be punished if I threw them away or gave them away. Eventually I needed the space and determined it was time to empty the drawer. I heard there was a special way to dispose of them and I did not want to get it wrong. Something about cutting out all the symbols and putting the symbol part of the fabric in a different trash can. Ultimately, I left the drawer alone – (until we moved). I did not want to break my Mom’s heart. Emptying that drawer would signify that I was one step further away from who she thought I would be. It was one step further away from her dream of a family reunited in the Celestial Kingdom. I couldn’t do that to her. I would find a way to wear those garments again, even if it killed me.
A few years earlier we were at the National Mall in Washington DC. I was five months pregnant. My husband and I met up with some friends; we were waiting to watch the Fourth of July fireworks. It was like a billion degrees outside and maybe five-hundred percent humidity. I was wearing a garment-covering outfit: a dress that went down to my knees and sleeves down to my elbows. I wished I was wearing a dress more appropriate for the summer heat, like a sleeveless dress.
Soaked in my own sweat, my hair out-of-the-shower wet, perspiration dripping down my face, I was resolved to air out my garment-soaked boob area. I pulled up on my bra, which was resting on the outside of my garments. Then I unsnapped my bra, leaving it draped across my chest. My crotch began to itch. I tried to re-snap my bra because maybe I should be more obedient. Next I hoped to discreetly adjust my bunched up Mormon underwear, which was firmly trapped up my nether regions. I feared contracting a UTI which would only make my already complicated pregnancy worse. In this sea of thousands, I whispered to my husband, “It is dark. Do you think anyone will notice if I take my clothes off?” As the words left my mouth, I was wracked with feelings of shame. I had covenanted to my Heavenly Father to wear these garments as a show of commitment to live a good and honorable life. The words of my sister ring through my head as she exclaims and points at me from across the room,
“OH MY GOSH! YOU ARE NOT WEARING YOUR GARMENTS!” (She has since left the LDS Church.)
The shame I felt in the moment she called me out is a shame I carried with me FOR YEARS and it was the shame I felt while sitting on the National Mall. My clothes stayed on. So did my bra. So did my Mormon underwear.
I knew someone would notice. I preemptively felt their side eyes. Women check. We always compare each other. We check garment lines and skirt lengths. I recall an experience my mom had as a new convert to the Church. She wore a sleeveless dress to Relief Society (the women’s organization meeting). The Mormon missionaries had neglected to tell my parents about the temple garment (and the requisite de facto dress standard it requires) before baptizing them. Consequently, instead of learning about this special commitment you make to God by wearing His sacred underwear ahead of time, my mom learned about garments through social shaming. Instead of having grace for her, the church women let her know that what she was wearing was not “what we wear here.” The trauma is deep rooted. Until this week, that trauma manifested through checking sleeve length.
And really, it’s not just garment lines Mormons check. Maybe that is why I am upset. I don’t mind that the rules change. What I mind is the coercive control and shaming based on arbitrary rules and systems I experienced. What am I supposed to do with that? When I needed help on my mission, I called home. My mom did not want me breaking the rules, and I was breaking the rules. My mom asked my brother to talk to my mission President to tell me not to call home. He did. My mission president spoke with me. I was disciplined and admonished that I needed to have more faith. Now the Mormon missionaries are allowed to video chat with their family each week. Why was I wicked then for doing what’s righteous now? Where do I set the humiliation and othering I experienced from my family and my faith?
Tell me I need to be happy about God’s love and letting the Mormons drink caffeine on BYU campus and now having sleeveless garments. Regardless, if the Atonement and Jesus and rules that change to help members of a certain dispensation are all real, there is also a flip side. These shifts don’t repair damage the old rules caused. To be a member in good standing, for starters, I need to be baptized, worthy, a full tithe payer and work to attend the temple, which includes wearing the temple garment. I wonder if The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints would consider their own accountability by following their own teachings and a spirit of Christian forgiveness. (I am not holding my breath.) If they do, I would suggest that these sleeveless garments and their makers apologize to those of us who bore the weight of this arbitrary rule and its accompanying coercive control. I would hope they could work to heal and repair the damage they caused no matter the shifting rules or changing hemlines, that they could tell a young me and all the people like me that we are worthy and we are good. Calling home on a mission during a health crisis was not Satan’s influence, nor was abstaining from wearing garments during a hot DC summer while pregnant. (Yes. After the fourth of July fireworks I took some lifesaving measures to not overheat and to save my baby. Some days I chose not to wear my garments).
