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From Hazard to Blessing to Tragedy: Representations of Miscarriage in Twentieth-Century America

My miscarriage was a physical event, one that I found frightening and painful but also-as a scholar of reproduction who had read and written about pregnancy for years-interesting. It was a personal event, which saddened me because my husband and I looked forward to a baby; and, I soon discovered, it was a political event as well. Eleven weeks into the pregnancy, I was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. How many "napkins?" the doctor asked. I was not counting napkins, but worrying about how to retrieve blood clots out of the toilet at 3 AM, as many health books advise. (I decided not to do so.) As the pains came and went, the torrent of blood made what was happening very obvious. I went to the emergency room, doubled-over, while the doctor used an ultrasound to see what was going on. (I found it interesting that the equipment used during pregnancy and delivery is also used during miscarriage.) I too looked at the ultrasound and was told that I was seeing a sac; the embryo had never developed at all. When the doctor said, "well, it looks like the baby won't make it," I snapped, "well it never was one, was it!" The doctor diagnosed a miscarriage-in-progress (medical professionals no longer use the medical term spontaneous abortion with patients), and, yes, I definitely wanted them to finish it with a D and C. When I received a small condolence card from the midwives who were to deliver the expected baby, I thought that was nice. I appreciated their sympathy. Cards, pasta, flowers, and chocolate from colleagues, family, and friends all helped when I felt miserable. When I got a big folder full of material from the hospital, I was not surprised by information about signs (such as heavy bleeding or fever) that meant I should visit the doctor again, but I was surprised by the sympathetic letter concerning the loss of my "baby" and the grief that I would feel. I have friends whose children have died; my miscarriage was not the same.